Chapter Three

Tessa Greymourne watched the sun peek over the mountains behind the aged wooden counter of the blacksmith 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.

She quite enjoyed her work as a blacksmith. This was her thing. Her craft. Her expertise. Not many could brag the sheer amount of items created just from hot coals and some scrap metal.

Candle holders? The hinges on windows? The nails in wooden floors? The door knob on the Earl’s damn fortress? That was Tessa. Well, most of it probably.

“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 a knife or perhaps an axe.

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

“Ah!” she yelped, nearly jumping out of her skin. “Dahrian?”

“Hi, Tess,” she said quietly with a small wave. She was covered in snow for some reason. Her cheeks were flushed from running and strands of her black hair were strewn across her face.

“What are you doing here so early?” she said, mildly alarmed. Tessa opened the gate and pulled her friend in by her cloak. “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 morning, Sir Greymourne,” Dahrian took off her cloak and set it on a nearby hanger. The inside of the smithy 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.” They did this sort of communication ever since they were children.

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. She stood motionless in the center of the room. The forge backlit her, giving her winged ears an almost golden halo.

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

Tessa froze. “But—” she started. She wasn’t known for being great with words. “I thought because—Dahri, I’m so sorry.”

Because you’re an aetherin, I thought you’d be safe.

Tessa looked away, holding a hand to her mouth, the news hitting her like smoke from a house fire. Marriage in Oclen typically meant disappearance, quickly followed by lots of bad news. Tessa was so, so, so glad she was a commoner. At her age, she should most certainly be married off, but thanks to her duties as the town’s blacksmith, she only had to reject a few offers over the years. Nobles didn’t have that privilege. Their futures were often put in the hands of their parents. She looked back at Dahrian. The young woman — her friend — was about to have her wings clipped like a show falcon.

“It’s the Earl’s son. The ceremony is in three weeks,” Dahrian said miserably, winged ears drooping around her face.

“Earl Grenwood?” Tessa questioned, genuinely confused. She pictured the earl’s children in her mind. There was the oldest—married with a child on the way. The second—town scoundrel. But a third?

“I didn’t know he fathered another son,” Tessa said. “He must’ve been a shut-in.”

“I actually just saw him on the road,” she giggled to herself. “He was pretty awkward. I don’t think he’s ever spoken to a girl.”

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

That part was mostly true. As long as the groom wasn’t a complete ass.

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, friend, 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 didn’t want to coddle Dahrian or act like a sponge soaking up her emotions all day. She stabbed one of the dying logs with a poker. “You see, I have to make shovels all day to earn a day’s coin.”

“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.”

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

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

The question completely stumped her. She couldn’t just leave. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, willing herself not to remember. She was the only Greymourne child left in Warmhaven. And if her mother came back while she was gone…

Tessa didn’t want to think about that.

“Like Snowfort?” she suggested. It was the closest town to the hold—Would be easy to travel back and forth from.

“No. Further. Omil maybe.”

“The capital?” Tessa turned to face her. “That’s almost a week’s journey,” her fingers tapped against the side of her chair. You can’t just run away every time something bad happens. “Dahrian… I just — I don’t like where you are going with this.”

“Just think about it, Tess, you — We could start a new life!” Dahrian’s eyes lit up, 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.

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

“Great!” Dahrian responded, not catching her friend’s placating response. She clasped her hands. “I need to head back before my parents find my bed empty.”

“Dahri, I’m really not sure about this,” Tessa attempted again, pulling her fingers through her cropped hair.

“Why? It’s a perfectly reasonable idea. People leave all the time! Why can’t we be next?”

“I just—” Tessa shook her head. “I can’t leave,” she said finally.

Her eyes dropped. “Um. Could you discuss this with your father?” Dahrian said, fidgeting. “I’m sure he’d appreciate the initiative.”

“Sure,” she agreed, head back on the chair and eyes closed. She knew she wasn’t going to ask her father. She stood up to face her friend.

“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 after her, 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. Cropped short by the work of her own knife.

“Glenveil hair,” her mother told her once, holding her shoulders while Tessa sat in front of a mirror. They caught each other’s eyes in the glass. Her mother’s eyes were golden, a common trait among her people in the forest nation. They crinkled when she smiled. It reminded Tessa of the bright embers in the forge. She smiled to herself, recalling the memory. She wondered how her mom was, back in her country, away from the grief that Tessa and her father now had to carry.

What would you do, Mother?