Page 26

Chapter 25

A dull thud echoed outside my window, pulling me from a restless sleep. I blinked, disoriented, the soft light of dawn seeping through the curtains, chasing away the remnants of an all-too-brief slumber. For a moment, I lay still, willing myself to sink back into sleep, but the sounds from below—the scrape of something heavy being dragged, the occasional clatter of metal—tugged me fully awake.

I rubbed my eyes, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me. The night before had stretched long into the early hours as I sat hunched over the small wooden desk in my cramped room, scribbling ideas onto parchment. My fingers had been smudged with charcoal as I sketched, erasing and redrawing, lost in a flurry of inspiration. I could still see the remnants of those late-night sketches scattered across the desk, plans for a new forge. I'd written out a list of tools, materials, and costs, every number circled in red ink, the coins Lady Hargrave had given me carefully budgeted next to my meager savings.

But when I finally dragged myself to bed, the doubts had crept in. Could I really do this? Could I rebuild, not just the forge but... everything?

The thud outside repeated, louder this time, shaking me from my thoughts. I groaned, pushing myself upright. Wrapping a shawl around my shoulders, I padded to the window.

Below, the wreckage of the forge was still a charred mess, but there—amidst the ruin—Vorgath moved with quiet determination. He stood shirtless, sweat already glistening on his chest in the early morning light. In his hands, he gripped a large beam of wood, muscles flexing as he tossed it into a growing pile of debris. Another dull thud followed as the beam landed heavily.

I felt my breath catch for a moment. He was... relentless.

And so damn sexy.

With the distance between us the last few days, it had been easy for me to push aside memories of our night together. But now, looking down at him, sweat slicking his torso and muscles shifting with every precise, powerful movement—I found myself remembering everything. His hands on me, the heat of his breath near my ear. The way his mouth had claimed mine, hot and desperate. The way he had filled me so completely...

My throat went dry.

I swallowed hard, pressing my fingertips to the cool glass of the window as if it could somehow pull me back from the surge of heat rushing through my body.

But the memories only flooded in faster. The way he had looked at me, like I was the only thing that mattered in the world. His voice, rough and hoarse, murmuring my name as if it was sacred. The way his body had moved over mine, between mine, as if we were forged together in that moment.

Damn him.

I should go down there. Help. Do something besides stand here like an idiot watching him. But the thought of facing him after everything that had passed between us... Seven save me, I wasn’t ready.

Lady Hargrave's words from the day before echoed in my mind. “You're brave, Soraya.”

I snorted softly. Brave? I didn't feel brave. I felt terrified. But maybe that was the point. Bravery wasn't about feeling fearless—it was about doing what needed to be done, even when I was scared out of my mind.

And right now, what needed to be done was down there, in the ashes of my old life.

“Damn it all,” I muttered.

My boots were by the door, and I pulled them on with more force than necessary, as if I could stomp out my doubts along with my feet.

Before I could lose my nerve, I marched down the stairs and out the back door. The crisp morning air hit me like a slap, chasing away the last cobwebs of sleep and indecision. I strode toward the ruins of the forge, my steps growing more determined with each crunch of ash beneath my feet.

Vorgath turned as I approached, his expression unreadable.

I cleared my throat, willing my voice to sound steadier than I felt. “What are you doing here?”

Vorgath shrugged, tossing another piece of debris onto the pile. “Choosing.”

And with that single word, I was back in that night, but not the heat and thrill of it. The deeper part, the part I’d almost managed to bury. The choice we’d made to be together and what that meant to him. To me.

He was here, despite everything falling apart, despite every excuse I’d given him to walk away. Here he was, standing in the ruins, proving it to me.

A spark of defiance rose in me, mingling with a fear I hated to admit. “I don’t need anyone to do this for me,” I insisted. “I can handle it on my own.”

His gaze flickered to me, his brow arching slightly, but he didn’t stop working. “Never said you couldn’t.”

“So you’re going to just… keep showing up?” I asked, my voice unsteady despite myself.

Vorgath straightened up, rolling his shoulders. “Yes.”

“How do you even know I want to do anything with it?” I asked stubbornly “What if I’m too tired to rebuild? What if I just... can’t?”

His expression shifted, a flicker of pain passing over his face before he spoke. “Whatever you choose, I’ll be here.”

“And if I decide to burn it all down again?” I whispered, barely able to meet his gaze.

“Then I’ll bring the flint,” he said.

His hands stilled at his sides, covered in soot. Those hands had shaped steel, carried burdens, fought in wars, and yet, they were steady now. Waiting. Giving me time to decide. He wasn’t pressing, wasn’t pushing me to be anything but what I was—scared, uncertain, but standing here with him anyway.

He took a slow step toward me. His hand lifted, hesitating for just a second before he brushed a smudge of soot from my cheek. His touch was warm, rough against my skin, and I leaned into it, the tension in my shoulders easing as his thumb gently traced the edge of my cheekbone.

I turned my face into his hand, pressing a soft kiss to his palm, letting my eyes drift closed as I stayed there, letting him hold me. For the first time in days, the world felt steady again, his hand grounding me in a way that words never could. I could feel his pulse beneath my lips, steady and unshaken, like an unspoken promise.

His thumb brushed a little slower, lingering just at the corner of my mouth, and for a moment, I almost forgot about the ashes around us, about the ruins of what we’d lost.

Then, a sound carried from down the path—a faint chorus of gruff voices and the unmistakable rhythm of boots crunching against gravel.

“Ah.” Vorgath’s hand dropped back to his side, and he gave a small nod, gesturing over my shoulder. “Reinforcements are here.”

I turned, following his gaze.

There, framed in the broad opening of the gate, stood Grimble Ironfoot, his bushy, fiery red beard as unmistakably bright as the morning sun itself. Behind him trailed an assortment of dwarves, their short, sturdy figures and gruff attitudes instantly recognizable, hauling everything from hammers to planks of wood and stacks of stone.

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.