"Roseth—"
"I have work," I cut in, leaving her to her deductions before she can finish whatever devastating thing was coming next.
Her laughter follows me anyway, bright and relentless, like it has nowhere better to be.
The storm arrives without warning.
I rush outside to secure the hanging racks. Bells clash in sharp frantic bursts as the first heavy drops strike the roof.
Rain turns violent within seconds.
Thunder cracks overhead. The sound punches straight through my ribs. I grab the ladder, climb halfway to the roofline, fight the ropes securing the support beams.
The wind howls louder than the bells. Wood groans above me. One of the old roof-supports shudders, shifts, slips half an inch from its brace.
My stomach drops.
“No, no, no?—”
Another gust slams into the forge. The beam jerks downward and the entire roof lurches.
I freeze halfway up the ladder, heart slamming against bone, certain the next movement will bring everything crashing down.
Then the sound changes. Becomes a vibration beneath the loud thunder.
The air hums, buzzing like bees.
Not from bells, definitely not from wind but something deeper.
The beam stops moving.
The groan fades into steady trembling. The wood settles as though invisible hands press it back into place.
I turn slowly and there he is.
Khaivor stands in the rain, eyes closed, palms lifted toward the roof. Water pours from his hair, his cloak, his fingertips. The air around him ripples like heat above a forge fire.
The hum deepens and every structure in the forge answers.
Every loose joint tightens. Every strained nail stills.
The forge breathes again.
My ladder slips from numb fingers. Boots hit the ground. I notice him through sheets of rain, my heart still racing too fast to speak.
He lowers his hands and the resonating sound fades.
Thunder returns to fill the silence he leaves behind.
4
KHAIVOR
Rain still falls when I open my eyes.
The storm has weakened into a steady silver curtain, yet the air remains thick with aftershocks. Damp wood. Hot metal. The sharp mineral scent of struck stone. Every surface hums with the memory of strain.
She stands beneath the crooked edge of the roof, soaked through, staring at me as if the world has tilted sideways.
