Page 13

Chapter 12

S itting 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.”

Thyri leaned in, a mischievous glint in her eye. “And is that all he does for you?”

I felt my cheeks grow warm. “Thyri!”

She laughed, the sound bright and infectious in the busy kitchen. “Oh, come on, Sor. I've heard the way you talk about him.”

I opened my mouth to protest but couldn't quite form the words. How could I explain the complexity of my feelings for Vorgath? The way my heart raced when he was near, the comfort I found in his quiet strength, but also the fear that threaded through it all. I’d come to rely on him, as a mentor, yes, but wasn’t there more to it? I couldn’t deny the way my gaze lingered or how a single look from him made my skin hum. Yet the thought of letting him in, of allowing myself to feel more, threatened to unravel everything I’d carefully built. What if I lost him, as a teacher and as… as something more?

“It's complicated,” I finally managed, my voice soft. “There's Elias to think about, and the forge, and...” I trailed off, gesturing vaguely with the spoon.

“And the fact that he's an orc?” Thyri finished gently.

I sighed, setting the spoon down on the table. “That's part of it, yes.” I leaned closer to Thyri, my voice dropping to a whisper. “And, well, how would it even work?”

Thyri's brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

I glanced around, making sure no one was eavesdropping. “You know... physically. He's so... big.”

Thyri's eyes widened, and she stifled a laugh. “Soraya! Are you talking about...?”

I nodded, feeling my face burn hotter than the forge. “I mean, have you seen the size of his hands? They're like dinner plates!”

Thyri snorted, trying to keep her composure. “Well, you know what they say about men with big hands...”

“Thyri!” I hissed, half-scandalized, half-amused.

She grinned wickedly. “What? I'm just saying, where there's a will, there's a way. Besides, I hear orcs are very... adaptable.”

I buried my face in my hands, peeking out between my fingers. “Seven save me, I can't believe we're discussing this in the middle of the councilman’s kitchen.”

Just then, a loud crash echoed through the room. We both jumped, turning to see the scullery boy sprawled on the floor, surrounded by a sea of potatoes. Thyri and I looked at each other, then burst into laughter, the tension of our conversation breaking like a dam.

“Well,” Thyri said, wiping tears from her eyes, “at least we know one thing for certain.”

“What's that?” I asked, still giggling.

She picked up the spoon, waving it in front of me. “If all else fails, you can always make him tiny utensils.”

I chuckled at Thyri's jest, but the laughter faded quickly, replaced by a familiar ache in my chest. My fingers found the spoon again, tracing its delicate curves as I spoke softly, almost to myself.

“That's assuming he'd even want anything I make, let alone... more.”

Thyri's smile softened, her eyes filling with concern. “What do you mean?”

I sighed, struggling to put my swirling thoughts into words. “It's just... Vorgath is so... composed. Stoic. Half the time, I can't even tell what he's thinking.” I paused, swallowing hard. “What if I'm reading too much into things? What if he's just being kind?” The bustling kitchen seemed to fade away as I voiced my deepest fears. “I'm a widow with a young son, Thyri. I'm not exactly... desirable.” My voice cracked on the last word, and Thyri's warm hand covered mine.

“Oh, Sor,” she said, her voice gentle. “You don't see yourself clearly at all, do you?”

I shrugged, unable to meet her gaze. “I see the truth. I'm not the young girl I once was. I have responsibilities, baggage. Why would he choose me?”

Thyri squeezed my hand. “Because you're strong, beautiful, and brilliant. You're raising a wonderful boy on your own, and you've taken on a trade that most would run screaming from.” She paused, tilting her head. “And from what you've told me, it sounds like Vorgath sees all of that in you.”

I looked up, hope warring with doubt in my chest. “You think so?”

She nodded firmly. “I do. And while I haven't seen you two together, I've seen how your eyes light up when you talk about him. That's not nothing.”

I bit my lip, considering her words. “But what if—”

“No more 'what ifs,'” Thyri interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. “Stop overthinking everything.”

A maid approached the table to collect Lady Hargrave’s afternoon tea. “Is this ready, Miss Thyri?” she asked with a polite nod.

Thyri glanced at the tray of cups and teapot, giving a quick nod. “All set, Margit. Take it up while it’s still hot.”

Margit smiled, deftly gathering the tea service before slipping toward the door.

Thyri stood up, smoothing down her apron. “Well, I'd better get back to work before Lady Hargrave starts wondering why her kitchen smells like gossip instead of tonight's roast.”

I laughed, rising from my seat. “And I should head out. Vorgath let me leave early today, so I thought I'd surprise Elias by picking him up from school.”

“Oh, he'll love that,” Thyri said warmly. “Give that little rascal a hug from me, will you?”

“Of course,” I replied, reaching for the spoon to tuck it safely away. My hand met empty air. Frowning, I glanced around the table. “Do you have the spoon?”

Thyri's brow furrowed. “No, I thought you had it last.”

We both started searching the immediate area, checking under napkins and between plates. The spoon was nowhere to be found.

“That's odd,” I muttered, a twinge of worry creeping into my voice. “I could have sworn I put it right here.”

Thyri placed a reassuring hand on my arm. “It's a busy kitchen—things get moved about all the time. I'll keep an eye out for it and bring it round to you when I find it.”

“Thanks, Thyri,” I said, giving her a quick hug. “I appreciate it.”

“Now, off you go,” Thyri said, gently steering me toward the door. “You don't want to be late for Elias.”

As I stepped out of Lady Hargrave’s kitchen and into the bustling streets of Everwood, a crisp breeze tugged at my cloak, carrying the scent of damp earth and sun-warmed wood. The murmur of nearby vendors haggling over produce mixed with the soft clatter of a horse-drawn cart passing by. Overhead, birds flitted between the rooftops, their songs momentarily drowned out by the call of a street performer drawing a small crowd.

My mind drifted back to the forge, and as I walked, I wondered how the swords were coming along. The image of Vorgath, brow furrowed in concentration as he shaped metal with his powerful hammer, sent a flutter through my stomach. I shook my head, trying to clear the thoughts, but then Thyri's teasing words echoed in my ears, and I couldn't help but smile.

That small moment of peace shattered when a familiar voice cut through the noise of the street. “Well, if it isn't the orc's pet project.”

I turned to face the speaker, my good mood evaporating. It was Tom, Thorne’s cocky apprentice, leaning against the wall of the nearby smithy.

“Excuse me?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

Tom pushed off the wall, swaggering over to block my path. “I heard you've been playing blacksmith with that orc. Tell me, does he let you hold the hammer, or are you just there to look pretty?”

Heat rushed to my face, but I kept my expression neutral. “I'm an apprentice, learning the craft like anyone else.”

“An apprentice?” Tom snorted, folding his arms. “Seems to me you're just another lonely widow looking for someone to stoke your fire.”

My hands clenched into fists at my sides. “You don't know anything about me or my work.”

“Work?” he scoffed. “What work could a woman possibly do in a forge? Polishing the anvil, perhaps?”

I felt a retort rising in my throat but swallowed it down. Tom wasn’t worth it. He was a child trying to get a reaction. “If you'll excuse me,” I said coldly, stepping around him, “I have somewhere to be.”

As I turned to walk away, the apprentice's mocking voice called after me. “You know, Master Ironsmith’s been keeping an eye on that little operation of yours. He's not too pleased with how things are progressing.”

I glanced back, catching the smug look on the apprentice's face. “What's that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “Just that some people in this town take their craft seriously. They don't appreciate outsiders mucking things up.”

“If Thorne has a problem with my work, he can speak to me directly,” I said, my voice even.

“Oh, I'm sure he will. Sooner or later.”

I quickened my pace, feeling the anger simmering under my skin as I put distance between myself and Tom. But his words echoed in my mind, stirring up the unease I’d felt a few days ago when I’d seen Thorne outside the tavern. The look in his eyes had unsettled me then, and now, Tom’s taunts only deepened my suspicion.

What did Thorne care about my ‘operation’? He’d brushed me off once already. So why this sudden interest?

I pushed the thought aside for now. I'd be with Elias soon, and that was the only thing that truly mattered. I’d deal with the rest when the time came.

The schoolhouse was just ahead, nestled between two large oaks whose branches formed an archway over the path. My steps slowed as I scanned the small crowd of children, expecting to see Elias’ familiar figure bounding toward me.

But… nothing.

My eyes narrowed as I scoped the area again. No Elias running toward me.

I felt a prickle of unease and hurried over to Mrs. Quill, the school’s teacher, who stood with other parents as they collected their children.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I don’t see Elias. Have you—?”

“Oh, he left some time ago,” she said. “I assumed Mrs. Crumble had come to fetch him, as usual.”

My heart sank, disappointment washing over me. “Oh, I see. Thank you, Mrs. Quill.”

I turned away, mentally kicking myself for getting delayed by that insufferable Tom. I'd missed my chance to surprise Elias. Still, the thought of his face lighting up when I walked through the door at home brought a smile to my face. I quickened my pace, eager to see my boy.

But as I approached our home, I noticed the windows were dark and closed. Strange. Mrs. Crumble usually flung open the shutters to get air circulating when they were here.

I pushed open the door, calling out, “Elias? Mrs. Crumble?”

Silence greeted me.

“Elias?” I called again, my voice echoing through the empty rooms. The house felt unnaturally still, devoid of the usual bustling energy my son brought with him.

A tendril of worry started to curl in my stomach. Where could they be? Perhaps Mrs. Crumble had taken him to the market for a treat? But she always left a note...

I searched the kitchen, finding nothing but clean dishes and unlit candles. The worry in my gut grew, transforming into a cold, heavy weight. Rushing back outside, I scanned the street, hoping to catch sight of Mrs. Crumble's diminutive form or hear Elias' laughter. But the road was empty save for a few passersby, none of them my son or his caretaker.

“Elias!” I called out, my voice carrying a note of desperation. “Elias, where are you?”

I started down the street, my pace quickening with each step. Had he wandered off? Or… had someone taken him? My blood ran cold, and in a flash, I saw Dregor’s mocking grin, heard Tom’s cryptic threats echoing through my mind. Their words twisted and coiled, tightening around me like a noose.

I broke into a run.