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I don’t have a choice. I am running the smithy on my own again today, and Lasta, the captain of the Royal Guard, has ordered more weapons.
My body is sore when I roll out of bed, and I can barely walk until my body heats up.
I get dressed quickly and tie my hair back in a tight bun before I hurry out of the servant’s quarters and head to the smithy.
Irian must have come in to stoke the fire overnight because it is roaring when I arrive.
The morning is cold, and as I step out of the smithy to pull on my protective clothing, I glance up at the palace.
The palace is dim, every light off, except for one.
And I see it then. A figure standing outlined in the lone lit window. It must be a naga, because the figure is large, and who else would be standing in one of the upper rooms of the palace?
“I wonder who else is awake at this hour?” I mutter to myself as I walk back into the smithy, dressed in my cotton clothing, and start to clean out the inside of the smithy.
I leave my mask and goggles off again when I start on the metal for a new set of longswords.
And again, I hurt myself, and again, the pain settles somewhere close to the center of my chest.
The pain has a pleasurable burn that urges me forward. The pain makes me hammer harder, faster, and makes each blade sharper.
I keep hammering, until it feels like I am transferring the pain of my wounds into each blade.
“This entire consignment of swords is going to take me a week to make if I don’t hurry up.”
I move over to stoke the fire.
I know that I don’t have a week. I don’t even have two days to make these swords.
And instead of feeling anxious, the pain in the center of my chest blooms, spreading heat around my body, and I grab the hammer.
I do not go backto my quarters for the night.
I don’t see the point.
I have fallen into an almost mindless state, and while I am filthy and covered in sweat, grease, soot, and flakes of metal, I have never been calmer or more at peace.
I haven’t eaten all day. In the back of my mind, I am quite aware that my stomach is burning. My throat is parched, from not having had any water and being close to the fire all day.
But I don’t care.
All I care about is finishing the consignment of swords.
“Are you still here?”
I look up, dazed, at Irian, who appears in the doorway. His emotionless face twitches as he looks at me.
“I need to finish the order for the captain,” I tell him, my voice as emotionless as his face.
He doesn’t say anything for a while. But then, in the silence, he nods as if he understands before he leaves.
I continue working throughout the night and into the next morning.
And when Irian, Lasta, and the rest of the naga arrive at midday to take over the smithy again, I have each and every sword and dagger on display.
Quietly, they thank me. I don’t miss the way some of them eye me carefully. I know that I look like a mess.
But the pain at the center of my chest has steadied me, and continues to steady me, as if it is my anchor.
