Chapter 1: The Name Beneath the Ash
The air tasted like ash. Even in summer, even with the forge cold, the smell clung to everything in Drevik, but Vessen barely noticed it anymore. Twenty-six years in the same shop had a way of burying a man in his surroundings. He’d been seven when the fires came for his father, and the memory was a smudged coal-drawing in his mind, something he tried never to bring to the light. He knew fire, intimately, and he preferred to keep it under control.
He sighted down the length of the horseshoe, checking the curve. Old man Hemmels’ mare was tender-footed, and he didn’t want her going lame on the high pasture. Not that Hemmels would blame him. Folks in Drevik didn’t blame each other for much. What was the point? They were all just trying to survive in a place the rest of the world had forgotten. Vessen had learned to like that about it. He wasn’t trying to survive, he just…was.
The hammer felt good in his hand, familiar. He’d shaped more metal than he could count. Horseshoes, plow blades, axe heads, hunting knives. Once, a fancy noble had gotten lost in the mountains and paid him a silver sovereign to fix a buckle on his saddle. That had been a good week. He’d bought two bottles of Arlan’s best whiskey and spent an evening with Greta down at the tavern, back when Greta could still smile. That felt like another lifetime ago.
He spared a glance at the calendar nailed to the wall, mostly obscured by soot. Godsday, the 17th of Sunheight. He’d promised to take a brace of grouse up to Aella before the week was out. She said she didn’t mind eating rabbit every night, but her eyes said different. And maybe he’d finally fix that loose shutter on her bedroom window. She’d been complaining about it since the spring thaw. Gods knew he wasn’t getting any younger, and neither was she. Ought to make an honest woman of her, he supposed. But not today.
The bell over the door jingled, and Vessen straightened up, wiping his hands on his leather apron. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Mid-morning was usually quiet. Maybe someone needed a quick repair. He could use the coin. This far north, even summer was lean. He turned toward the front of the smithy.
The woman standing in the doorway was a stranger. He’d know, even if he hadn’t known every face in Drevik for the last quarter-century. She was tall, with her dark hair pulled back tight from her face, and she wore travel-stained leathers that looked like they’d seen hard use. A sword was strapped to her back, though the hilt was covered in a thick cloth. She looked like a soldier, or a mercenary, or someone running from something.
"Korr," she said, her voice rough around the edges. "Vessen Korr?"
"That’s me." He set the horseshoe down on the anvil. "What can I do for you?"
She stepped further into the shop, her eyes scanning the interior, taking in the forge, the tools, the racks of finished work. The way she moved made Vessen uneasy. Like a wolf in a sheep pen. "What was your mother’s name? Her maiden name, I mean."
Vessen frowned. What kind of question was that? He didn’t usually talk about his mother. Didn’t like thinking about her, if he was honest. It was the one part of his life he’d never been able to hammer into something useful. Still, no harm in answering, he supposed. "Korranth," he said, before he could think better of it.