His gaze lingers on the metal. Suspicion never leaves his face, only shifts direction.
“Festival week attracts strangers. Be mindful of who lingers near your forge.”
My chest tightens, though I refuse to show it. He turns toward the door, robes whispering against stone.
“The lake watches over Bellmere,” he says softly. “We must remain worthy of its protection.”
The night swallows him. The forge breathes again.
I release a slow breath that I do not realize I am holding.
The bell rings in my hands softly when my knuckle brushes its rim. The note blooms outward, warm as sunlight through glass. Pride flickers in my chest before exhaustion smothers it.
Too much work remains.
Morning creepsacross Bellmere in pale gold streaks. I haul crates of finished bells toward the market square, arms trembling from sleepless hours. Festival banners flap overhead, bright ribbons snapping in lake wind. The whole town smells of fresh bread, damp wood, excitement.
Voices drift from the next stall before I reach mine.
“—he comes every autumn, I swear it.”
“A dark elf in Bellmere. Like we don’t have enough trouble.”
“They say he never speaks to anyone.”
I slow without meaning to.
“He buys only from that bellsmith girl.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. I focus on stacking crates, pretending the words slide past me like smoke.
“Strange tastes, those elves.” they murmur.
“Strange motives.”
I arrange the bells in neat rows. Different sizes. Different alloys. Different voices waiting to sing. My hands move on memory alone while my ears betray me, straining for every whisper.
Seven years. Always cloaked. Always silent. Always leaving before sunrise.
Always choosing my bells.
I straighten a crooked display cloth with unnecessary force. Curiosity feels too much like hope. Hope feels dangerous.
A familiar shout splits the square.
“YOU PROMISED EXTRA BARRELS.”
Sylvi storms across the cobblestones like a parade by herself. Copper braids swing behind her. Jewelry clinks with every furious step. Brohm stands braced beside stacked ale casks, arms crossed over a chest built like a stone wall.
“I promised reasonable delivery times,” Brohm growls.
“You promised to submit orders before last week,”she reacts.
“I did submit them.”
“You submitted half of them!” her tone hitches.
He heaves, “Because you ignored my messenger.”
