Page 13

Farron

I wipe a bead of sweat off my brow, despite the mild weather. Maybe it’s the constant clang of machinery, the giant mountain that looms over the city, or the clouds of smoke billowing from the forge, but there’s something about Florendel, the capital city of the Spring Realm, that makes me nervous.

I know it’s not the machines, the mountain, or the smoke that sends my pulse skittering, though. It’s the person I need to speak to inside the forge.

The entrance to Draconhold Forge stands before me, a jagged opening that leads to the mountain tunnels within.

I know the inside is akin to a beehive; hundreds of skilled workers craft the steel that’s imported throughout the realms. We trade our lumber and bountiful harvests for their craftsmanship.

After leaving Hadria, my usual routine resumed in Coppershire.

My family had been home for several fortnights before my mother wished to visit Florendel and asked me to accompany her.

She claims it’s a diplomatic mission, but I know she loves to visit Spring simply to catch up with her oldest friend, the High Princess Isidora.

Though I’ve visited Florendel countless times, Spring’s High Princess always proves an imposing sight.

Every time, she greets us from her throne, crafted of helms of the past High Rulers.

I feel perpetually shrunken beneath the shadowed stare of her helm.

However, once she and my mother retire to the study for discussion, they end up cackling away like two schoolgirls.

The Royal Family of Spring never removes their helms in front of anyone.

On the way here, I asked Mother if she’d ever seen Isidora’s face, and despite years of friendship, she said no, of course not.

Then, she’d leaned in close and whispered that when the two of them are alone in the study, sometimes Isidora will lift her helm the smallest bit so she can take a sip of coffee.

Mother said those slight glimpses of her jaw and mouth are sweeter than honey.

I’d much rather have been sitting in the study, drinking coffee, eating polvorones, and listening to Mother and Isidora gossip about the latest fashion trends in Summer or the marriageability of the young Winter Prince than have been sent off to the forge like an errand boy.

“Your lance is nearly complete,” Isidora had gushed to my mother earlier.

“My son is completing the final inspection of it today. He’ll be in the forge.

Farron, be a good lad and go fetch it. Your mother and I have much to discuss.

” Then they’d started giggling again, a sound quite foreign from my mother’s lips.

“I don’t know the way,” I’d hedged.

Isidora had waved her hand. “I’ll send my lady-in-waiting to show you.”

Now, I stand before the gaping maw of the forge, throat tight.

“Well, what are you hesitating for, boy?” Isidora’s lady-in-waiting asks. “There ain’t no dragons inside! Get in there!”

I turn to the lady-in-waiting, a voluptuous red-faced woman with bouncy blond curls. Normally, I’d correct someone for not addressing me by my proper title, but there’s something about this woman that makes me think I shouldn’t cross her. “It’s not dragons I’m worried about,” I grumble.

“The prince will be working the Great Forge. Straight through. You won’t be able to miss it,” the lady-in-waiting says.

That’s who I’m worried about. The prince.

There’s two of them. The eldest isn’t so bad.

He acts like I don’t exist, which is fine by me.

But the youngest… I suppress a shiver. There’s a quality to him that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Please, oh please, oh please, let it be the older brother.

Gulping, I turn to the lady-in-waiting. “Will you come with me, Ma—uh—Mary…”

“ Marigold! ” she snaps. “And you best remember it, boy. No, I don’t go in there.” She primps her ridiculously bouncy curls. “The soot affects my hair. You’re a tough lad! Get in there!”

With that, she gives me an unceremonious shove on the back, and I stumble into the forge.

Heat and darkness swallow me as I step within Draconhold.

I peer through the gloom. Bursts of bright orange light erupt on either side as workers stoke the massive forges, their hammers ringing out in a symphony of metal against metal.

An acrid scent fills the cavernous space.

Shadows dance across the walls, revealing glimpses of machinery and runes etched into the foundation.

There’s a scholar in the Scriptorium who can decipher Spring’s runes and even speaks several of their unique languages. I’d like to learn one day.

Ahead, the Great Forge looms, a colossal structure that dominates the heart of Draconhold.

Flames roar within its depths, casting an eerie glow that bathes the chamber in a fiery hue.

A lone figure stands at the forge, only their silhouette visible, hammering on an object that gleams bright orange. Sparks fly with each strike.

My throat tightens. I can make out the silhouette now, a tall man who’s wearing breeches covered in black smudges, a tight, sleeveless undershirt, and a leather apron.

And the helm, of course.

What color is it? What color, what color?

The man looks up from his work as I approach, and I breathe a sigh of relief. A silver helm. Not black. It’s the eldest brother.

Prince Ezryn.

My whole body relaxes as I realize I won’t have to have a painfully awkward experience with Kairyn, the younger brother. Now, I can just have a painfully awkward experience with Ezryn. Still embarrassing, but at least I won’t feel like he wants to dismember me during the conversation.

Ezryn goes back to his work. This is the first time I’ve seen him without a full suit of armor.

His arms bulge with each hammer swing, the muscles in his back rippling.

His tawny skin is slick with sweat and smeared with oil.

It’s a wonder his mother hasn’t paraded him around the marriage mart yet; I’m sure there’ll be a line of suitors for the heir to the throne of Spring.

I walk up beside the forge and stand uncomfortably for what feels like eons. Ezryn doesn’t look up again, merely continuing his relentless barrage against the red-hot sword before him. I wonder if he’s seen me at all. He can see out of that helmet, can’t he?

I wait another minute, then another, until the heat and clatter are too much for me to bear.

I fake a cough.

Ignored.

I fake a louder cough.

Ignored.

Finally, I step forward, leaning down so my face is close to the sword and wave. “Excuse me? Prince Ezryn?”

The hammer clangs one final time against the molten metal, then the Spring Prince places it to the side. His whole body stills, and I gulp. He feels like a predator, preparing to strike.

“Do you know how dangerous it is to be near an active forge without proper eye protection?” His voice reverberates from the helm.

I straighten and take a step back. “Uh, my name is Fare. Farron. Prince Farron. Of Autumn. I’m here to get?—”

Ezryn turns his back on me, and I hold up my hands to prove I’m not actually invisible.

He reaches into a large chest and pulls out a gleaming lance. “A gift from Spring to the High Princess of Autumn. I forged this with my very hands. It is of the finest quality and will see Her Highness to victory in many battles.”

“Great.” I reach for it, but Ezryn yanks it back toward his body.

“Careful,” he says coolly. “It’s heavy.”

What, because he’s rippling with muscles and can work a forge and wears armor most of the time, he doesn’t think that I can manage a lance? I narrow my gaze and hold my hands out for it.

Ezryn gives the slightest shrug of his shoulders then passes the weapon with one hand. I grab it with two. Immediately, the weight of it drags my whole body down, and its hilt slams on the stone ground, the sound ringing out in the din.

I can’t see Ezryn’s expression, but I get the distinct feeling he’s scowling at me. Giving a sheepish grin, I hoist the lance up over my shoulder and turn to leave. “Thanks.”

When I’m a few steps away, I hear his voice call out: “I can make you one, Prince Farron, if you wish.”

I turn back. “I’ve got weapons in Autumn. Lots of them. Swords and bows and shields and, uh, flails, yeah, we’ve got those too?—”

“The heir to the Autumn throne should wield a weapon of distinction,” Ezryn says, words ringing out between the clangs of his hammer. “I crafted the blade that Keldarion of Winter wields, as well as various weapons for the three sons of Summer.”

And just like that, with that single word, it all comes flooding back.

Summer.

The taste of salty ocean and sun-kissed skin. Sand, white as sugar, and water so reflective, I could make out the flecks of color in his eyes.

The Autumn Equinox came and went, and his whole family arrived, but Dayton wasn’t there.

I had begged and pleaded the staff to contact the head-of-house in Winter to see if he’d confirmed his attendance for the upcoming Winter Solstice event in Frostfang.

Again, his whole family said they’d be there, except for him.

I’ve written letters that have gone unanswered. Stalked our tradesfolk for any update when they return from Hadria. My mother has begun grumbling it was a mistake to ever suggest this match at all.

Is Dayton avoiding me? Or maybe he’s ill. I should go to him. Nurse him back to health. Or maybe he hates me, and I’d been a nuisance all along, one he was glad to be rid of.

Every day we’ve been apart, I’ve felt sick with longing for him. Like he kept a piece of me with him. I thought what we had meant more, especially after our night together on the isle. But it’s like he’s forgotten me.

I realize too long has passed since Ezryn asked me about the sword.. He’s laid his hammer down and now sits on a stone bench, with a different sword and a whetstone in hand. I like the way I can’t tell if he’s looking at me through the helm, how I don’t feel pressured to respond to him.

Dragging my feet, I shuffle up to the bench, lean the lance on the edge, then sit down beside Ezryn. He stiffens but goes back to sharpening the blade.

“Ezryn?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Ezryn?”

“Yes?” he says gruffly.

“Your parents…they’re fated mates, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Have they ever talked about what it’s, you know, like ?”

“Not really.”

I sigh. “Not even a little bit?”

Ezryn is silent for a few moments, the only sound the ting of the stone against the edge of the blade.

Then he says lowly, “My mother believes in the old legends. That the souls of fae are born from matter of the heavens. That the hearts of fated mates fell from the same star. Though she doesn’t speak of such things, I see the way she is with my father.

” Ezryn puts the sword and whetstone to the side, then turns to me, holding my gaze within the dark visor of his helm.

“When they are with one another, it is to me as if they are part of the same constellation. Living starlight.”

I hold my breath. Is that what I feel for Dayton? Like there’re threads of starlight connecting us?

“Do you believe there’s someone like that out there for you?” I ask.

Ezryn gives a low laugh. “I fear whatever star I’ve been cast from has not borne a heart suitable for such a thing.”

“Mine neither,” I mumble. Because even if I do feel all those things for Dayton, what does it matter? He can’t even attend a party or respond to a letter.

Ezryn puts a hand on my shoulder. It’s so strong and firm, I shrink beneath the weight. “You should return to Keep Hammergarden with the lance. Don’t fret over the issue of fated mates or starlight. It is a phenomenon rarer than the most precious jewel; to wish for it is madness.”

I stand and grab the lance. “You’re right. Thanks, Ezryn.”

Thinking about fated mates is madness, and pretending I might be connected to Dayton like that is even crazier. There’s nothing tying us together but my own obsession.

I need to forget about the Prince of Summer before it breaks me apart.