Page 13 of The Silversmith

I was prophesied to destroy the darkest, most powerful sorcerer in the last four hundred years. And I also had to get married to some random prince in golden armor. Gemma mentioned my marriage like… an afterthought. As if giving my heart to some man I didn’t know was a reasonable expectation.

My heart raced. My breaths grew shallow. Tears swelled behind my eyes. I could try to run. If Gemma, Ezra, or the Sinclair brothers didn’t catch me, Smyth would. Only an imbecile would think they could run from a man like that. Perhaps I’d rather be an imbecile in place of this—anything but this. But something urgent tugged in my chest, begging me to weigh the options more carefully before letting my flight response take over.

Would it be better to live a dull, lonely life of my own choosing? Or would I enjoy a life full of travel and adventure, even if every important choice was already made for me? If I refused, would they drag me out of here anyway? And if they let me stay, did I really want to spend the rest of my life in a house full of nothing but hunger and ghosts?

“I need some air.” I nearly knocked over my mug of tea as I rose abruptly from my seat.

“Ary!” Gemma stood to follow, but I was halfway out the door. Quick when I wanted to be. “Ary, wait—”

The cabin’s door slammed behind me, cutting off her words and granting me immediate reprieve from the suffocating truths within walls that now felt like a prison cell.

Her story wheeled through my mind until I’d memorized each and every detail. Details of the world I lived in but was hearing about for the first time. At least a thousand people desperate for my arrival and eager for guidance I was incapable of providing. A betrothal to a well-renowned, handsome soldier I had never met and would likely disappoint with my lack of confidence and abilities. Two four-hundred-year-old-men, one of them my real father, the other an evil sorcerer who, according to a prophecy from my dead, clairvoyant aunt, only I could kill.

But I weighed one hundred and ten pounds and certainly had no magic.

It all felt like a cosmic joke, and I couldn’t shake the image of the gods, or god, or whoever was out there, reclining in their golden chair with a tasty snack and refreshing drink, watching me scramble, laughing at me.

Behind me, the door of the cabin squeaked open.

“Gemma, I need to be—”

I froze. It wasn’t Gemma. The sight of Smyth’s towering form in the dim morning light glued my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I sucked in a breath as he covered the distance between us, my tattered blue knit hat and gloves in his large hand and a thick wool blanket draped over his forearm.

“What are you doing?” I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand.

He carefully slid my hat over my head, my gloves onto my small hands, and laid the blanket over my shoulders. “I could ask you the same thing.” He stepped back and folded his powerful arms across his broad chest. He gave a subtle nod of approval at my covered body and gave me space. “You just ran outside into the dead of winter without a coat or covering. You’re asking for frostbite, hypothermia, or both.”

“I wanted to be alone.”

“That’s not happening,” he answered tersely. “But you won’t know I’m here.”

I wasn’t sure that was possible. His rigid stare burrowed into my back like a fox hellbent on making me its den.

“What happens if I say no?” I gulped, glancing back, then up at him. Gods, he was big. “What happens if I stay here?”

“If you’re lucky, eventually, you’ll die of starvation,” he answered brusquely. Quickly—almost imperceptibly—his tense gaze scoured over my thin, quivering body from head to toe. “But something tells me you already know that, so I’ll humor you.” He watched me wrap my trembling arms around myself, a flash of annoyance—no, anger—darkening his brown eyes. “If, by some miracle, you manage not to perish in these deplorable conditions Elowen has left you in, it won’t be long until Molochai finds out where you are and hunts you down. When that happens, the wolf in your barn will seem like a friendly stray mutt compared to the monsters—both men and beast—that will abuse your flesh before they feast on it. After a long, horrible while, they will kill you—gradually, tortuously—and let their hungry dogs gnaw on your bones.”

The contents of my stomach roiled, even though they were few.

“So I don’t have a choice?” I breathed, tears welling, threatening to flood my cheeks.

“You do have a choice, Ary.” His mouth thinned into a stern line. “It’s just a very shitty one.”

A surprised, tearful laugh bubbled up and out of my throat. He was harsh but honest, and I found myself grateful for that.

“Why me?” My breath billowed in front of my face, and my voice cracked. “Gods, why is it me?”

I would have thought it impossible for Smyth’s rugged, scarred features to soften. But when he saw my tears, they did. All of him softened. The tension in his muscles released and a comforting wave of solidarity washed over me like scalding-hot water. It burned me, only for a second, then cooled and left sizzling, rejuvenated skin in its wake.

“I suppose we’ll have to figure that out together.”

I puffed out a ball of mist, faking irritation, but his comforting words were a soothing balm over my aching heart and confuddled mind.

Smyth kept me company until I’d had enough of the cold and turned back to the house. He reached over my shoulder, gripped the door, and pulled it open for me. I trembled at the heat of his body so near. At the alarming and irresponsible—albeit undeniable—urge to ask him to wrap me up and shield me from all this.

“Thank you,” I mumbled, hoping he knew I wasn’t just grateful for him getting the door.

The others stood when I entered. I let the warmth of the indoors soothe my trembling breaths and took note of a steady Smyth standing behind me.