Page 26

Before I could summon a biting retort, Vorgath reached over and gently covered my hand with his.

“Soraya understands more than you ever will,” Vorgath said, his voice steady. “And she’s right—there’s more to honor than the violence you cling to.”

Dregor took another swig of ale, eyes never leaving Vorgath’s as if measuring whether he truly believed his own words. When he finally set his tankard down, he let out a loud, exaggerated sigh and leaned back.

“Maybe,” he said with mock indifference. “But don’t think for a second that your ‘peaceful’ life here will protect you. The past isn’t like the steel you bend to your will. You can’t reshape it with a few swings of the hammer. It lives, it breathes, and it will come for you when you least expect it.”

“Maybe,” Vorgath repeated, unbothered by Dregor’s theatrics. “But I no longer let my past dictate my future. Can you say the same?”

Dregor shook his head slowly, almost pityingly, and stood up from the table.

“Be careful, Vorgath.” His eyes flicked briefly to me. “The past isn’t something you can run from. Remember that.”

And with that, Dregor turned away, leaving the tavern as abruptly as he had entered, his heavy footsteps echoing in his wake. I watched him go, still gripping the handle of my hammer as if it were a lifeline. As his bulky form disappeared through the tavern door, my gaze wandered to the window, where a familiar figure caught my eye—Thorne Ironsmith.

He stood outside, his arms crossed and his face unreadable as he watched Dregor vanish into the street. For a moment, something flickered in Thorne’s expression—something that made me uneasy. It wasn’t anger or surprise, but a cool, distant calculation, like he was piecing together a puzzle.

When his eyes met mine, he hesitated, the barest flicker of recognition passing over his face before his lips curled into what could have been a smile. Then, without a word, Thorne turnedand headed off in the same direction Dregor had gone, leaving a hollow feeling in my chest that I couldn’t quite shake.

I wasn’t sure what to make of it—maybe it was nothing. But after the way Thorne had brushed me off at the forge and his obvious disdain for Vorgath, seeing him now, lingering in Dregor’s shadow, left me with a gnawing sense of discomfort.

“We should go.”

I tore my gaze away from the window to find Vorgath watching me. Around us, the lively hum of conversation had dimmed, the patrons casting nervous glances toward the door as if half-expecting more trouble to follow in Dregor’s wake.

Just as I stood, Milla appeared at our table. “Don’t let him run you off, Soraya.”

I smiled weakly, grateful for her words but knowing Vorgath had already decided. He was on his feet, ready to go. “I’m sorry for the trouble,” I said. “It wasn’t meant to happen like this.”

Milla waved a hand dismissively. “It’s not your fault. If anything, it’s a good thing he was here.” She glanced at Vorgath with a nod of respect. “He handled it better than most would’ve.”

Vorgath gave a curt nod, already heading toward the door. I followed, the knot in my stomach still tight. As we stepped outside, I could hear Milla behind us, muttering to another patron about how it could’ve been much worse.

Chapter 12

Sitting in Lady Hargrave’s bustling kitchen, I placed the intricately carved spoon on the table, a quiet smile tugging at my lips as Thyri raised an impressed eyebrow.

“You made this?” she asked, taking it between her fingers and holding it up to the light.

I nodded, unable to keep the pride from my voice. “I did. It's my first real attempt at combining metalwork with... well, something a bit more delicate.”

Thyri turned the spoon over, admiring the flower patterns etched into the handle. “It's beautiful. Reminds me of your embroidery work.”

“That was the idea,” I said. “I wanted to see if I could bring some of that old skill into my new work.”

Behind us, a maid bustled past with a tray stacked with dishes, nearly bumping into a scullery boy who was struggling with a basket of vegetables. The kitchen was alive with the clatter of pots and the hiss of steam rising from the stove.

“Well, you've certainly succeeded,” Thyri grinned, placing the spoon on the countertop between us. “The orc must be a good teacher.”

I felt a flush creep up my neck at the mention of Vorgath, my mind drifting back to the morning we’d spent together at the forge. He’d been focused on Grimble’s commission, hammering out the broad, weighty blades with the quiet intensity I’d come to expect from him. Meanwhile, he’d tasked me with something that seemed simple on the surface but felt monumental: making the perfect spoon.

“Precision and care,” he’d said. “Show me how your hands shape something small.”

It had taken hours. The heat of the forge was familiar by now, but the patience required to create such a delicate piece was something new. I’d used every tool at my disposal—chisels, needle files, and my new hammer. There were moments of frustration, times when the metal didn’t bend to my will, and the design blurred beneath the heat of my impatience.

But when I finally got it right, when the flowers blossomed under the careful guidance of my hands, I felt a rush of satisfaction unlike anything I'd ever known.

“He is,” I admitted, twirling the spoon between my fingers. “Vorgath has a way of pushing me to be better without making me feel inadequate.”