Chapter Twenty-Two · The Smith Who Refused

At first light, a guard had already led Lyra’s horse into the courtyard.

She ran a hand along its neck, then checked the saddle.

The tall white horse stood with its mane thick as first snow, muscles shifting beneath its pale coat with every breath.

The High Lord stood on the Citadel steps, arms folded, watching.

“Fine horse,” he said. “Good thing I had it brought in and cared for. A little longer at Luminas Inn and it might have started missing you.”

Lyra didn’t answer.

She set her foot in the stirrup and swung up in one clean motion.

From inside her coat, she took the sapphire from her broken blade and tossed it to him.

She had buried the two halves of the sword in the Citadel garden the day before.

“Thank you. For everything,” Lyra said.

He caught the gem and turned it in the early light.

“I paid the reward,” he said. “Triple. Don’t lose it again.”

The corner of Lyra’s mouth lifted, not quite a smile.

Sometimes he was generous.

Other times… less pleasant.

She gave the reins a light pull.

“Goodbye.”

The white horse stepped out of the courtyard.

The distance between them slowly widened.

Cold as ever.

His gaze lingered on her retreating figure.

“Your Highness!”

The High Lord’s voice carried after her.

Lyra drew the reins. The horse stopped. She turned back.

He stood there, his cloak stirring in the early wind.

“Take care.”

Just two words.

Lyra smiled, faint but real. The morning light softened her eyes.

Then she nudged the horse forward. The white horse surged down the stone road, leaving the Citadel behind.

The gates closed at her back.

Her new journey had begun.

She rode on for a while before slowing.

Lyra reined in her horse.

“The High Lord said to follow this road south. It should lead to Igsvar.”

She dismounted and leaned against a tree, taking a moment to rest.

Thud.

Something dropped out of the tree and landed right on her.

They both went down in a tangle, rolling across the ground.

Lyra pushed herself up, blinking, then blurted,

“Sion? Where did you come from?”

Sion winced, rubbing her backside.

“I’ve been up there since morning.”

“I thought you went back to Mining Town.”

“Yeah… I did.”

Sion shrugged.

“Had a couple of meat buns. Played a few rounds of Dice Bones.”

She scratched the back of her head.

“But I figured… it’s less lonely with you.”

She grinned it off.

Lyra looked at her for a moment.

“How did you know I’d be leaving today?”

“Gave the guards a few coins.”

“They said you were still at the Citadel, so I waited up there.”

Sion’s eyes went wide.

Lyra met them and felt a strange warmth, even though they had not known each other long.

“I’m heading to Igsvar.”

“No more gold mining?”

Lyra opened the pouch the High Lord had given her.

Gold coins caught the sunlight—and Sion’s eyes with them.

“Don’t need to.”

“I need a new blade now.”

“Ohh.”

Sion fell quiet for a moment.

She glanced toward the distant Citadel.

Then at Lyra’s white horse.

Back again.

A few times.

Then, softly,

“Can I come with you?”

Lyra nodded.

It would be nice, having company.

Sion was straightforward.

Maybe a little too fond of shiny things.

But she had things Lyra could learn from.

They rode hard from morning until the light bled into dusk.

Ahead, a valley opened between dark red hills.

The smell of hot metal carried on the wind, even from that far out.

Lyra drew the reins. The white horse slowed, then stopped.

“Igsvar.”

The smithing quarter spread across Ironvale below. Dozens of chimneys rose high, spilling thick smoke into the sky.

Clang. Clang.

The ring of metal echoed from the forges.

Sparks burst into the air, flaring bright before dying like red fireflies.

Lyra and Sion led the horse into the streets. The place never seemed to rest.

As the light faded, the quarter began to thin.

Shops closed one by one. Smiths wiped their hands on black rags and banked their fires. The glow in the forges shrank to dull red embers.

They stopped at a shop just as it was closing. Lyra knocked lightly on the wooden door.

“Excuse me… do you know where I can find a smith named Bramor?”

The owner shook his head.

She tried the next shop. Then the next.

No one had an answer.

“It’s getting late,” Sion said. “Let’s find a place to stay.”

Lyra nodded, and they made their way to a small inn.

A few days passed.

The forge streets seemed to learn their footsteps. Lyra and Sion moved from one shop to another, asking the same question, getting the same shake of the head.

Sion walked ahead, shoulders slumped. She moved as if the weight of it all pressed down on her. Every so often, she tipped her head back and sighed.

“It’s so hot…”

She tugged at the collar of her shirt, fanning herself, dragging her feet across the stone road.

“No one knows. You think the High Lord got the name wrong?”

Lyra answered quietly.

“He said Bramor lives somewhere in Ironvale.”

Sion made a face.

“Yeah… he says a lot of things.”

She let out another sigh. Longer this time.

Lyra didn’t answer. But something in her began to waver.

If Bramor truly lived here, someone should have heard the name.

But there was nothing. Not a single lead.

Sion stopped, hands on her hips.

“If he’s not here, we go somewhere else.”

Lyra gave a small nod.

Her thoughts remained fixed on Bramor.

They had just turned a corner when a shout cut through the street.

“Get lost! Who said you could sell here?”

A thin boy was pinned in the road by two rough-looking men. Beside him stood a small wooden cart piled with pots and pans.

One of the men kicked a wheel hard. The cart lurched to one side.

Clatter.

Pots and pans spilled across the stone.

The boy dropped to gather them.

“Please… don’t break my things…”

The bigger man snarled.

“This is our ground. Brats don’t get to sell here.”

Lyra reined in. Sion shrank back behind her.

“That’s… kind of scary…”

Lyra was already off the horse.

“Hey—” Sion reached out. “Lyra—”

Too late.

Lyra was already there.

She grabbed the cart and hauled it upright, then knelt to help the boy gather the fallen pots.

She turned to the men, her voice cold.

“He’s just a street vendor. Leave him alone.”

The bigger man wiped his nose.

“This area costs coin. If he sells here for free, how do we pay the boss?”

“How much?”

“Two gold a year.”

Lyra reached into her pouch, drew two coins, and tossed them over.

“Leave the boy alone.”

The thinner one snatched a coin and bit down on it.

“Real gold.”

They exchanged a look, then backed off without another word.

Lyra glanced at the boy’s hands—thin and calloused, the kind shaped by metalwork.

A small hope flickered.

“Hey. Do you know a smith named Bramor?”

The boy looked up.

“Bramor… he’s my father.”

“Wait—Bramor?” Sion blurted from behind.

Lyra’s face lit at once.

“Really? Where is he?”

The boy pointed toward the mountain in the distance.

“Up there. But he doesn’t see strangers.”

Sion hurried over, leading the horse.

“Why not?”

The boy hesitated. Smudges of soot still marked his cheek.

“I… don’t know.”

Lyra brushed the soot away with her thumb.

“Take us to him. I promise we won’t cause trouble.”

The boy gave a small nod and pushed the cart ahead.

Pots clinked softly as the wheels rolled over the uneven stone.

Lyra and Sion led the horse behind him.

They left the crowded forge streets. The hammering faded behind them.

The road began to climb. The earth turned deep red beneath their feet.

Jagged rocks lined the path, mixed with heaps of black slag piled in low mounds.

Sion glanced at the boy, who had not spoken a word the whole way.

“Hey… what’s your name?”

“Orin.”

One word. Flat.

Lyra nudged Sion lightly and shook her head.

The path narrowed as they followed the mountain’s edge. Wind rose from the valley, carrying the smell of dry grass and cooling metal.

After a while, both girls slowed.

“Do you hear that?”

Somewhere ahead, a low sound echoed through the rocks.

Clang…

Silence stretched.

Then again—

Clang…

Not the rapid rhythm of the forge district. Slower. Heavier. Each strike placed with care.

“We’re close,” Orin said softly.

They rounded a bend.

A low house sat at the foot of the mountain. Its roof was patched with dark metal plates, its walls built from rough-cut stone. A small forge stood beside it.

No sign. No weapons on display.

Just a few worn horseshoes on a stone block, a couple of plow blades leaned against the wall, and a heavy hammer resting beside the anvil.

Inside the forge, the fire burned red.

A man stood with his back to them.

Broad as a cliff, gray hair tied at the nape. He raised a heavy hammer and brought it down.

Clang.

Sparks burst like red fireflies in the dim.

Lyra’s eyes flicked to the metal on the anvil. One look at the color of the steel, at the way the fire held it, and she knew this was no ordinary smith.

The boy stopped the cart in the yard.

“Father.”

The hammer paused midair.

Silence settled.

Then the man turned.

“I don’t take customers.”

The words landed. She let them.

She had come too far to turn back now.