Chapter 4: Night Terrors and Unexpected Comfort
The roughspun wool of Barnaby’s tunic was scratchy against her cheek, but it was real. So was the solid, unyielding wall of his chest and the steady, rhythmic thud of his heart beneath her ear. It was a sound that anchored her, pulling her the final few feet out of the nightmare’s clinging darkness.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Sadie’s breaths, which had been ragged sobs, evened out to match the slow, deliberate pace of his. The warmth of his hands, still firm on her shoulders, seeped through her scratchy nightshirt.
Then, as if suddenly realizing the intimacy of their position, he stiffened. His hands dropped away.
“Right,” he grunted, the word rough as gravel. He shifted back, putting a careful few inches of cold air between them. “You’re awake.”
Sadie pushed herself up, pulling the quilt around her shoulders like a shield. The small lantern on the stool cast long, dancing shadows across the concern etched on his face. Concern he was desperately trying to mask with his usual scowl.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to wake the whole mine.”
“You didn’t.” He stood, his frame seeming to fill the small nook. He wouldn’t look at her directly, instead focusing on a point somewhere past her shoulder. “Just me. I was… checking the supports in the east tunnel. Heard you.” He cleared his throat. “Sounded like you were being murdered.”
“Felt like it,” she admitted, drawing her knees up to her chest. The memory of the huntsman’s cold, resigned eyes and the glint of steel in the moonlight was still too close. “New one this time. The forest.”
Barnaby grunted again, a sound that could have meant anything. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking profoundly uncomfortable. This was beyond his usual repertoire of complaints about soggy boots or lazy mining techniques. This was messy. Emotional.
“Well. You’re not in the forest now,” he finally said, the words awkward but deliberate. “Walls are solid rock. No one’s getting through them.”
It was the closest thing to reassurance she’d ever heard from him.
A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the pop of the lantern flame. The earthy scent of the cavern was a comfort, a world away from the perfumed prisons of her past.
“You want a drink?” he asked suddenly, jerking his head toward the main cavern. “Not that swill the others brew. Proper tea. I have a stash.”
Sadie felt a genuine smile touch her lips for the first time since waking. “You? Tea?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. A man can’t live on ale and resentment alone.” He almost, almost, smirked. “Well? You coming or are you going to sit there shivering all night?”
She untangled herself from the quilts and followed him, the stone floor cool beneath her bare feet. The communal hall was vast and dark, the great table a hulking silhouette. But a soft, warm glow came from the kitchen alcove.
He moved with a quiet efficiency she’d never seen in him before. No banging of pots, no grumbled curses. He filled a small kettle from a water barrel and hung it over the banked embers of the main hearth. From a high shelf, he retrieved a small, dented tin, spooning dark leaves into two chipped clay mugs.
“Sit,” he said, not unkindly, nodding toward a rough-hewn bench.
She sat, watching him. The firelight played over the lines of his face, softening the usual stern set of his jaw. He had capable hands, scarred and calloused, but they handled the delicate tin with a surprising gentleness.
“Who was he?” Barnaby asked, his back to her as he waited for the water to boil.
Sadie didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “My stepmother’s man. A huntsman. She sent him to… to bring her my heart.” She said it plainly, the horror of it now dulled by time and distance into a simple, brutal fact.
Barnaby’s shoulders tightened. He said nothing for a long moment. The kettle began to sing a low, whistling note. “And did he? Try?”
“He had a knife. And orders.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “But he looked at me, and he couldn’t do it. He let me go. Told me to run and never look back.” She let out a shaky breath. “I guess I’m still running, in my head.”
He poured the boiling water, the steam rising in a fragrant cloud. He brought the mugs over, setting one down in front of her before taking a seat on the opposite bench, leaving the sturdy table between them like a neutral border.
“People in power… they don’t like things they can’t control,” he said, staring into the dark depths of his tea. “Especially people. You threatened her, just by existing. By being… you.”
Sadie looked at him, truly looked. He wasn’t just talking about her. “You sound like you speak from experience.”
He took a sip, wincing at the heat. “Let’s just say I know the type. Worked for a few in my time. Lords who own the land, the mines, the air you breathe. They think they own you, too.” His eyes, when they finally met hers, were dark and serious. “You did the right thing. Running. Surviving is never the wrong choice.”
It was the longest speech she’d ever heard him give. It was more than understanding; it was solidarity.
They drank their tea in a silence that was no longer awkward, but contemplative. The warm, bitter liquid spread through her, soothing the last of the nightmare’s chill.
The sound of clumsy footsteps made them both look up. Finn appeared in the archway, blinking sleep from his eyes, his shock of hair standing at impossible angles.
“S’everyone okay?” he slurred, his gaze darting between them, confused by the scene. “Heard noises.”
“Everything’s fine, Finn,” Sadie said softly. “Just couldn’t sleep.”
Finn’s eyes landed on the mug in her hand, then on Barnaby. A slow, dawning realization broke over his face, followed by a look of pure, unadulterated panic. He pointed a trembling finger at Barnaby, then at Sadie, his mouth opening and closing without a sound.
Barnaby rolled his eyes. “Oh, for pity’s sake, Finn. Spit it out or go back to bed.”
“You—you—and she—tea!” Finn finally managed, his voice a squeak. He looked like he’d just discovered fire.
“Astounding observation,” Barnaby deadpanned. “Now, if you’re quite finished having a fit…”
But Finn was already backing away, a goofy, bewildered smile spreading across his face. He tripped over his own feet and disappeared back into the darkness, leaving a renewed silence in his wake.
Sadie couldn’t help it. A small laugh escaped her, a real one, bubbling up from her chest. It felt foreign and wonderful.
To her utter astonishment, the corner of Barnaby’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile, not quite. But it was a crack. A tiny, hairline fracture in the granite of his demeanor.
He stood, gathering the mugs. “You should try to get some more sleep. Dawn’s not far off.”
She nodded, standing as well. “Barnaby… thank you.”
He gave a short, sharp nod, looking at the floor. “Don’t mention it. To anyone.” He jerked his head toward the hall where Finn had vanished. “Especially him.”
She smiled. “Your secret tea stash is safe with me.”
As she walked back to her nook, the cavern didn’t feel so dark. The shadows felt less like hiding places for monsters and more like just… shadows. She climbed back into bed, the linens now cool. Pulling the quilt up to her chin, she closed her eyes. This time, when she drifted toward sleep, the only thing waiting for her was the memory of a calloused hand on her shoulder and the quiet, steadfast promise of solid rock.
The deep, resonant clang of the morning bell was a brutal fist to the ear. Sadie jolted awake, her body screaming in unified protest. Every muscle was a tightly wound cord of pain. The blisters on her palms had hardened into angry, purple welts overnight, and when she flexed her fingers, a sharp, stinging heat shot up her arms. She pushed herself up from the thin pallet, the rough wool of Barnaby’s extra blanket falling away. The memory of his hand on her shoulder in the dark was the only thing that felt solid.
She emerged from her alcove to find Finn already waiting, vibrating with an energy that seemed utterly alien in the pre-dawn gloom. He was holding two brooms, one of which he thrust toward her.
“Morning! I, uh, I thought we could… you know. Since it’s your first day on debris. I can show you the way.” He beamed, his grin a flash of white in the dimness.
“Lead on, Pip,” she said, her voice raspy with sleep.
The debris station wasn't a place; it was a process. It was the area around the great, cold forge where the detritus of the previous day’s work collected—a gritty mixture of ash, metal shavings, fragments of brittle slag, and general mountain grime. Finn launched into his tutorial with the fervor of a seasoned professor.
“Okay, so the trick is the angle,” he began, gripping his broom. “See, if you go straight at it, you just push the big bits and the fine ash sort of… drifts. It’s useless.” He demonstrated a clumsy, straight-on sweep that did exactly as described, creating a small cloud of dust and leaving the heavier fragments behind. “But if you come in from the side, like this, with a sort of a flick at the end…” He adjusted his stance, sweeping in a shallow arc and finishing with a wristy flick that neatly collected both ash and metal into a tidy pile. “See? It’s all in the flick.”
He looked at her, his eyes wide with expectation. “You try.”
Sadie mimicked his stance. The broom handle was rough against her raw palms. She swept, trying to replicate the arc and the flick. The result was a messy, uneven scatter of debris. The flick was more of a limp twitch.
“No, no, the flick comes from here,” Finn said, stepping closer. He reached out, his hand hovering near her wrist as if to guide her movement. “It’s in the wrist, you just have to—”
“She’s not weaving a basket.”
Barnaby’s voice was like a crack of ice. He stood a few feet away, arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression utterly unimpressed. He’d been watching, silent and still as the mountain itself.
Finn’s hand snapped back to his side as if burned. “I was just showing her the technique,” he mumbled, his confidence deflating instantly.
“I see that. You’re showing her how to make a two-minute job take ten.” Barnaby strode forward, his movements economical and sure. He took the broom from Sadie’s hands, his fingers brushing against her wounded palm. A jolt, hot and sharp, shot through her.
“Forget the dance,” he grunted, not looking at her but at the floor. “It’s debris. Not a partner. You dominate it.”
He didn’t sweep. He attacked. The broom in his hands became a tool of pure efficiency. There was no graceful arc, no delicate flick. It was a series of short, powerful, controlled shoves that herded the mixed detritus into a perfect, dense pile against the stone wall with relentless speed. The motion was brutal, effective, and left no room for argument. The grating sound of metal shavings being forced together was the only commentary.
He thrust the broom back into her hands. “Like that. Your hands will toughen up or they’ll bleed. Either way, the floor gets clean.”
He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back at the pile he’d created and then at her. His gaze lingered for a fraction of a second on the visible blisters on her hands, clenched tight around the broom handle.
“The chalcopyrite,” he said, the word a low rumble. “After. Don’t dally.”
Then he was gone, leaving Finn looking crushed and Sadie standing in a cloud of settling dust, her heart pounding not from fear, but from the raw, uncompromising intensity of the lesson. He hadn’t been gentle. He hadn’t been kind. But in his own rough way, he had been present. He had shown her, personally, how to do the work. It was a language she was starting to understand.
She looked at Finn’s fallen face. “The wrist-flick was very elegant, Finn,” she said softly. “But I think for this, domination might be the way to go.”
She turned back to the floor, adjusted her grip despite the pain, and shoved the broom forward in a short, powerful stroke, just as he had done.
The pre-dawn cold seeped through Sadie’s worn tunic as she swept the last of the cinders into a heap. Finn, true to his word, had demonstrated the precise angle for the broom—a sharp, jabbing motion that nested squarely in the crook where the forge’s stone foundation met the cavern floor. His instructions were earnest, delivered with a focus that smoothed away his usual nervousness.
“See? Gets right under the crust,” he’d said, beaming with pride before being called away to help Bodric with a stubborn axle.
Now, alone in the quiet of the waking mine, Sadie leaned on the broom handle. Her muscles sang a chorus of protest from yesterday’s labor, a deep, satisfying ache that felt like earned currency. The debris station was clean. She looked toward the forge. The cavern was still, the great anvil a dark island in the dim light. This was the moment Barnaby had assigned: debris duty done, report to the forge.
She found him not at the anvil, but at a sturdy stone table littered with tools, chunks of rock, and clay bowls. He was hunched over a lump of ore, the very piece of chalcopyrite he’d given her. In the low light, its coppery streaks looked like frozen lightning. He didn’t look up as she approached, but his shoulders stiffened slightly, acknowledging her presence.
“It’s clean,” she said, her voice echoing softly in the vast space.
“Took you long enough,” he grunted, still not looking at her. He picked up a small, heavy hammer and a metal pick. “This,” he said, tapping the rock, “is a liar. It looks rich. Promises copper. But it’s mostly iron and sulfur. Fool’s gold is its prettier, useless cousin.”
Finally, he turned his head, fixing her with that penetrative gaze. “You wanted to know what we do. This is it. We wrestle with deceitful rocks.” He gestured for her to come closer. “Watch.”
He secured the ore in a vise-like clamp. With startling precision, he struck it a sharp blow with the hammer right on a prominent golden streak. A small chunk flaked off. He picked it up, holding it between his thick, calloused fingers. “See the color? Bright. Flashy. That’s the promise.” He then used the pick to scratch at the duller, brassy-yellow surface beneath. “And this is the reality. Harder, more brittle.”
“So it’s worthless?” Sadie asked, fascinated by the intensity of his focus.
A sound that was almost a laugh escaped him. “Nothing’s worthless if you know how to break it properly.” He pointed to a series of clay crucibles and a large, flat stone slab with a shallow depression. “The fire reveals the truth. We roast it first. Drives off the sulfur. Stinks to high heaven. Then, we smash it again. Grind it. The good stuff—the copper—stays behind. The rest becomes slag.”
He moved with an economy of motion that was mesmerizing. He placed the fragments of ore into a crucible and carried it to the banked but still fiercely hot forge. The air shimmered around the opening. He shoved the crucible deep into the embers with a long pair of tongs.
“Now we wait,” he said, setting a rough, hourglass-shaped timer on the table. The sand began to trickle down. “The mine gives us rock. Our job is to find the metal hidden inside. It’s not about strength. It’s about patience. And heat.”
As the sand fell, he didn’t speak. He cleaned his tools, wiped the stone table, his movements a quiet ritual. Sadie simply watched, absorbing the silence, the scent of hot stone and old smoke. This wasn't the dramatic hammering of the anvil; this was the patient, necessary prelude, the unglamorous work of preparation.
When the timer ran out, he pulled the crucible from the fire. It glowed a dull red. The ore inside had cracked and darkened. A faint, acrid smell of burned eggs—the sulfur—hung in the air. He dumped the contents onto the stone slab. The rock was now porous, crumbling.
“Now,” Barnaby said, handing her a small hammer identical to his. “You try. Find the metal.”
Sadie took the hammer. The handle was warm from his grip. She leaned over the slab, the heat from the roasted ore warming her face. She tapped a piece. It shattered into a coarse powder. She sifted through it with her fingers, ignoring the mild heat, and saw it: tiny, dull red granules scattered amidst the grey grit.
“There,” she said, pointing.
Barnaby peered down. “Copper,” he confirmed, a note of satisfaction in his voice. “Not much. But it’s there. You forced it out.” He picked up a pinch of the powder, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. “We’ll collect this, melt it down with more, maybe get a usable ingot in a month. Maybe.”
He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “This is what we do. Day after day. We argue with the earth. We prove ourselves against stone. It’s dirty, slow, and most of the time, the reward is just a handful of dust.”
Sadie looked from the tiny red granules in his hand to his face, etched with years of such patient arguments. She understood now. This wasn’t just a mine; it was a conversation. A demanding, often frustrating dialogue with the heart of the mountain. And he had just taught her the first word.
“It’s enough,” she said softly.
Barnaby held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded once, a sharp, conceding dip of his chin. He turned back to the table, scooped the precious dust into a small pottery jar, and began preparing the next batch of ore. The lesson was over. The work continued. Sadie stayed, watching the steady, deliberate movements of his hands, the silent language of a man wrestling truth from a liar’s rock.
The chalcopyrite was indeed tricky. It resisted the hammer with a stubborn, metallic arrogance, throwing sparks that stung like angry insects. Barnaby worked it with a brutal economy of motion, his strikes precise and unending. Sadie’s job was to hold the long, unfinished bar steady with a pair of heavy tongs, turning it at his curt commands.
“Turn.” A grunt. The hammer fell. Clang. “Hold it firm, girl. Not a quiver.” Clang. The shock traveled up the tongs, rattling her bones. Her hands, already raw, screamed in protest with each impact. The blisters from the slag pile had burst, and the rough leather grips of the tongs ground salt into the wounds.
She didn’t complain. She focused on the metal itself, watching the coppery streaks warp and flow under Barnaby’s relentless assault. It was a dance, a violent kind of creation, and she was learning the steps through pain. He never offered praise, only corrections. “Angle is wrong. You’re fighting the metal. Work with its grain.” His voice was a low rumble under the hammer’s song.
By the time the light began to fail, her hands were trembling with a fatigue so deep it felt embedded in her marrow. The bar of chalcopyrite was now a smoother, more defined shape, a potential tool emerging from the chaos. Barnaby plunged it into the quenching barrel with a fierce hiss, a cloud of steam briefly enveloping him like a ghost.
“Enough,” he said, wiping his brow with a heavily muscled forearm. He glanced at her hands, which she was trying to hold steady at her sides. A flicker of something—not concern, perhaps just assessment—crossed his face before it settled back into its usual granite impatience. “Go on. Get cleaned up.”
The cavern was clearing out, the others already heading for the rain barrel and then the hall. Sadie walked slowly, each swing of her arms sending fresh jabs of pain from her palms to her elbows. The cool water provided a moment of relief, but as she dried her hands on her trousers, the raw skin caught on the rough fabric, making her gasp softly.
When she entered the dining hall, the wave of warmth and noise was a palpable comfort. The mood was looser than the night before, the acceptance she’d earned making a space for her in the camaraderie. Finn waved her over to a spot next to him, his grin less nervous now, more genuine.
“See?” he said, gesturing to her hands with a wince of sympathy. “Told you it was tough. Chalcopyrite’s the worst for vibration.”
“It feels like my teeth are still shaking,” she admitted with a tired laugh, lowering herself carefully onto the bench.
It was then that Kael approached. The giant who worked the bellows moved with a surprising lightness. He dropped a small, greasy clay pot onto the table in front of her with a soft thud.
“Here,” he said, his voice a friendly basso profundo. “For the hands.”
Sadie looked up at him, then down at the pot. She pried the lid off. Inside was a dark, waxy salve that smelled sharply of pine and something earthy, like comfrey.
“It’s Barnaby’s recipe,” Kael explained, leaning a hip against the table. His size was immense, but his manner was easy. “But he’d rather chew iron than play nursemaid. Thought you might need a hand. Literally.”
He smiled, a warm, open expression that crinkled the corners of his eyes. It was a different kind of attention than Finn’s anxious admiration. This was confident, playful.
“Thank you,” Sadie said, genuinely touched. She dipped a finger into the salve, hissing slightly as the cool ointment touched her broken blisters.
“Whoa, there. Let me,” Kael said, scooping a generous glob onto his own broad fingertips. “You’ll just make a mess. Give ‘em here.”
He took her hands in his with a surprising gentleness. His palms were calloused like planks of wood, but his touch was deft as he smoothed the salve over her raw skin. The relief was immediate, a soothing coolness that muted the sharp, burning pain.
“Trick is,” he said, his head bent over his work, “to rub it in real slow, like this. Gets the blood moving without tearing the skin more. And tonight, before you bed down, wrap ‘em in a clean rag. Keeps the salve off your blanket and lets it work.”
His thumbs worked in slow, firm circles over her wrists and palms. It was intensely intimate, this careful ministration from such a large man. Sadie felt a flush of warmth that had little to do with the salve. She looked up at his focused face, the curve of his smile.
“You’re surprisingly good at this,” she said, her voice lightly teasing.
Kael glanced up, his eyes catching hers. They were a warm brown, full of humor. “What, you think all I’m good for is pumping a bellows? A man has hidden talents.” He winked, his thumbs pausing for a moment before resuming their gentle, rhythmic pressure. “Besides, a pretty pair of hands like these shouldn’t be ruined on the first day. It’s bad for morale.”
She laughed, a real, effortless sound. “Is that all? Just protecting morale?”
“Primarily,” he said, his tone mock-serious. “We’re a practical lot. It’s an investment. Healthy hands mean more work gets done.” He finished with her left hand and moved to the right, his touch just as careful. “And it’s a nicer view at supper than a set of bloody stumps.”
Their laughter mingled, easy and bright. For a moment, the constant, dull ache of her muscles and the lingering fear of her past felt very far away. This was what she had wanted—real, unguarded connection.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Barnaby standing in the doorway, watching them. He wasn’t scowling. His expression was neutral, unreadable. He observed the scene—Kael’s large hands cradling hers, their shared laughter—for a long moment. Then he turned away, disappearing back toward the forge without a word, taking the weight of his silence with him.
Kael finished, patting her hands gently. “There. Good as new. Or at least, less like raw meat.”
“Thank you, Kael,” Sadie said, flexing her fingers. The pain was now a distant throb, the salve a blessed barrier. “Truly.”
“Any time,” he said, his smile lingering on her for a beat longer than necessary before he moved to take his own seat.
As the stew was served, the hall filled with the familiar clamor. Sadie felt the salve working, a gentle healing magic on her skin, and Kael’s friendly, flirtatious attention continued to warm her. It was simple. It was nice.
But her gaze kept drifting to the empty space at the head of the table, where the forge’s distant glow outlined the doorway. The air still smelled of pine and comfrey, but underneath it, she could still scent the ghost of hot metal and coal smoke.