"Edria—"
We stand toe to toe, and I bring my hand to her cheek. Her skin warm and flushed from the forge, or maybe flushed from something else. She sucks in a sharp breath, but she doesn’t move away.
I shouldn’t do this. It goes against everything elf and human, but I don’t listen to my logical thoughts and I lean in closer to her. She tips her face up just enough, glossy lips waiting.
Boots on the path outside. Two sets, unhurried, coming toward the forge entrance.
She steps back. I step back. She turns to the workbench and picks up her file, and by the time the farmer and his son appear in the doorway, she is working and I am simply a political figure standing near the wall.
"Edria," I say, my voice low enough to carry only to her. "I'll return."
She doesn't look up. But her file slows against the metal, just once, before she finds her rhythm again.
I leave before I stay for reasons that have nothing to do with territorial reviews.
11
EDRIA
Three days after Nyrius leaves Oxwood, I drop a finished hinge into the water barrel and watch it sink.
I was supposed to fit it to the Henley gate an hour ago. I've re-tempered it twice now because I keep pulling it too early, my attention going sideways at exactly the wrong moment. It's not a difficult job. I've done it a hundred times. I fish the hinge out, set it on the bench, and stare at it like it owes me an explanation.
It doesn't. I know where my head is.
The almost-kiss sits in my memory with the stubbornness of a splinter I can't locate. Not the heat of it — the interruption. The way he'd stepped forward and I hadn't stepped back. The way his hand had come to my face like it had already decided, and I'd let it, and then two farmers had walked in with a broken gate hinge and ruined everything.
I pick up my tongs and get back to work.
The whispers have been running through Oxwood for days before Malrec arrives. I catch pieces of them at the market and through the open forge window — the dark elf lord and the blacksmith's daughter, how many times he came back, what a man like that wants with a woman like her. The gossip isreaching as far as the Henley farm, which means it's reached everywhere.
I ignore it until I can't.
Malrec shows up on a Tuesday, mid-morning, while I'm working the bellows. He steps into the forge with his usual unhurried ease, robes immaculate despite the muddy lane outside.
"You've been keeping busy," he says.
"Always." I don't stop working.
"I've been hearing interesting things about Lord Nyrius's visits." He clasps his hands and studies the tool rack along the wall like he finds it fascinating. "Multiple stops at this particular forge. Extended conversations."
"He took an interest in the work." I pull the iron from the coals and move to the anvil. "Daggers, horseshoes. Standard repairs."
"Several visits for standard repairs."
"Good work brings people back." I bring the hammer down. The ring of it fills the forge and gives me a reason not to look at him. "Is there something you need, Magistrate?"
He turns from the tool rack. "I wanted to offer some friendly counsel."
I set the hammer down and face him. "Go ahead."
"Relationships between humans and dark elves rarely benefit the human." He says it pleasantly, with a tone that suggests he’s sharing weather observations. "Especially not when the dark elf in question holds regional authority. Whatever his interest in you is, it serves his purposes. Not yours."
My eyes stay on him and don’t say anything at first. "There's no relationship to speak of."
"Of course." He dips his chin. "Even so."
"I appreciate the advice." I pick the hammer back up. "Was there anything else?"
