Page 2 of In Darkness Forged

Their presence was a sorely needed source of extra income for the village, and Aislin was determined to take advantage of it in whatever ways she could. Today, for instance, she’d been cleaning and organizing at the inn since sunup. Much as he hated to admit it, Brannic’s wooden leg made it difficult for him to manage the narrow, rickety attic stairs, and he was more than happy to pay Aislin to see to the task.

“Aislin? You finished yet, lass?”

Brannic’s gruff voice echoed up from the second floor of the inn, so Aislin rose to her feet and called back down the stairwell.

“Just a few last things to tidy up, but I’ll be down in a few moments.”

Her gaze flicked around the bare space beneath the high-peaked roof, ensuring that every basket, crate, and barrel was neatly stacked and tucked as far out of the way as possible to make room for the rows of pallets that would soon take their place.

That done, Aislin glanced guiltily down the stairs before creeping into the darkest corner of the attic and opening the trunk that lived there in the shadows—a trunk full of memories, and for Aislin, a treasure chest full of dreams.

There were bits and pieces of armor, riddled with scars and stains. A horseshoe, a sword belt, and leather traveling pouches, the closures stiff with disuse. Three daggers of varying shapes and lengths, a jar filled with arrowheads, and a pot overflowing with coins from the other Thrones and beyond. Inside one pouch was a piece of parchment with a sailing ship painted on it. Inside another was a bottle filled with golden sand.

It was a record, of sorts, of Brannic’s previous life. The former mercenary had once wielded his enormous battle axe from one end of Abreia to the other, but after losing a leg to a battle with night elf raiders, had chosen innkeeping as his new profession.

Why Brannic kept those particular mementos, Aislin had never asked, but he didn’t seem to mind her sorting wistfully through the trunk’s contents, dreaming of places and people she had never seen.

Brannic, at least, seemed happy enough in his new life. Many visitors were initially taken aback by his scars and his looming bulk but were soon won over by clean sheets, warm fires, and a gift for cooking that could be little other than magic.

But Aislin? She couldn’t help dreaming of a far-off future where she would have her own memories of adventures rather than relying on the ghosts of someone else’s. Of a time and place where she would be free to leave the village behind in search of… something.

A commotion from downstairs announced the arrival of visitors, so Aislin closed the trunk with a sigh and wiped her hands on her dusty skirt before descending the stairs, each step wringing creaks and groans from the boards beneath her feet. Her muscles echoed the complaint, but it had been a good day’s work, even if it wasn’t exactly thrilling.

Aislin was honest enough to acknowledge that adventure was unlikely to find her here, in a tiny village on the backside of nowhere. And even if it came… Well, whenever the exciting future she longed for might be, it wasn’t now. She had too many responsibilities.

At the foot of the stairs, she took a sharp right and slipped silently to the end of the hall. There, she took another narrow staircase that ended in the kitchen, where Brannic himself stood at the table in the center of the room, slicing his legendary bacon while throwing orders at the cook and two maids who helped keep the inn running.

All four looked up when Aislin entered the room, and while Brannic smiled and Ilsa offered her a pleasant nod, the other two looked away with pity written across their faces.

She should be used to that reaction by now. Should have long ago accepted that she could do nothing to convince them she had no need of their pity. But somehow, even their silent condolences could still sting.

No one believed her when she said her father was still alive—that he would come home someday. No one listened when she said she would know if he were dead.

Brannic, at least, had never offered her pity or unwanted charity—only work when he had it to spare. Perhaps he did so because of his friendship with her father, but his willingness to employ her had ensured her family’s survival for the past two years, and Aislin would always be grateful.

“You’ve been a great help to me, Miss Aislin,” Brannic said in his low rumbling voice, a pleased smile creasing his face beneath his graying beard. “I don’t know that I’d have dealt with that mess in time without you, and there’s no knowing when the guests will be arriving.”

“Well, I’m thankful for the work,” Aislin returned quietly. “Is there anything else I can do?”

The back door of the inn suddenly blew open as if it had been struck by a gale, and in a sense, it had been.

The tiny human whirlwind that was Marinda stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips.

“Brannic, you great oaf, when are you sending someone over for the supplies you ordered?”

The sole shopkeeper in their little village, Marinda had come from faraway Katal, around the time Aislin was born. Her bronzed skin and curly, dark brown hair may have seemed out of place once, but now she was simply one of them. She was a treasure trove of stories about the world beyond their small mountain valley, and Aislin would miss her greatly if she ever decided to return to the land of her birth.

Brannic, Aislin thought, might miss her even more, but he’d never said anything, and it certainly wasn’t Aislin’s place to point out how he blushed whenever the shopkeeper blew in through his door with her bright eyes and her bustling vitality.

“As soon as I have someone to send, harpy,” Brannic returned, neither of them bristling at the name-calling. It was as close as the two of them ever came to acknowledging their affection.

“Well, you’d best be about it,” Marinda grumbled. “The travelers have passed the crossroads and are making excellent time for a bunch of soft city-dwellers laden with useless frippery.”

No one asked how she knew. The villagers of Brightvale were well acquainted by now with Marinda’s sources, and even Aislin had seen her stand silently in the forest, cheek to wing with wild birds, both large and small.

There were many in the village with such gifts. Old Man Eben, whose teas and tinctures worked better than anyone else’s. Ilsa, who could boil water with a touch. Brannic himself, whose bread always rose perfectly, no matter the weather or the season. To his credit, Lord Dreichel had always valued those with magic and insisted that they use their gifts for the betterment of the entire community.

Aislin was grateful that none of her neighbors were viewed askance for their magic, but there were also times she wished such powers could remain more private and personal, rather than a matter of service and expectation. Her own life, under such circumstances, might have been quite different.

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