I turn my head without stopping and find him standing in the shadows of the firelight, separate from the tents. Nyrius. Still dressed, arms loose at his sides, pale violet eyes catching the last of the coals. He's looking directly at me.
I face forward and keep walking.
He doesn't call out. He doesn't move. After I reach the lane and put the first row of buildings between us, my pulse is louder than my footsteps.
I tell myself the dark was too deep for him to see clearly. I tell myself he doesn't know who I am away from the forge, in the dark, with my braid down and mud on my boots.
I tell myself that twice more before I get home, and I almost believe it.
4
NYRIUS
The excuse I give Cyran is that I want to make sure the woman doesn't cause further disruption before we leave the region.
Cyran listens to this with his arms crossed and says nothing, which is his version of calling me a liar.
"The daggers need sharpening," I add.
"They were sharpened four days ago."
"Borders are rough on blades."
He looks at the daggers on my belt, both in perfect condition, and then looks back at me. "Of course, my lord."
I leave him at the camp.
The forge is already loud when I arrive—hammer strikes carrying through the open door, steady and unhurried. I step inside without announcing myself and find Edria at the anvil with her back to me, working a length of iron with intense focus as if the world doesn’t exist.
She doesn't turn around. "Whatever it is, I'll have it by tomorrow."
"That depends on what it is."
She turns then. Her expression doesn't shift toward welcome, but she doesn't reach for anything heavy, so I count it as progress. She's got a smear of soot across her left forearm and her braid is half-undone from the morning's work.
"You're still here," she says.
"Observant." I set the daggers on her worktable. "I need these sharpened."
She picks one up, runs her thumb along the edge without looking at me, and sets it back down. "These don't need sharpening."
"Humor me."
"That's not a service I offer." She picks up both daggers anyway and moves to her whetstone. "Sit somewhere that isn't in my way."
I lean against the wall instead, which puts me approximately three feet from her work, and watch. She ignores me with impressive commitment for about four minutes before she breaks.
"You're staring."
"I'm observing."
"At my forge." She draws one blade along the stone with a clean, practiced pull. "Without being invited."
"I paid double for horseshoes yesterday. Consider it a standing invitation."
She makes a short sound that isn't quite a laugh and isn't quite contempt. "That's not how invitations work."
"It is when you're a border lord."
