I walk between night and day.

Colorless dusk veils the street, so hazy even the lamppost's candlelight is more of a sickly white than its usual golden orange. Cracks splinter through the cobblestones beneath me, the rock slabs worn by years of heavy carts, ironed hooves, and boot clad feet.

On either side loom the houses, each separated by a narrow alley or fence framing a thin, reedy yard. Closed shutters, locked doors, and lights burning faintly in the cracks of each.

I pass by only a handful of people, most already retired to their homes or to the taverns at this hour for a drink. Those of us still wandering don't speak, don't nod our acknowledgement to each other. Well, perhaps others try, but my eyes remain firmly down, my hands balled in the pockets of my jacket.

Slowly, the grays of twilight deepen into evening blues, the defining lines of the cobblestones going vague as the shadows yawn awake.

I make a right down a smaller street.

Creak. Creak. Creak.

Old Mrs. Silva is out on her rocking chair, the weathered thing barely fitting on her tiny porch. It nearly hits the shuttered window behind her every time, but the old woman knows her front yard well and keeps her slippered feet firmly on the wooden slabs beneath her.

"Busy day at the forge, Eleanor?"

She's the only one who calls me by my full name.

"Getting ahead on some orders, Mrs. Silva," I say, continuing past her house. My hands finally leave their pockets to unlatch the black metal gate enclosing my own little yard.

"You skipped supper again, didn't you?"

"No."

Mrs. Silva scowls, then smooths out the quilted blanket covering her lap. "There's a bowl of stew on your kitchen counter."

I stop halfway down my path. "I thought we talked about breaking into my house."

"Did we?" She scratches her chin. "I don't recall."

"Mrs. Silva."

"It's not breaking and entering if you have a key, which I do. Go in. Bathe. You smell like a chimney. Then eat."

I move for the small set of stairs leading to my front door. "I knew giving you a key was a mistake."

"I want my bowl back."

"You'll get your damn bowl."

I pull out a small set of keys from my pocket, unlock the door, and step inside.

Quiet. Dark. Like the whole place has been hollowed out, scraped clean of its heart, its very breath. For a moment, I linger in the doorway, staring down the shadowed hall, waiting for . . . I'm not even sure what.

Then I lock the door behind me, shrug off my coat, and hang it on its hook secured to the wall. I don't look at the empty one waiting beside it.

Nails click against wooden floors, heavy, panting breaths breaking the stillness.

I am only able to lift one corner of my mouth into a smile as the beast finally rounds the corner, his bulk filling the hall as he trots towards me, tail wagging low and mouth parted in a smile.

"Hey, Bear," I put my hands on the dog's massive head as he presses against me, his thick, fluffy coat leaving tufts of hair all along my pants and stained tunic. His weight nearly sends me staggering back into the door as he tries to wind himself through my legs but gets stuck halfway through.

I let out a breath that's almost a laugh as I pat his big side and step around him, moving for the kitchen. Bear follows eagerly.

The silence tries to press down around me, ringing in its empty echo, but Bear's lumbering, clumsy gait and heavy breaths keep it at bay.

There is still life here, I want to tell the house. There is still love.

But it's hard to argue with a house. Especially when I don't even want to be here.

It's why my days working at the forge get longer and longer. It's why I started working shifts waiting tables at the Wounded Thorn even though some days I'm so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open.

I look down at Bear's adoring face, his pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, his russet eyes staring up at me like I am the most magnificent thing to ever walk this earth.

Guilt hooks its fingers along my intestines. He deserves better.

I add two raw eggs to his dinner as a treat and scratch above his shoulder blade as he tears into his meal. "Good dog," I murmur, and hate myself.

My eyes catch on the bowl waiting as promised on the counter, a soft cloth draped over the top and secured with twine, a covered basket just beside it. I lift the flap on the small basket and see that it's stuffed with a loaf of freshly baked bread and several small walnut cakes.

Shaking my head, I let the flap fall closed and move for the doorway.

Bear stops eating, lifting his head as I pass.

"You're just as bad as the old woman," I mutter. "I'll eat it, alright? I'm going to bathe first."

Bear sneezes, then goes back to his dinner.

My aching muscles protest the journey upstairs, and when I reach the top I debate whether or not to just fall into bed.

The door to our . . . to my room is open, nothing but shadows within.

I turn and head into the bathing room, lighting the lamp and stripping off my clothes as I go. I make quick work scrubbing off the soot and sweat and grime from my skin, then step out of the claw foot tub to wrap a coarse gray towel around my dripping body.

An involuntary shiver ripples down my back as water drips from the ends of my short blonde hair curling just past my ears. A hard swallow, another shiver, and I enter the bedroom, toweling off quickly and pulling on some sleep clothes without really looking at them.

When I trudge back downstairs, Bear is waiting for me, ready for a few more scratches before he eyes my own dinner with a pointed glance and lick of his lips.

I force the food down, not bothering to heat it, then let the dog lick up the scraps, and I give him a walnut cake for dessert.

He's going to get fat, Aaren would have complained.

I eye a bottle of wine on the metal rack, my fingers almost reaching for its neck, but my hand falls to my side instead.

"Come on, Bear. Bed."

The dog's tail wags as he pushes past me to thunder up the stairs, his big clumsy paws slipping on the top step. He stumbles, his chin smacking the floor before he scrambles up and trots down the hall, unperturbed by his less than graceful ascent.

I shake my head and follow.

It took me a couple weeks to get him to sleep beside me on the bed, after all the training we'd gone through previously to keep him off of it. I'm grateful for his warmth, for the soothing presence of someone beside me.

An hour I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, eyes aching with exhaustion. Bear rolls over, snorting in his sleep, and kicks me right below my ribs.

Sleep crawls over me slowly, taking its time, and then I sink into blessed oblivion.

. . . . . 

"E-excuse me, ma'am?"

Cringing at the title, I consider continuing to hammer at the molten orange block of iron I have on the anvil before me, pretending I don't hear the meek inquiry. Instead, I glance over at the newly hired girl twisting her hands and wish I remembered her name.

At my look, she swallows and says, "I'm sorry. I know you're not supposed to be disturbed when you're working, but . . . but Alistair left for his lunch, and there's someone here that wants to see you, and I don't know that the protocol is because they won't leave and—"

"Breathe, Yvon," advises Ren from his place at the bellows. Of course he would be bothered to remember the girl's name.

"Sorry," she says.

"It's fine," I rasp, my voice even lower than its usual throaty timber from the dry, boiling air of the forge. A jerk of my head has one of the long time assistants rushing forward to take my place at the anvil, pulling his own hammer from the belt around his waist as I hand over the tongs.

Sweat drips steadily down my back and between my breasts, the long sleeved black tunic I wear over my trousers clinging to my heated skin. I lick my chapped lips and follow the flustered shop girl through the busy forge.

It's as loud as ever, just the way I like it. The hammering of metal striking metal, the roar of the crackling flames and sizzling coals, the rhythmic whoosh of the bellows steadily holding the temperature of the fire.

There isn't room here for straying thoughts. Metalworking is a precise and dangerous craft, requiring every inch of focus and attention.

We step outside the forge, a cool wind immediately rushing to meet my short blonde hair, the sweat slicked strands suddenly cold against my hot neck and ears. I breathe in the smell of promised rain, eyeing the pale gray swaths of clouds above us before we enter the shop.

It's quiet today, and in the silence I realize that my ears are still ringing with the cacophonous rhythm of the forge.

Standing on the other side of the counter is a man I know well. Bald head, a shadow of a beard along his jaw, a practiced, straight stance.

"Korvo."

"Smith."

The shop girl glances at me and tries to hide her confusion, seeing as she knows neither my first nor last name is Smith. I wait for it to occur to her what kind of employer she's working for, but she never puts it together.

Who the hell hired such a daft thing to work in my shop? A look at her pretty face and slim shoulders tells me that Ren most likely had a hand in her selection.

Randy bastard.

"You're two days early," I remind the man before me.

Korvo's lips curve into an almost smile, the expression more menacing than pleasant on the hard lines of his face. "Fifty gold says you've already completed my order."

"I'm not a gambling woman."

"Tell me I'm wrong, then."

A lift of my brow is all he gets from me.

"I've heard about the hours you're pouring into this place. And you're a talented woman. If my order is ready, I'd like to collect."

"You were perfectly capable of discussing this with my shop girl," I point out, jerking my head in her direction and pretending I don't see her flinch. "Why did you drag me out of my forge?"

There's a glint in his dark eyes. Though he'd been subtle, I hadn't missed the way he took in the damp material of my shirt clinging to my body and the collar pulled a bit lower than normal due to the heavy leather apron tied around my front.

I go hollow and sharp all at once.

"To discuss business," Korvo says. "I'd like you to make me something else."

"Again, not worthy of taking me from my work. Placing and collecting orders can be done through my employees."

The man places a hand on the counter, his large frame towering above mine as he gives the shop girl a dismissive look before his eyes move back to mine. "Meekness does not inspire much confidence."

He's not wrong. But I see the shop girl's cheeks and ears redden as her shoulders curl forward, and despite my own opinions of her, that sharpness inside me starts to heat. "She's more than capable of dealing with clients," I say evenly, then meet her gaze. "Please go collect the finished order for Dax Korvo."

Then I send up a prayer as she rushes off that the girl can actually find it, so I don't look like a fool.

Korvo's hand shifts. It's not touching mine, but it's near enough for me to be hyper aware of its presence. One look at his dark eyes, and I know that was his intention. "You're wearing yourself down, Nora."

The back of my neck prickles at the casual use of my name now that the girl is gone. "I'm fine."

"No one would be fine after what you've gone through." The sympathetic shift in his tone is subtle, and if I were an idiot, I would swear it was genuine. "I wouldn't want to see the town's best blacksmith work herself to an early grave. I'd have to offer up my business to Tiberius."

"Tiberius is shit."

"So you can see why I worry."

"What order would you like to place?" I ask, careful to keep my face blank and my hand still.

"A knife," Korvo says after a moment. "Ten inches, serrated steel."

I know the hunter before me has enough knives to arm the entire block. This is an excuse, thinly veiled, and we both know it.

"Very well."

"I don't see a quill or parchment in your hands."

"I have a good memory."

Except when it comes to the names of my employees and assistants, apparently.

The girl returns, breathless and with a sheen of sweat on her pretty face, a slim, rattling box in her hands. She sets it before Korvo on the counter with a forced smile and says, "There you are!"

He waits, and my teeth clench as I reach over to slide the box closer to him, my calloused fingers opening the lid for his inspection. When his hand moves, the edge of his thumb barely brushes against the knuckle of my pointer finger, and I have to clamp down on the urge to snatch my hand back.

Korvo pinches one of the slender steel arrowheads in his fingers and raises it up to the light, turning it this way and that, looking for an imperfection he knows isn't there. "Fine work, Smith. As usual."

"Lydia here made them herself," I say. "I was occupied with the city guard's bulk order."

Korvo looks at me sharply. "That is not what we agreed."

"Is there something defective with your order?" I ask.

His jaw works. There's nothing he can point out that's wrong with those arrowheads. "I put in an order for Eleanor Carver's craft. Not Lydia the shop girl's."

"My sincere apologies. I can offer you a five percent discount on the order you just placed."

The arrowhead he was inspecting is placed back into the box, the lid shut with a fraction more force than necessary. "I will take your absolute assurance that only your hands will touch that knife. A discount is not required."

"You have my word."

"Then our business here is done."

Korvo tucks the box under his arm and places a handful of silver pieces on the counter that the girl hesitantly starts collecting to put in the coin box. His eyes watch her go for a moment before he leans in.

"If it's distraction or solace you seek Nora, you need not throw yourself into the heat of your forge."

My heartbeat accelerates until it gallops past the echoes of hammering still ringing in my ears. I feel my nails dig into the grooves of the wooden counter top, my blood as hot as the molten metal being worked just feet away.

"I seek satisfaction," I say, my voice soft and low. "Which I will find more of here than anywhere else."

Korvo's chin lifts a fraction as his eyes narrow. "A week for the knife?"

"Two," I correct. It will be done by tomorrow, but I don't want to see his face any sooner than I have to.

"Two weeks then."

The girl lets out a shaky sigh when the door to the shop closes behind Korvo's broad back, and I see her fingers tremble as she places the coins in the correct section of the tin box.

I squeeze her shoulder, and she looks up at me, face flushed. But it's not shame I see in her blue eyes. It's anger.

Maybe this girl isn't completely hopeless.

"I'm probably going to be calling you Lydia from now on," I admit.

"You can call me whatever you like, especially if it's around that prick."

I release her shoulder and move for the back door, heading back to the forge. I pause. "Don't believe anything Ren tells you. He's not inheriting my shop, and he's never made a sword."

She snorts. "I may not know anything about smithing, but that I already knew."

. . . . . 

What was all that about?" pants Ren as he works away at the bellows, the burgeoning muscles of his arms glistening in the glow from the embers before him.

"Korvo," I say, adjusting the tool belt slung around my hips. I look over one of the assistant's shoulders as he carefully slides the edge of an annealed blade against the grindstone, his foot tapping at the pedal to keep it going. Satisfied, I move through the forge, watching carefully for any mistakes or blunders.

Ren spits. "I hate that man."

"Spit in my forge again, and you're scrubbing every inch of soot from the floor with your tongue."

"Sorry. And gross. Is Yvon alright? She seemed a bit flustered."

Yvon is her name. Yvon, Yvon, Yvon. "She's fine." I glance over. "Pay attention. You're losing your rhythm."

Ren's arms pump faster to return to his pace as I move past another young man placing a molten sword in the quenching tank, a loud hiss spitting displeasure and steam.

"So I was thinking," starts Ren.

"No. Watch what you're doing."

"I am watching. Aren't you even curious what I was thinking about?"

I stop, giving him an exasperated look from across the forge. "Skirts or swords?"

"Swords. Now, hear me out—"

"Ren, until you produce a decent iron nail, I won't even consider letting you touch anything else. Let the dream of skipping ahead die. Lydia isn't going to be impressed by your crooked little nail," I say. The assistant behind me snorts out a laugh.

Ren frowns. "Who's Lydia?"

Damn it. Yvon.