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The Scar

“Where are you going?” Vera asked two mornings later, list of nobles in hand, sorted by priority. “We are supposed to be in the throne room after breakfast.”

“Gotta do something first,” Fenrir said, pulling a loose linen shirt over his head that was fit more for a stable hand than the king he was supposed to be. “I won’t be gone long. We can meet them this afternoon.”

Vera wasn't pleased by that answer, that much was clear, but she didn’t try and stop him either, and Fenrir was grateful because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to say no. He headed for the courtyard, and beyond that, the forest of pine trees, two guards automatically falling into step some paces behind him when his boots hit the gravel path. The morning was cool, the air crisp, with a clear sky that promised a mild, sunny day he hadn’t seen the likes of since before his crowning.

This will be good for me, he thought for probably the fiftieth time since waking up, his boots slipping over the gravel of the path leading from the Gilded Palace’s gates to the southern pass and—with it—the Scar. Left arm out to the side to keep a balance that had never felt so unwieldy before now, it was the most he’d walked in a week, and, to his credit, he made it to the Scar without fainting.

Barely.

“You,” Mercer said when Fenrir arrived, out of breath and likely gray. “Sit down.”

Mercer gestured at a rickety-looking bench beside an active forge and Fenrir dropped onto it with a—all hells, that had absolutely been a groan.

“Drink this,” Mercer snapped again, and a canteen appeared in Fenrir’s hands.

The mead went down warm and harsh. Fenrir choked.

“Swallow it, trust me.”

Fenrir forced a good-sized gulp down and gagged into his shirt sleeve when he passed the canteen back to Mercer. The water he gave him next was a welcome relief.

“It’s good for the blood.” Fenrir hadn’t asked for an explanation but, well, there it was. “You walk all this way like that?”

“Needed the exercise,” Fenrir panted, his heart slowing but his lungs still struggling to catch up. “Shit, I’m out of shape.”

Mercer snorted. “You and every other noble up in that bird's nest you call a palace.”

“Not a noble.” He wasn’t. But he also wasn’t a general anymore, either.

He was a king.

Hells, that sounded worse than a noble.

“Came to check on the tower, like I promised. See if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

“Got a hand to spare?” Mercer asked, and Fenrir nearly choked again, meeting Mercer’s eyes and—wait. Had that been a joke?

“Sorry,” Fenrir said, returning his grin. “You’re too late, I’m fresh out.”

Mercer snorted, mouth tugging up at one corner, and that was it. Something between them broke. The abrasiveness from the throne room remained, but the tension evaporated, and Fenrir took a moment to acknowledge his instincts had served him right.

Coming here meant something to Mercer—proved, in one way or another, that Fenrir wasn’t all hot air.

“Well, guess I should show you around the place, see what we’ve got goin’ on.”

The forges were set up at the top of a hill, pine trees hedging the valley beyond where the foundation of the tower had already been laid. Mercer spent a long time touring Fenrir around where the blacksmiths spent most of their day, the bolts they cast and the supports they shaped and the alarmingly small piles of beams that had been brought up from the Stacks.

“We need more hands here in the forges. Takes too long to get the beams right. We’ve had to melt down a good forty percent ‘cause the measurements aren’t no good and reroll them. By the time that happens, been better to have made ‘em up here ourselves.”

It shouldn’t be too hard to cart up the refined ingots they needed to make their beams, but it was the lack of help that had really slowed Mercer down. Fenrir didn’t know the first thing about blacksmithing, but he didn’t think that was what Mercer needed. Hands—as he said. He needed laborers. They could learn the trade along the way.

By the time they rounded the tree line to where the actual tower rose, Fenrir’s mind was caught up in potential solutions. Maybe that’s why he didn’t immediately see it.

Maybe that’s why he almost toppled over when he did.

“Whoa there.” Mercer caught his arm before Fenrir hit the ground.