1
ROSETH
The forge glows like a second sunset inside the workshop, heat pressing against my skin until sweat slips down my spine. Night covers the lake beyond the open shutters. Bellmere sleeps. My hammer refuses.
Metal hums beneath the blow. That hum pulls at something inside my chest, like a string drawn tight. I tilt my wrist, listen, strike again. The tone changes—richer, deeper, almost satisfied. A small smile tugs at my mouth before I catch it.
Too many bells remain unfinished. Too few coins sit in the lockbox beneath the workbench. Festival week waits for no one.
I dip the bell into water. Steam curls upward, dampening my hairline. The workshop smells of smoke, lake air, and hot metal.
Home
“Still awake.” Father Orrick’s voice cuts through the heat like cold rain.
I do not turn immediately. He hates when I ignore him. That knowledge buys me a breath of stubborn pleasure before I face the doorway.
He stands tall, draped in deep blue robes embroidered with silver waves. The lake symbol gleams at his chest. He never seems to sweat. The forge should terrify fabric that delicate.
“Metal doesn’t care about sleep,” I say. “Neither does festival week.”
He steps inside without invitation, boots clicking softly against stone. His gaze travels across the workshop. Tools arranged by use. Shelves lined with finished bells. Scrap bins overflowing with discarded attempts. His mouth tightens at the sight.
“You work yourself to exhaustion every year.”
“People want bells every year. His eyes settle on the cooling basin. On the rippling water. On the faint tremor still vibrating through the newest bell.
“You rely too heavily on instinct.”
There it is. Always the same opening strike.
“I rely on results,” I reply.
“The temple artisans follow measured design. Sacred proportion. Ritual geometry.”
“And their bells sound like pots.” I mutter.
The words slip out before I soften them. A spark jumps between us. His jaw flexes.
“Sacred traditions exist for a reason.”
“People travel across Kaynvu for mine.” My voice stays calm. Careful. “The festival survives because travelers buy what we make.”
Silence stretches. The forge pops softly, a coal collapsing inward.
Orrick folds his hands inside his sleeves. “I worry for the town. For its spiritual balance.”
My grip tightens on the tongs. “You worry for your control.”
His eyes sharpen. For a heartbeat I wonder if I have finally gone too far.
“You walk a dangerous path, Roseth. Sound carries influence. Influence invites attention. Attention invites consequences.”
The warning settles in my stomach like swallowed ice.
I lift the finished bell from the basin. Moonlight from the window slides across polished bronze. The tone whispers before I strike it. Always a whisper first. Like breath before speech.
“I make bells,” I say. “Nothing more.”
