The deep note slams through my skull. My fingers curl against the doorframe. Breath stutters. That bell carries iron undertones. Heavy resonance that is designed to dominate softer tones.
Of course it is.
I step into the street before the vibration fully settles. Movement helps. Crowds scatter sound into fragments easier to endure.
The temple rises above Bellmere like a carved cliff. Stone arches. Silver lake symbols glint beneath the sun. The large bell still sways overhead from its recent strike.
A man waits beneath it, hands folded behind his back, robes the color of weathered stone. His gaze fixes on me with the precision of a drawn blade. People nearby slow their steps, sensing tension without understanding its shape.
“I am Father Orrick,” he says. “You intend to remain in Bellmere.”
A statement, not a question.
“For the festival season.”
His eyes narrow. “Bellmere welcomes travelers. Bellmere protects its people first.”
“I have no intention of harming anyone.” I exhale, holding his stare.
He steps closer. His voice lowers enough that only I can hear. “Creatures like you rarely intend harm. It follows regardless.”
Familiar words. Familiar tone. Prejudice shaped into righteousness.
“You should avoid the bellsmith,” he continues. “She does not understand the dangers surrounding her work… and people like you,”
My pulse shifts. Subtle but sharp.
“She sells bells,” I reply evenly.
“She creates influence,” he says “ Influence attracts attention. Attention invites ruin.”
He studies my face, searching for reaction and I give him none.
“Bellmere has survived generations by respecting the lake and its traditions,” he says. “I will not allow outsiders to disrupt that balance.”
I incline my head slightly. Not agreement. Not defiance but neutrality frustrates men like him more than anger.
“I appreciate your concern.”
The dismissal in his expression arrives swiftly. Conversation ends. Warning delivered.
I walk away before my restraint cracks.
The forge standsnear the lake. Smoke curls into the bright afternoon sky. I stop across the street, close enough to hear the hammer before I see her.
Clang. Pause. Clang.
The rhythm differs from other smiths. Softer transitions. Subtle variations. She listens between strikes, adjusting by instinct rather than measurement.
She hums while she works.
The sound threads through the hammer rhythm so naturally most listeners would miss it. I do not. Each note aligns with the metal’s shifting resonance. She guides tone without realizing she does so
No formal training. No resonance theory, just pure instinct.
Remarkable.
Heat shimmers around her as she lifts the hammer again. Sweat glistens at her temples. Strands of dark curls cling to hercheek. Focus sharpens her expression into something fierce and unguarded.
