Page 3 of Forged in Fading

Chapter Two

“Tasírath?” The capital of Ela, of all places. “Jalomir, it takes almost three days’ travel to get there. All that for a single sword?”

The ornamental weapon in question graced the table before them. Four small cerulean jewels sparkled in the pommel of the hilt, while the lower part of the grip boasted the Elan crest, a delicate five-petaled rose surrounded by creeping vines native to the kingdom. Farther up the handle sat the Dalvian crest, a glittering snowflake nestled in the curve of an intricately woven crescent moon, floating above the jagged mountains of her beloved home.

She couldn’t help but admire her mentor’s perfect craftsmanship before turning her attention back to him. “Don’t they have a weaponsmith of their own they can commission?”

Jalomir grunted as he finished the last of his pastry, his calloused fingertips coated in white powder. “Alvara, there are nobles in other kingdoms that are strong Dalvians, and we are the best smiths for swords that are able to channel that kind of power.”

Right. A noble that would likely hang the sword at his hip as nothing more than decoration and never wield it. The same as every other elf who abandoned the way of the blade as soon as they finished academy, believing magic to be superior.

“Can we at least wait until nyr? We’ve already had so much snow. And there can’t be that much of a rush—we haven’t had a war in over two hundred years. What are they going to use it for, slicing bread?”

“You know, Alvara,” the older elf said, raising his gray eyebrows, “if you would practice your magic, the snow wouldn’t be much of a bother at all.”

The scathing blow landed exactly where he had intended. She hadn’t used her Dalvian magic since her sister’s fading—the spark that fueled her powers had been snuffed out at the same time as Eloisa. It reminded her too much of her sister, with such a passion for magic and all the potential it held.

She could argue, but it would only lead to a deeper discussion she had no interest in. “I’ll go.”

“Then it’s settled. You and Pyrymar will set out tomorrow at first light.”

Vitharen help me. “Pyry? You somehow didn’t mention he would be joining me.”

Jalomir picked up the blade in front of him and examined its edge. “He has business to attend to in Tasírath.”

Unlikely. Since his father’s fading, Pyry rarely left Vorianta, let alone Dalvi, and had enough work in the city to keep him busy at his forge all hours of the day. She hadn’t seen him in…No, she had stopped counting after a year of waiting to hear from him.

And now she was supposed to spend at least a week with him as if he hadn’t abandoned her in the pits of grief. She supposed she couldn’t blame him too much after morphing into a shallow shell that reeked of alcohol the entire first year. When the sour smell wafting off your own body nauseated your stomach, you knew things had taken a turn for the worse.

Jalomir blew out a long breath. “I am not comfortable with you traveling alone. And if you had any other friends, I would have other options.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he added, “The baker down the way does not count.”

“I see her every day,” Alvara grumbled. It was impossible not to. That elf’s sweet creations were even more addicting than the ale they had replaced. “And I’m more than capable of defending myself should some Elan flower-sniffer decide I’m worth the trouble.”

“I worry about you, young one. You spend too much time here.” He gestured to the ancient, somewhat crumbling stones around them. “It is time to leave the past where it belongs, Alvara, and head out into the world. Experience what our beautiful lands have to offer. I never expected you to stay here, with an old elf close to his fading.”

“Jalomir, you spend just as much, if not more time here than I do.” The words came out sharper than she intended. He had lost his seluri decades ago, burying himself in his work and never taking the time to mourn his soul-bonded. Just like Alvara had done after giving up ale.

His sapphire eyes studied the ground for a few agonizing seconds. “It will do you some good to leave Dalvi for a few weeks. And I want you to stay there for a few days after you finish with your delivery.” Alvara lifted her hand to interject, but Jalomir shook his head. “Stay there a few extra days and enjoy life a little. And bring back some tales of adventure to an old elf, will you?”

He never asked much of her, sometimes caring for her like the younglings he and his seluri wanted but could never have, like so many of their kind. She could do this for him. “Of course, Jalomir. I’ll go.”

“I need you here for a few more hours and then you can head home.”

She grinned. Her moments as a smith were some of the most serene her mind would allow her. The physical and tactical work of forging weaponry gave her something else to focus on other than the darkness she constantly battled to keep at bay.

Alvara pulled her thick leather apron over her head, and the familiar musky scent calmed the apprehension that had settled into her bones at the mere thought of seeing Pyry again. She wrapped her fingers around a pair of tongs, cool to the touch, and placed a bar of steel into the blazing forge fire, the beginning of its transformation into something both beautiful and lethal. As she started to hammer and fell into the rhythm of her work, each strike grounded her mind and body until it was almost as if nothing existed but the metal and heat surrounding her.

Gods, she loved weapons. Metal had sung to her from a young age, sweeping her right into an apprenticeship with Jalomir as soon as she finished academy. She could have had a profitable life as a Dalvian goldsmith, as her mother had often reminded her, but crafting jewelry would never hold the same charm as a blade. Though it didn’t stop her from donning countless small studs and chains in her pointed ears when she could afford them.

Sweat dribbled down her forehead, trickling into her eyes. Few of her people would care for this sweltering work, but Alvara lived for it. She brought new weapons into existence that would one day forge their own stories, wielded by elves of every generation. Even if it was all she did with her life, it was enough for her.

Alvara dragged her weary feet to the washbasin as soon as she arrived home. Ela. Pyry. She groaned. She should have known Jalomir had kept in touch with him after his years as an apprentice. How many more times did she need to explain to the old elf that their relationship was nothing worth rekindling?

The chilled water spread over her blackened hands and dissolved the soot caked on her skin. If only it were that easy to cleanse marks from a soul—or fluffy white sugar from her favorite pair of dark pants.

And Ela? Their melodious accents and bright nature were enough to make her want to bury her head in the water they used to quench weapons.

She needed to train.