The warlord will return in two weeks’ time. I’ve reheated the sword more times than I can count, trying to will magic into the blade.
Nothing is taking, because I have no idea what I want the sword to do.
I have made daggers that shatter anything with which they come into contact, a mace that steals the breath from those surrounding it, a longsword that knocks nearby attackers off their feet when struck against the ground, a halberd that calls forth the power of the wind, blinding any enemies.
Countless weapons with countless magical properties—and then, when the most important client of my career comes to me?
Nothing.
I’m useless.
I pull the sword out with a pair of tongs and set it on the anvil. A breeze from the windows stirs the wisps of hair that have come free from my ponytail, and I close my eyes at the brief relief.
The fire-bright tip of the broadsword grows darker as the metal cools, and I wonder how many more times I’ll have to reheat it before inspiration strikes.
“Get out of the road!”
My eyes lift to the windows, where I see a man swerve around a horse-drawn cart. The shouting owner of the cart turns her voice down low to coo at the horses. Meanwhile the man turns to glare after her.
I don’t recognize him from this angle, but that’s not saying much. I hardly know anyone in the city, because I never leave my forge if I can help it.
The man lifts his head heavenward, as though to ask the Sister Goddesses just what the world has come to.
Then he turns, facing my forge, his eyes meeting something above the line of windows.
And I nearly drop my hammer.
Because the man, whoever he is, is—is beautiful.
There’s no other word for him.
He’s tall—a whole head over me. Golden-red locks hang down to his shoulders, the top half secured in a band at the back of his head. The shade is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. He wears an impressive longsword on his back. Not one of mine, but the sheer size of it is a testament to his strength.
Though his figure is intimidating, there’s something about his face that belies that. His features are smooth, gentle almost. So inviting.
And very pleasing to the eye.
I don’t know what’s happening. I feel like something’s been lodged in my throat. I can’t stop staring at the stranger, and liquid heat seems to be moving through my veins.
I almost want to …
I want to touch him.
I’m startled by the unfamiliar thought almost as much as I am by the fact that I’ve inadvertently whispered the words aloud.
A flare of heat hits me from below. Confusion and wariness and some powerful unfamiliar feeling all battle for dominance within me. But the broadsword demands my attention.
It’s … pulsing.
But in the time it takes me to draw my next breath, it stops, and the temperature spike disappears. I look back out the window to find the man moving on.
I just stand there, breathing. But I can see the red-haired man in my vision perfectly, and another wave of heat that has nothing to do with the sword rolls through me.
What is this?
The faintest sprinkling of magic pulls on me from below, and I force myself to wipe the stranger from my memory.
I consider the weapon carefully. It’s as if I’ve started the magicking process but not finished it. What was it I’d said right before the weapon pulsed?
“I—I want to touch him,” I repeat, my cheeks heating.
Nothing happens.
I raise my hammer and bring it down against the hot metal, but before the two can meet, the hammer bounces back up, despite not quite making contact. Intrigued, I try again.
It’s resisting my blows.
Now why would it do that?
All right. What I’d done was say something about the man who wandered past my windows. Perhaps if I try that again?
“He’s quite tall,” I whisper. “With beautiful hair.”
Nothing happens. No pulse of heat.
So it wasn’t talking specifically about the man that did it.
“It’s hot in here,” I say, trying for another fact, but that obviously does nothing for the sword.
Think harder.
What I’d done was whisper a thought I had aloud. I told it to the blade.
No, not just any thought.
A private thought.
A secret.
“After Temra goes to bed, I sometimes sneak extra sweets from storage.”
The blade glows white, and a flare of heat rises like before.
Thrilled, I tell the sword more. “I wish I could be more like my sister. She’s so fearless and outgoing. I envy that.” I plunge the sword back into the fire to make the steel more pliable. More prepared for my secrets.
“She doesn’t remember Mother or Father. When she asks about them, I lie and say I don’t remember, either, because it’s too painful to talk about them.”
Weights lift from my shoulders as I unburden myself on the sword, whispering all the secrets I can think of. Nothing particularly scandalous. I don’t get out enough for that, but I tell it the secrets of my mind.
“I worry all the time that I haven’t done a good enough job raising Temra. She deserves her mother, not me.”
The secrets of my heart.
“I wish I weren’t so alone. I love my sister, but sometimes I long for more. A partner. Someone to spend my life with. But I’ve never felt strongly about anyone. I’ve never even felt attracted to anyone.”
At that word, the handsome stranger blazes in my memory. I realize all at once what I’d been feeling when I saw him.
Attraction.
Goddesses, is that what it feels like?
Why now? Why him?
But the sword isn’t done with me yet. I can feel it. So I press on.
“I would rather die than talk to a stranger one-on-one. I can build the fiercest weapons the world has ever seen, but force me to talk about something other than weaponry with people I don’t know, and I won’t survive. But I long to have someone in my life. Someone to share my burdens with. Someone to love.”
The secrets of my soul.
“I want my parents back so fiercely. If I ever find out who murdered them, I will kill them myself.”
That one surprises me, even as I say it. Because it’s true.
I abhor violence. I make my magical weapons to discourage violence. Only a fool would cross swords with a magical blade.
And yet, if I were to learn who took my parents from me, all those beliefs about violence would go right out the window.
Truth after truth spills from my lips, rushing out of me and into the sword. I don’t know how long I stand there. Hours maybe? But my voice turns raspy, the flames die down, and my mind feels so serene. As if the sword has taken the burden of my secrets upon itself.
When I can think of no more to say, I thrust the blade into a bucket of water. The liquid instantly evaporates, and I have to jump back from the onslaught of steam or be burned by it. The bucket cracks in two, and the sword drops from my grip.
The glaring white glow is so intense for a moment, I have to shield my eyes. When that subsides, I can do no more than stare at the sword, watching it hum from the dirt floor.
I do not fear it exactly, but something about this weapon feels different than the others I’ve made. Perhaps because I put more of myself into it? It’s heavier than it was when it only consisted of steel, the weight of my secrets adding to the bulk of it.