Page 28 of Savage Devotion
"One of them."
The others died with Mother.
I place the ingot in the forge's heart, where volcanic heat begins its transformative work. The metal glows white-hot within moments, reaching temperatures that would destroy normal iron before it becomes workable.
This is meditation. This is prayer. This is the closest thing to magic that doesn't require incantations.
Pure creation through controlled destruction.
"Why show me this?" Kaelgor asks.
The question deserves honesty, even if the truth reveals more than I'm comfortable sharing.
"Because I'm tired of pretending to be something I'm not."
Military commander. Dutiful niece. Heir to traditions I never chose.
I am a smith. A creator. Someone who makes things rather than breaks them.
"Heldrik expects me to lead like he does. Command through fear and discipline. Treat weapons as tools and people asresources." I work the bellows, increasing the forge's heat until the volcanic ore reaches malleability. "But that's not who I am."
"Who are you?"
Good question.
Still figuring it out.
"Someone who left her House because she couldn't become what they wanted her to be."
The admission costs more than I expected. Family loyalty runs deep in Vaelmark blood, and acknowledging that I chose exile over compliance feels like betrayal even now.
But it's true.
I walked away rather than let them shape me into another Heldrik.
"What did they want?"
"A weapon. A marriage alliance with House Threnwick to secure territorial claims and military support." The volcanic ore reaches perfect working temperature, and I lift it from the flame with practiced precision. "Political expedience disguised as family obligation."
Arranged betrothal to Cousin Garrett. Military strategist. Capable commander. Absolute bore.
The man who sees marriage as a tactical advantage rather than a personal connection.
Like Heldrik sees everything.
I carry the glowing metal to the anvil, where the real work begins. The first strikes must be precise. Volcanic ore forgives no mistakes. Too much force and it shatters. Too little and it hardens beyond salvage.
Balance. Always balance.
The hammer falls in steady rhythm, each blow calculated to disperse heat while gradually shaping the metal toward its intended form. Sparks fly with each impact, creating brief constellations that die before they reach the ground.
Beautiful and dangerous.
Like most worthwhile things.
"Mountain-steel forging is different," Kaelgor says, watching my technique with professional interest.
"How?"
