Chapter 2 - The Sword's Edge

Tessa Greymourne watched the sun peek over the mountains from behind the aged wooden counter of the smith as she laid her hammer on the sword she was forging. Sparks flew with every strike, small bursts of golden red light piercing the early morning darkness. The warmth of the fire flushed her face, which was a pleasant break from the stinging cold winds that whisked around outside.

She wrapped a damp cloth around her hand and grabbed the handle. The glow quickly vanished from the iron as Tessa dunked the sword into a basin of water. She wiped her brow and adjusted her leather apron. She was almost done with this quota for the Warmhaven guards.

“Tess! Do we have any newcomers at the counter?” her father called from the back room of the smith. He was busy filling out the shipping forms for a different order, otherwise he would’ve been at the front greeting customers. Usually guard officers or nobles requested orders, but occasionally there was a commoner who needed nails or an axe.

Tessa glanced up at the counter, only to find the last person she expected.

“Ah! Dahrian?”

“Hi, Tess,” she said quietly with a small wave. She was covered in snow for some reason.

“What are you doing out here so early?” she said, mildly alarmed. Tessa opened the gate and pulled her friend in by her coat. “Come in! You’re going to catch your death out there.”

“Who’s there?” her father questioned from behind the closed door.

“It’s just Dahri, Dad,” Tessa responded, brushing the snow off the top of Dahrian’s hood.

“Good morrow, Sir Greymourne,” Dahrian took off her cloak and set it on a nearby hanger. The inside of the forge was quite warm, and winter wear wasn’t necessary.

“Bless you, child. No need for the flattery,” her father said with a deep chuckle, emerging from the back room. He was a tall man, easily towering over Dahrian and Tessa. His deep tan skin glowed in the light of the fire, contrasting with his black hair and beard. “How are you doing, lass?”

“All is well, just got back from a walk,” Dahrian said politely, raising her eyebrows at Tessa on the word “walk.”

Tessa raised her eyebrows back as if to ask, “What happened?”

“Splendid, splendid,” her father said casually, rubbing his ink-stained hands together. “I need to go back to my work. Stay out of trouble girls.”

“Yes sir.”

There was a brief pause as Tess’s father went back into the office room.

“What happened?” Tessa finally asked, turning to face Dahrian.

“I’m getting married,” she said stiffly.

A deep well seemed to open in Tessa’s heart. Reminders of her own past circled in her mind like prey birds about to dive on an unsuspecting hare. Tessa was that hare, and for a small moment, she couldn’t breathe. She dug her nails into her hand.

“Dahri, I’m so sorry,” was all she could manage.

“It’s the Earl’s son. The ceremony is in five weeks.”

“Earl Grenwood? I didn’t know he fathered another son. He must’ve been a shut-in.”

Dahrian giggled. “I actually just saw him on the road. He was pretty awkward.”

Tessa laughed. “At least you’ll live in a nice house now and won’t have to worry about anything.”

Dahrian’s smile dropped. “But I don’t want to do that. And I especially don’t want to mother his children.” The two girls exchanged glances of disgust.

“I understand your grievances, but in the end, we all have to do things we don’t want to do,” Tessa said, stepping towards the hearth to stoke the fire. She stabbed one of the dying logs with a poker.

“He called me a wretch!” She threw up her hands, wings twitching with frustration. She began to pace but then stopped. “Well, he didn’t know it was me, but still, a man should never insult his betrothed.”

“Agreed.”

Dahrian pulled up two chairs from the side of the room. They sat and watched the fire devour the logs. The two sat in silence for a while, listening to the popping of the hearth and watching the flickers of amber-colored light dance on the stone walls.

“Tessa, have you ever thought of leaving this place?” Her voice was so low it was almost a whisper. “Like going to another town and living there. Starting a new life.”

Tessa kept her face blank, but her insides were screaming. She couldn’t leave. She was safe here.

“Like Snowfort?” she asked, keeping her voice monotone. Not Euril. Not Euril. Anywhere but Euril.

“No. Further. Omil maybe.”

A brief sense of relief flooded over Tessa. Her fingers tapped against the side of the wooden chair.

“Dahrian… I just — I don’t like where you are going with this.”

“Just think about it, Tessa. You, me — We could start a new life!” Dahrian’s eyes lit up as she turned to face Tessa, her sparkling gaze meeting her friend’s blank face. “I could leave my marriage, you could become a real blacksmith, or something. It’s perfect.” Her winged ears perked up.

“It’s not that simple. I'm still in training…” Tessa reasoned, standing up to check the counter once more.

“I know…” She bit her lip in contemplation. “Um. Could you discuss this with your father?” Dahrian said, fidgeting. “I’m sure he’d appreciate the initiative.”

“I’ll… I’ll think about it,” she muttered. It was more of an attempt to soothe Dahrian than a real promise.

“Great!” Dahrian clasped her hands and stood up. “I need to head back before my parents find my empty bed.”

“Dahri, I’m really not sure about this,” Tessa attempted again.

“Why? It’s a perfectly reasonable plan. And I know that you’ve escaped a marriage once,” Dahrian said, a little too simply for the weight of what that really had meant for Tessa.

Tessa stiffened. “That was different,” she said coldly. It wasn’t Dahrian’s fault that she didn’t know what had really happened, but Tessa had clearly told her not to bring it up.

“I know, I—”

“Stop. Please just stop.”

“Tess, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.”

The air, once warm from the hearth, was now icy and unwelcoming.

Tessa closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Just go home, Dahrian. I’ll see you later,” she plastered on a smile and her friend relaxed.

Tessa watched her friend dart to her cloak and don it. Dahrian’s excitement worried her. The more she was thrilled about a terrible idea, the more likely she was really going to act on it.

“Dahrian?” she called, observing her friend race across the icy courtyard and towards the direction of the Brown manor.

“She’s gone,” she muttered to herself. Tessa sighed, leaning on the counter with a small smile.

Omil, eh?

She walked into the washroom from the small corridor and stared into the glassy mirror. Could she really just leave? Her piercing gray eyes bore into her own soul, intense and smoldering. Her father always told her that her eyes were the color of freshly cooled iron. Fire on the inside and cold on the outside.

But her hair belonged to her mother. Dark and rich, like the bark of a pine tree.

A dark pit opened in her stomach, spewing out rage and sorrow and other nasty emotions. Her hair was longer now. Longer than what she wanted it to be.

Her sixteenth year raced behind her scrunched eyes.

Your blood on your hands, Tess. That’s your blood.

She pressed her face into her hands, biting her tongue to silence the scream clawing its way out.

She wasn’t there anymore.

And Mum was gone.

And she was twenty-three.

Tessa looked up into the mirror once more, taking in the view of her mother for the last time.

She unsheathed the small knife at her side and cut her hair into the basin.

Alden Black believed that blood was most useful when it stayed in his body and did not drip out of him. The red droplets splattered against the snow covered path as he walked. He turned around, checking to see if he was being followed. His vision blurred, and he stumbled forward, muttering a curse as his boot skidded across the icy ground. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, willing his eyes to focus. His shaky breath left a soft cloud in front of him.

He didn’t mean to get stabbed. Nobody plans on it, really, but today was his lucky day. One bad run-in with the Omil guards had him stumbling off a balcony, where he had sworn that the barrel he fell on did not have a fire poker next to it the last time he checked.

Alden tucked his hand into his shirt, holding his breath as his fingers pressed just below his ribs into the torn fabric and found the wound. It was warm and sticky. His undershirt was soaked with blood around the area, the stain spreading further with every step. His fingertips came away red. Still bleeding. Fantastic. He clenched his jaw and kept walking. He just needed to make it into the next town.

This was all Perrin’s fault. She left him when he needed her.

If only she could see him now.

Her amber eyes would’ve widened in shock at the state of him. She would’ve helped him. Cleaned his wounds even.

Then she would’ve betrayed him again.

And again.

Like she always did.

Well, Perrin, he thought. This is the last time I'm leaving you. We're done.

He pulled the hood of his cloak up as a cold breeze bit at his nose and cheeks. He squinted up through the trees. The sun was sinking fast, dipping behind the snow-tipped pines. He didn’t have long. If he died out here… so close to town—

He didn’t need to think about that.

He forced his mind to concentrate on where he was going.

Warmhaven.

He had been there once as a little chap, long ago, before the world had hardened around him. Before his father died. The memory came uninvited.

They were passing through the reaches of Oclen on their way to Snowfort when his father suddenly guided the reindeer to turn off the main path.

“Dad, where are we going?” he had asked, holding onto the wooden sides of the wagon as it jostled along the uneven path.

“Warmhaven,” his father replied, a grin tracing along etched lines in his face. “The northern hold of Oclen.”

They rode on through the snow, where trees towered on either side of the road. When a small gate attended by a few guards appeared ahead, they knew they found the town entrance.

Passing through the gate, it was clear the town wasn’t large. The walls were only two or three men tall. Just a ring of stone with scarce watchtowers protecting the cluster of buildings tucked within. Alden counted maybe twenty rooftops and he could see a few larger manors behind the farther reaches of the city.

The smell of bread wafted from a bakery, making Alden’s mouth water. He watched a woman carrying a young child on her hip order from the counter. Sparks roared from a nearby smith where a sturdy man seemed to be working. A young girl clung onto the man’s apron as he worked. Alden waved to her, but she didn’t wave back.

They tied up their deer and wagon and continued on foot through Warmhaven.

They walked to a tavern where a small cup of apple cider was bought for him while his father ordered some sort of alcoholic drink. Alden couldn’t remember if it was mead or ale, but his father let him have a sip.

“My boy,” his father had said after a long swig from his wooden cup. “Always remember, money isn’t worth your time. It sure as hell does rule the world, but in the end…” His voice dropped to a murmur, as if he were lost in reverie. “Gold won’t feed a king.”

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden shapes along the tavern walls. For the first time in his life, Alden had felt safe, tucked beside his father on the bench, his fingers sticky with cider.

They stayed in Warmhaven for three days, sleeping soundly in the inns and taverns alike, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen. Alden quickly learned his father’s words were hollow when he was slaughtered in front of him. Though he was young, the years of thievery had already marked him as a scoundrel, preventing him from getting a day’s coin.

Well, thief might be a strong word to describe Alden’s career. He was more of a smuggler, in fact, but he preferred the term vagabond, or perhaps a wayfarer, but nevertheless it was all the same. He was just a lad down on his luck, except when it comes to getting poked in the gut with a fire stick.

He took a pause for a moment, leaning against a tree. Every breath was agonizing in this cold weather. His vision swam. Each step dragged him deeper into the snow, like the earth itself was trying to bury him. He pressed his hand tighter to his side.

“Just a scratch,” he winced, at this point just trying to convince himself. It was definitely not just a scratch.

He tried to picture the Warmhaven tavern again. Maybe the roof was green? The image from his youth was fuzzy in his mind. There was an old barmaid. He remembered that. She had called him “Honey,” with a whimsical wink and smile. Maybe she was still alive? Bring him stew and a drink? Perhaps give him a wink and smile once more? Perhaps not scream in horror at the scarlet stain on his coat?

But he knew better. No one smiled at a man who crawled into a town half-dead. They closed their doors. The children cried.

And the guards came. Just like they always did.

Guards. Guards. Guards.

Why did every town even need guards?

“Load of oafs…” he slurred, not even processing that he was saying his thoughts out loud at this point.

Alden felt his blood start to spill through the gaps in his fingers. He pressed harder against the wound, and he immediately felt nauseous. He rested once more against another tree. Every breath felt shallow and empty. Black dots danced in his vision and his legs finally gave out. He sank against the pine, the snow crunching around his knees, then his back, then snow filled his ears.

Well, it’s been a good run, Alden thought.

He closed his eyes, feeling the heavy weight of sleep press against them. He could feel the small snowdrifts brush his eyelashes and coat his face. It was almost peaceful, how cold he was. No pain, no feeling. Just him and the cold. He could feel his consciousness start to slip into the freezing abyss. This isn’t so bad, he thought. Alden couldn’t even feel the pulsing wound in his side. Then for a moment, he dozed off. I’m sorry father.

Within the depths of the snow, Alden felt at peace for the first time in a long time.

“Alden Black, you are under arrest for the crimes you have committed against Oclen and her people. What say you?”

The fallen man blinked his eyes open. How long had it been since he fell asleep in the snow? Minutes? Hours? A day? It felt like years.

At least someone found him before he bled out.

“Oh, great. Guards. I was just talking about you guys,” Alden tried to mumble but it sounded more like a gurgle as fresh blood escaped his lips.

Actually, maybe bleeding out might be a better alternative to getting arrested.

“He's barely alive, captain, what should we do?”

Another voice answered gruffly. “Throw him in the cell. That ‘oughta warm the bastard up.”

Prison? Just let me die, you load of scum.

One of the guards stepped forward, his face stern under his helmet and roughly took his shoulder, lifting him off the ground in one motion. The Warmhaven crest stared at him from the guard’s shoulder plate. The painted twin flames gleaming in the dying light. At least I made it.

“Bollocks.”