I wait.
"I was still shaken yesterday morning," she says. "More than I let on." Her voice stays level, but it's a different kind of level than usual—not armor, just honesty wearing a quiet face. "I kept thinking about what would have happened if you hadn't been in the forest."
"I had patrols watching the routes."
"I know. Finn told me." She almost smiles. "He was very pleased with himself for telling you about the creek path."
"He was trying to help you."
"He was." Her eyes study the frost on the ground. "Thank you. For coming after me. For caring whether I came home." She glances up again, briefly. "I don't say that to people often."
I look her over — the bruise above her ear, the careful way she's holding herself, the complete absence of performance in her face right now. She means every word, and she's uncomfortable with all of them, and she said them anyway.
"You're welcome," I say. Nothing added to it.
She nods once, pushing off the wall. "Your head's not bleeding, so I don't owe you any bandages." She moves back toward the forge door. "But you can stay for tea if you want. Papa made it this morning, which means it's strong enough to dissolve iron."
I follow her inside.
17
EDRIA
Sleep stopped coming reliably after the night in the forest.
It's not dramatic — no nightmares, no cold sweats. Just an inability to stay under, a restlessness that has me awake at the second hour staring at the ceiling until I give up and go light the forge. Working helps. The rhythm of it fills the space that sleep won't, and by the time Papa rises I've usually finished enough to justify the dark circles.
Nyrius figured it out without being told.
He started appearing in the forge doorway three, four nights running — always late, always quiet, always alone. The first time I asked how he knew I'd be awake. He said he'd seen the light from the lane. I didn't ask after that, because the honest answer to why he keeps coming is something neither of us has said out loud yet.
Part of his purpose is keeping me inside the forge rather than the forest. I know that. He knows I know. We've reached a silent agreement not to make it a conversation.
What it's become instead is something I didn't plan for.
Tonight, he arrives after midnight with mud on his boots and takes his usual spot on the stool near the wall — close enoughto talk, far enough to stay out of the heat. I'm working a set of decorative brackets for a farmer’s hoe, clean legal work, nothing to hide. The fire is low and steady.
"You fought in the Denvara campaign?" I ask. "Sorella mentioned it once. Someone passing through told her."
He glances up from the cup of tea he's been nursing for the last hour. "The barkeep? She must hear a lot."
"She's good at it." I turn the bracket over and check the edge. "Did you?"
A pause. "Yes."
"How long ago?"
"Forty years." He sets the cup down on the floor beside the stool. "It lasted three seasons. Territorial dispute along the eastern range — two dark elf houses claiming the same river corridor."
"Were you a commander?"
"A captain. My brother held the senior command." The fire draws his attention. "He was better at it than I was. Better at most things, if I'm honest."
I put the hoe down and look at him. He's not performing grief, not angling for a response. Just saying it. But his voice is raw, vulnerable.
"He didn't come home, did he?" I ask.
"No." The fire dances in his eyes. "It was the last engagement of the campaign. Two days before the armistice." He rubs his thumb along the rim of the cup without picking it up. "He'd have governed these territories instead of me. Done a better job of it, probably."
