Page 65

At Grimble’s side was Brilda, the mithral weaver, who gave me a knowing, sharp-eyed smirk.

“Sorry to bust up the moment, lovebirds,” she said as she crossed her arms, her thick golden braids reflecting the sunlight like molten gold. “But someone here put out a call for help.”

“What?” I blinked, still trying to untangle my thoughts. “I didn’t—” I started to say, only to be interrupted by Brilda.

“Not you,” she said, jerking a thumb toward Vorgath. “The orc. And when one of our own's in need, well, here we are.”

I stared at her, at the small army of dwarves gathering behind her, now bustling around like a particularly organized swarm of bees. “One of your own?”

Grimble clapped his hands together with enthusiasm. “Aye. One of our own.” He stepped forward, hands on his hips, surveying the ruins of the smithy with a look of approval—as if he already saw potential amidst the rubble. “You're one spirit tough as ol’ mithral, lass. You’re a survivor, a creator, like us.”

I turned slowly toward Vorgath, who was standing with one of his many unreadable expressions. “You called them,” I said.

Vorgath’s shoulders tensed slightly, but his deep gaze softened as it settled on me. “Yes,” he said simply. “Grimble and his clan... they're the best.”

My gaze flicked back to the crowd as more dwarves arrived, bustling forward with purpose. Some carried large stones; others had enchanted magical tools, designed to move rubble with ease. And there, in the center of it all, Thora—Grimble's bookish daughter—unrolled a large, incredibly detailed schematic of a forge.

It hit me then: I wasn’t alone.

For so long, it had been just me. Me and Elias. Me, stitching until my fingers bled so we’d have enough to eat. Me, keeping the world at bay because it was safer than feeling the ache of wanting more.

But now… now they were all here, shoulder to shoulder, helping me rebuild.

Thora beckoned me over, her ink-stained fingers delicate as they smoothed out the edges of the parchment. The large schematic lay between us, its lines sharp and precise. Grimble grinned proudly beside his daughter, arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Well?” he rumbled, jerking his chin toward the sketch. “What do you think, lass? This is just a rough plan, but the bones are there. We can start as soon as you say the word.”

I stared down at the blueprint, my thoughts tangled. It was beautiful, functional. And yet, something stopped me. It felt so familiar—too familiar. Thick stone walls, heavy anvils, wide-open workspaces for weapon crafting.

“It’s good,” I said, hesitating as my mind sifted through the sketches I’d made the night before. “But… it’s not quite right.”

Grimble’s bushy brows shot up in surprise, but a hint of amusement gleamed in his eyes. “Not quite right, eh? Well then, speak up.”

I glanced at Vorgath, who watched me with that steady, unwavering look. Taking a breath, I nodded. “I want to build something different,” I began. “Here’s what I have in mind…”

And as I began to speak, I could almost see it—the firepetals blooming in the warm light, the space open and filled with both life and flame. A place Elias could remember, a space filled with light, vibrant and alive, made to hold both fire and softness.

A place made to last.

Chapter 26

The clang of hammers against wood, the rhythmic swish and pull of mithral wire, and the low murmur of magical incantations filled the air as the new smithy took shape. The sun, dipping toward the horizon, cast warm golden hues across the site, highlighting the fresh timber and newly crafted tools scattered around us.

I twisted another strand of mithral with clumsy fingers.

“Easy now, lass,” Brilda said as she guided my hands. “Don’t force the metal. Let it guide you.”

Taking her advice, I let the shimmering strand slide through my fingers more gently, feeling it respond to the careful pressure. Bit by bit, it wound into the protective latticework we were embedding into the walls.

Walls that had gone up quicker than I ever could have imagined.

Grimble and his clan worked with the efficiency of an army, each dwarf seeming to know exactly what to do and where tobe. Wooden beams, stone slabs, and enchanted iron were moved and positioned with precision, making the entire process seem like a well-rehearsed dance. Just a week into our project, and we were already putting the finishing touches on the structure.

Across the forge, Sylwen etched runes into the doorway with his long, slender fingers, the air shimmering faintly with magic as he worked. He glanced over, his dark eyes glinting with amusement.

“You’re getting the hang of it,” he said, smiling. “Just don’t get too good, or Brilda will try to recruit you.”

Brilda nudged me, grinning. “Aye, there’s always room for a new weaver in the guild.”