Page 1 of A Kiss of Hammer and Flame (Fated for Hael #1)

It’s just a sword.

But Cahra knew it wasn’t. She knew it with every faltering step she fought to take, the star ruby-encrusted rapier winking in the firelight of the blacksmith’s forge, taunting her as she balanced it across her outstretched palms. If she tripped, the blade would slice her open, a splash of red to complement its gems. Somehow that wasn’t her concern.

Her fear was for the sword. Because a blade for the Steward of her kingdom of Kolyath was never just a weapon. It was a symbol of his power over others. Over her.

She should know. She’d forged it for the ruler she’d once tried to kill.

Cahra blew a wisp of pale copper hair from her face, battling the urge to drop the sword and run.

Instead, she set the darkened blade on the counter and glanced at Lumsden.

The master blacksmith smiled, his hair a chalky stripe around the crown of his balding head.

But the old man’s expression didn’t meet his deep-set eyes, and his gaze didn’t break from the figure dominating the smithy’s metal counter.

Commander Jarett, the Steward’s notorious head of the Kingdom Guards, bent to scrutinise Cahra’s creation; a feat of form and function, or so Lumsden had proudly declared.

‘Yes… His Excellency will be pleased,’ Jarett told him, mesmerised by the Haellium blade. The Commander straightened, the sheer height of him looming like a Kolyath ice storm, scowling down at Cahra.

She froze, waiting for the storm to hit.

‘I, however, would be pleased to be met with the decorum I am due. A bath and a comb of your girl’s hair?’ Jarett gestured to Cahra in distaste.

As the only female smith in Kolyath, her presence defied tradition, a fact that never failed to attract criticism. Mostly about how she looked.

The dread simmering inside Cahra boiled into a black fury. Would breaking Jarett’s high-born hand be worth one final trip to the dungeons?

Before she could answer insult with injury, an unfamiliar voice spoke.

‘Now, Commander, Master Lumsden’s apprentice has surely laboured to perfect our esteemed Steward’s sword, and what a sword it is! A weapon fit for a king.’

Cahra knew the manner of speaking well: smooth, enunciated. Definitely a high-born. A well-dressed young nobleman stepped from behind Jarett and smiled.

Great, another one . But the young high-born was right, she’d slaved over the Steward’s rapier for weeks. Only the electric sting of fear and anger kept her on her feet now.

Yet his word choice made her smirk. ‘King’, the one thing Steward Atriposte wasn’t. Her kingdom hadn’t seen a royal in centuries. Not since the fall of their realm’s empire and its capital of Hael’stromia – the jet-black city known as ‘Hael’.

In spite of herself, Cahra felt a prick of curiosity as she eyed the young high-born.

Commander Jarett’s eyes lit up, the storm cloud fading from his face, as if he’d realised the prestige such a blade would bring. ‘I must present it to His Excellency at once. Lumsden, where is the sword’s scabbard?’

Forgotten, Cahra made to slink back to the forge, the smoky scent and crackle of coals a balm against her ragged nerves and autumn’s bitter forward march.

Until someone cleared their throat.

‘My apologies,’ the young high-born said, interrupting her thoughts.

Cahra just stared. A high-born apology? That was new.

‘I do not wish to keep you from your work. I seek your services.’

‘Of course,’ Cahra said, bending to scrabble under the counter for a pencil and paper, and bumping a burn from crafting the Steward’s sword. She hissed, the jolt sending pain searing down her forearm, troubling her more than she’d like to admit.

Gritting her teeth, Cahra forced a vaguely pleasant look to her face. ‘And you are?’

‘Terryl.’

‘Terryl,’ she said, scrawling his name. Despite the clamour of the Traders’ Quadrant, she heard Lumsden shuffling back to the front counter. She’d always had a gift for senses, hearing in particular. It was a part of her, a necessity from growing up a beggar.

‘ Lord Terryl!’ Lumsden corrected her, clapping and beaming at the high-born. ‘Welcome.’ She shot the old man a sideways glance.

Seers, what was so special about this one?

Apart from him sticking up for you against Jarett?

Grudgingly, Cahra looked up, right into the lord’s eyes. Blue goldstone, she mused, an indigo gem that twinkled gold and silver like the starry night sky. She’d made a point of studying precious gemstones, as the Steward’s court demanded them.

‘Lumsden,’ Lord Terryl greeted in return, dazzling eyes flashing back to Cahra. The lord’s mouth curved up. ‘And you are, Miss…?’

Chewing her lip, she realised she’d failed to introduce herself, and to a lord, no less. Anyone would think she’d never spoken to a noble before. Lumsden would be mortified. ‘Cahra,’ she told the young lord quickly.

‘Cahra, of course.’ He nodded. ‘I spoke with Lumsden about you.’

She whipped her head up to the old man, who swiftly nudged her with his foot.

‘The Steward’s advisors speak highly of your artisanship at court,’ Lord Terryl said. ‘What might you craft, if I were to offer you a blank canvas?’

Cahra didn’t know what confused her more, the question or the compliment. ‘Sorry?’ Mercifully, the damp coastal air swept the heat from her pinkening cheeks.

‘A longsword that you could craft freely,’ Lumsden explained. ‘You would decide on the design, the materials, everything.’ She caught the words the old man left unsaid: unlike with the Steward or his infuriating court, whose dictates choked her love of smithing.

‘Speaking of materials,’ Lord Terryl began, eyes sparkling. ‘The Steward’s sword. Was that a Haellium blade, the everlasting ore? And those rubies, like none that I have seen!’ His full attention was on her, and she shifted under the intensity of his gaze.

‘Star rubies,’ Cahra said slowly. ‘They’re rare. Almost as rare as Hael’stromia’s ore.’ She gave the lord a pointed look.

Haellium, the metal forged from the ore of the realm’s lost capital, was more precious than gold due to its pure indestructibility. But no one had mined it since Hael’stromia’s fall, centuries ago. Commander Jarett hadn’t said how he’d obtained some for the ruler’s rapier.

The Steward’s rapier was the only Haellium weapon in Kolyath, and with the man’s vicious reputation, one was more than enough.

Crafting a weapon like that for such a tyrant gnawed at her, and Cahra clenched her fists.

Everything wrong with Kolyath – from its starving beggars, like she’d been as a kid, to its crushing taxes, all to aid a never-ending war – was the Steward’s fault.

She never should have forged that sword.

But what could she do, refuse? His guards wouldn’t just drag her to the kingdom’s Red Square for a spot of public torture, they’d take Lumsden too. To make examples of them, of all low-borns. Of what happens when you defy the Steward of Kolyath.

The ruler’s punishments had moved beyond mere dungeon cells.

Cahra tensed at the memory, fear needling her.

A weapon, Haellium ore, the capital; this conversation was skating dangerously close to forbidden territory for low-borns, like the ancient Seers and their prophecy.

And its treasure, the real sword the Steward could never be allowed to get his hands on.

Hael’stromia’s ultimate weapon, the reason for the realmwide war.

Cahra cleared her throat, changing the subject.

‘Milord, a sword is a personal effect. I’d need to know your family’s crest, or animal, plant, colour, anything to signify your kin…

’ On one hand, his request intrigued her.

On the other, it seemed like a quick way to waste coin.

Lord Terryl laughed, but not the haughty snigger of the wealthy high-borns who frequented the Traders’ Quadrant.

This was a soft chuckle, as if he saw her hesitance and found the situation amusing, and not her.

‘You seek parameters for your artistry, which is fair. So, Miss Cahra, my favourite colour is blue.’

Her gaze flickered to the lord’s face. He was handsome in that typical high-born way.

Dark hair, chiselled jaw, sweeping brow and all the rest: unbroken nose, snow-white teeth.

Eyes the colour of blue goldstone . He cocked his head.

Cahra realised she was staring at him, and a hot blush finally crept to blot the freckles flung across her nose and cheeks.

Knowing his favourite anything felt oddly intimate.

‘Blue,’ she said, doing her best to think, speak, like a person. ‘Blue can be, erm, plain. Royal blue, for example, is overused. How about a brighter blue, like cobalt? It has a vibrancy, a resonance. There’s life in it—’

What in Hael was the matter with her? Besides living on little sleep for weeks, and the Steward, the rapier, the Commander. High-borns in general.

Lord Terryl studied her again, for so long she thought she’d said something wrong, then smiled. ‘That, Miss Cahra, is why I sought you.’

She tried to take the praise and failed. ‘Just Cahra, please, milord. However, it will be days before I can start on your longsword.’

‘Then it shall certainly be worth the wait.’ He handed her a cream-coloured envelope, his gloved hand grasping hers, warmth radiating from the supple leather as he held her gaze.

‘Measurements, for the sword,’ the young lord told her, inclining his head as he smiled.

Swallowing, surprise rendered her speechless as he said, ‘A pleasure to meet you, Cahra.’

He was bowing to her!

‘And you, Lord Terryl,’ she said, attempting her best curtsey and still managing to fumble it completely.

The young noble smiled and lifted his hand in farewell, nodding at Lumsden, then slipped into the noonday sea of people.

‘What do you make of it?’ Lumsden surveyed her over his steaming cup of tea, his brown eyes ringed with lavender. Smoky quartz and amethyst, she’d decided long ago.

Cahra slid a cool glance at the old man, lifting her hammer and giving it an airy swing. ‘The job, or him?’ She shrugged, watching the lord go. ‘Just another high-born,’ she said, returning to the safety of the forge at last.

Or so Cahra told herself.

That night, Cahra sat in her homespun hammock in the rear corner of the smithy and sketched, her scratchy blanket half falling off from leaping out of bed that morning.

A candle’s tiny flame straining her eyes, she squinted in the dark at the firelight bouncing between the chunks of ore, workshop tools and coal that littered the path to the front counter.

And felt… excited, she realised in surprise.

Balancing her scrawled notes on her lap, Cahra overlaid them with a fresh piece of paper and began.

An outline, rough at first: the sword’s geometry, based on a scale of the young lord’s height, and arm and hand length.

Then the sword’s handle, the hilt ending in a round pommel with a metal disc insert.

Forget the Steward’s new rapier or any other sword, Cahra wanted this to be her masterwork.

Lost in her thoughts, she continued to draw as she glanced at the smoking flame and absently sketched a few lines, the candle flaring wildly.

Then looking back, she inhaled. She’d drawn an oval, in a triangle, tip down, in a circle – and while the design was simple, it triggered a cascade of ideas: gems in a multitude of blues, maybe even a few sapphires, etching paint with a metallic cobalt to match—

Cahra kept going, not stopping until she’d refined the pommel motif, which would be simple yet stunning and set the aesthetic for the longsword’s handle and its extravagant blade.

It was midnight by the time she finished and she knew she’d feel her exhaustion the next day, but she had it, she undeniably had it. This would be her best weapon yet!

With a satisfied smile, she stuffed the pile of sketches under her hammock, blew out the stumpy candle and snuggled into her blanket.

In minutes, Cahra was asleep, oblivious to the magicks stirring in the symbol she’d unknowingly drawn – the Eye of the All-Seeing – as it flared with brilliant light beneath her bed, and the first omen of the realm’s ancient prophecy manifested:

‘For when the Seers reappear…’

In the lost capital of Hael’stromia, the weapon awakened.