I call for my horse before I've finished the thought.
21
EDRIA
They come before the forge fire is lit.
I hear the horses first — too many, moving too fast for the hour, the sound of them cutting through the pre-dawn quiet before I've fully woken. I'm off my cot and reaching for my boots when the door comes in.
Four soldiers, men in uniforms I don’t recognize, filling the doorway with drawn weapons and the efficiency and practice of following orders. Behind them, two more move directly to the coal pile without hesitation.
They know exactly where to look.
"Edria, daughter of Oren." The lead soldier doesn't frame it as a question. "You are detained under authority of Magistrate Malrec pending charges of treason and illegal arms supply."
"I don't know what you're?—"
"There." One of the soldiers at the coal pile holds up the oilcloth bundle. Three blades in various stages of construction, the ones I hadn't finished yet. The ones I should have moved two days ago.
Papa comes through the interior door in his nightshirt, Finn a step behind him, both of them taking in the soldiers and the weapons and me in the same terrible second.
"What is this?" Papa's voice is rough with sleep and rising anger. "What are you doing in my forge?"
"Papa." I shake my head. "Don't."
He doesn't listen. He never does when it matters.
The soldiers clamp irons around my wrists while I'm still looking at his face, and the click of them locking is the loudest sound in the room.
They lead me from the forge to where Malrec is waiting in the center of the main lane.
He's dressed for it — good robes, composed face, positioned where the early risers will see everything. Oxwood is barely awake, grey light just bleeding into the sky, but people are already appearing in doorways. Word travels fast when horses come through before dawn.
The soldiers march me forward and stop ten feet from where he stands.
"Edria of Oxwood." His voice carries easily in the cold morning air. "You are charged with supplying illegal arms to rebel factions operating against dark elf authority. You are further charged with conspiracy to incite violence against the lords of this territory."
"I was feeding my family." My voice is steadier than I feel. "The weapons were private commissions. I didn't ask who bought them."
"The buyers were rebel fighters." He opens a folded document and reads from it without looking at me. "Three separate shipments traced to attack sites in Ardenmere. One confiscated cache matching your forge markings exactly."
"I didn't know?—"
"The village of Oxwood has harbored a traitor." He looks up now, past me, addressing the growing crowd. "This woman has put every one of you at risk. If dark elf authorities had chosen to hold the village collectively responsible, you would all be answering for her crimes."
The murmuring starts low. I hear it shift — not toward me, away from me. Aldric, who I've repaired three plow blades for this season alone, takes a step back from the crowd. The miller's wife turns to whisper to her neighbor.
I watch it happen and keep my face still.
"She's not a traitor." Papa pushes through from the thick crowd, limping hard, Finn right behind him trying to catch his arm. "She fixed tools for every farmer standing here. She patched roofs and sharpened knives and kept this forge running through two bad winters." He stops beside me, breathing hard. "Anything she did, she did to keep us alive. Every one of you knows that."
A few people look at the ground. Nobody speaks.
Malrec turns his gaze to Papa with a patient expression as if he’s been waiting for exactly this.
"Oren of the forge," he says. "You housed a criminal enterprise and collected income from it. That makes you complicit." He nods to the two soldiers nearest Papa.
"No—" I start forward and the irons snap me back.
