Page 4 of Forged in Fading

Her fingers tugged through her long silver hair, separating the small delicate plaits that held it back, and Alvara stared at the vacant space on the wall where her mirror had once hung. Silver. That word sunk its talons into the heavily guarded memories of her mother, Marja, who shared the trait that ran in the first-born females in their family. Eloisa should have been grateful to have escaped it, with her beautiful golden locks, but instead, she had always made a fuss over the beauty of Alvara’s silver hair.

It was gray.

Strangely enough, having the hair of a centuries-old elf was not in fact a popular trait, but something the other younglings loved to tease her about. They had called her everything over the years, from elder to grandmother to her personal favorite, oh ancient one.

Her fingers twisted and tightened in a soothing rhythm, tying her hair into two thick braids down the back of her head, one of many variations her mother had taught her as a youngling. As much as she enjoyed leaving her hair unbound when she could, it only functioned as a disadvantage in combat. A few painful yanks to the ground had proved that fact rather quickly.

Alvara pulled her favorite spear away from its brethren lining the wall and flowed through Mikavar’s drills, the quick thrusts and parries she had come to know so well. She preferred to spar with the weapons teacher or the son who would take his place one day, but she already stole an hour of their time early each morning for that very purpose. This would have to do.

They understood this side of her in a way few else did. The tradition of honoring and wielding weapons, customarily swords, remained a basic tenet of every elf’s schooling, but it had gripped her in a way she couldn’t shake herself free from. Even better, the two weapon masters shared her love of silence and also preferred to communicate with steel.

Not everyone was born strong in their magic, but anyone could learn how to hold their own in a battle. It wasn’t mere luck that created a warrior—it was dedication. Devotion. Though she hadn’t put her skills to the test outside of the sparring ring enough to know if she also had the ability to stomach the violence and bloodshed that accompanied the metal and movements she loved so much.

Lungs burning, Alvara slowed to a halt and returned her closest friend to its resting place. Her muscles screamed as she stretched her limbs, but she savored the tingling sensation that reminded her she was still alive. She could still feel.

As she tucked provisions into her pack, Alvara mentally checked each item off her list. Clothes, food, maybe something to smack Pyry over the head with. Eloisa would say she needed to bring a positive attitude, because you never knew what blessings fate might hand you at any moment.

Perhaps Eloisa and Jalomir were right. There was little harm in approaching the journey with a small dose of optimism. She would make the best of what was to come.

“Pyry, I’m going to run you off the road if you don’t stop whistling.” Alvara ground her teeth. He had started when they left early that morning, and it was almost midday. It was enough to drive any person mad.

He stopped and glanced at her sidelong, lifting a wheat-colored brow.

Alvara huffed and adjusted her hat to cover her ears, stinging from the cold. The ride had been mostly smooth so far, thanks to Pyry’s magic flattening the piles of snow on the road, though it was fairly limited since he was born at the height of malva instead of during their kingdom’s season. His powers would likely give out soon, even during dalvi, when Dalvian magic grew stronger.

Quiet lingered, save for the horses’ hooves crashing into the icy ground. Blinding sunlight reflected off the glittering frost, and the long shadows cast by the surrounding forest did nothing to relieve Alvara’s watery eyes. It would be at least another few hours until they reached the edge of the kingdom. Their Dalvian steeds may have been bred for these conditions, but they would need to rest soon.

Not to mention, Alvara’s backside was already tender. She would have preferred a reindeer-pulled sleigh complete with blankets and food, but that would only prolong the trip.

“We should stop. The horses need a break,” she said, shifting her position in the saddle.

Pyry only nodded and guided his horse off the path. He hadn’t said a word since meeting her that morning, though she hadn’t minded. It was nothing unusual for a Dalvian elf. Their people were hewn from the mountains they called home—steadfast, slow to change, and about as emotional as rocks.

And then there was Alvara, whose own emotions often wrestled with her for control and won, until Pyry. He’d taught her to shut away any feelings that served no greater purpose. And in spite of their past, he had come all this way to accompany her. If there were ever a time to be civil, it would be now.

“Thank you for coming.” She nibbled at a stringy piece of dried meat, wishing it were a raisin-studded bun instead.

He dipped his head without comment, and his long blond hair tumbled in front of his face.

“Did you actually need to travel to Ela?”

Pyry rubbed at the reins in his hands. “You know how Jalomir is.”

“You’ve always been good at avoiding my questions.”

He gave her that look. The one that said, Why can’t you leave it alone? “No, I didn’t need to travel to Ela.”

Then why come? He hadn’t bothered with her in years, yet he had agreed to a one-on-one journey with her out of nowhere. But Alvara was a coward, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the truth. It might only tear open old wounds. “How’s the forge?”

He patted his horse’s side. “Same as always. Busy.”

“And your mother?” Alvara hadn’t seen her since she had moved away from Vorianta, after Pyry’s father had passed.

“Alva.”

The sound of her nickname on his tongue flooded her with memories of a time when life had been easier, less complicated. When she had been someone different. Her mother had always preferred her full name, and since her loss, Alvara had shed the shortened version like a second skin.

“Alva,” Pyry said. “Just ask.”