Ch. 32

“Bound by Steel”

I turn to see a man emerging from the back, wiping soot from his face with a rag, his gaze warm but keen. For a moment, I’m unsure if I should hide my fascination with the opal blade, as if it’s a mirror I wasn’t supposed to look into. The man’s eyes linger on the dagger, and I wonder if he sees something of me in my grip, in the way I hold it with a sense of both belonging and distance.

He stands before me like a wall of muscles and soot, a large, stocky man with a presence that fills the room as he is part of the very stone and metal around him. Built like an ox, his broad shoulders, and powerful arms speak of years spent forging, shaping, and battling raw elements. His head is bald, catching glints of light from the forge, with a thick, unmanageable bread, threaded with ash of soot, cascades down his chest. I imagine the beard was once a deep black, though the years have dusted it with silver — and, more recently, streaks of charcoal from a lifetime by the fire.

His eyes are dark, almost hidden brown, the kind that pulls you in yet refuses to reveal much. They peer out from beneath bushy brows, nearly swallowed by the soot that seems permanently etched into his skin. It is as if the fire has marked him as one of its own. The layers of ash make him look almost like a statue that has come to life, raw, and weathered by time, heat, and the weight of his craft.

“I have been trained by some highly skilled people.” I offer a small smile and set the dagger gently back on the table, feeling its weight leave my finger reluctantly, as though some part of me isn’t quite ready to let go. The man’s eyes follow my movement, tracing the line of my arm back to my face, studying me with an intensity that makes me feel barren.

For a moment, he pauses, wiping his face with the rag, smudging rather than cleaning away the soot. His eyes sharpen, his expression hardening into something that feels almost challenging. I freeze, my pulse ticking faster. His scrutiny feels heavier than the metal around us, loaded with a knowledge he is keeping close to his chest. I swallow, trying to mask the slight tremor in my hands as I start to turn, putting one step in front of the other toward the entrance. If he senses the restlessness in my shoulders, the cold rising under my skin, he says nothing.

I can’t use my powers. Just stay calm.

“Are you Zeva’s daughter?” His voice cuts through the silence, low, and steady, but with an edge that makes me stop in my tracks.

I turn slowly, meeting his dark, and his face remains impassive. But something moves in his expression as his gaze drops slightly, lingering on my braid as though it holds some secret he is trying to unravel. It is just a braid, wrapped tightly around my head to keep my hair out of my face, but the way he is looking at it — and then at me — makes me feel like I am missing something, like he is searching for traces of someone else in me, someone I’m not sure he should find.

A faint, unreadable change crosses his face. His eyes soften, or perhaps I only imagine it, but there’s something warmer there, an old recognition that he seems hesitant to let reach his mouth. Then, almost imperceptibly, the tension in his shoulders eases, and a small smile tugs at his lips, as though he has arrived at some silent conclusion.

He strides toward the table with the daggers, his movements smooth yet powerful, and something in his bearing now feels deliberately muted. I didn’t notice it at first, hidden as he is under layers of soot and grime, but as he draws closer, a faint dark-blue hue glimmers beneath the ash. His skin tinged with deep blue, almost like a hidden gemstone, and his ear taper to a point. My breath catches — I should have recognized him as Fae from the beginning, especially with the uncanny sharpness in his eyes, but exhaustion must have dimmed my senses.

I make a mental note, even the most powerful creatures in this world can choose to blend in, to hide themselves in plain sight. Cybses is no simple blacksmith. This is a man with ancient blood, a heritage that connects him to lands and powers I know only through Mother’s careful, selective stories. And for a Fae to live in this small mortal town, obscuring his true nature — that, too, must mean something.

He picks up the dagger with the carved scene of a moonlit forest, turning it in his hands, the etched pick shine of the crystal blade flashing in the shop’s dim light. When he looks back at me, his smile is warm, though there’s a hint of something calculation in his gaze.

“I didn’t know Zeva had children,” he says, his eyes lingering on my face as if tracing a map he once knew well. “But you look just like her.” His smile widens briefly, then falters, as though recalling something he would prefer not to remember. “Your mother has done so much for me and my family.”

The words, laden with a mix of gratitude and a hint of something else — indebtedness, maybe? — sets off a wave of unease in me. Mother’s alliances have always felt transactional, shadowed by motives I have never fully grasped. What kind of help would Cybses, a high Fae hiding among mortals, have needed from her?

I catch the faint sound of laughter from the open door that leads into his workshop. Children’s voices, joyful and trusting. His family. It strikes me that, for all his power and guardedness, there are people he cherishes, people he keeps hidden in this quiet life he had craved out for himself. It is protecting them from someone, or from some old debt that might still haunt him?

He holds out the dagger to me, its hilt turned toward me, the polished pink crystal shining as it catches the light from the large broad window at the front of the shop. His face softens as he looks at it, then at me.

“Take it,” he says, a gentleness in his tone that makes me wonder if this is some form of apology or gratitude for whatever silent history he shares with Mother. “Consider it a gift.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, fingers hovering just above the hilt. I see something shift in his gaze, something unreadable, as he nods.

I take the dagger, feeling its weight as I test it, flipping it between my hands. It is balanced, perfectly crafted. Light enough to throw, but solid enough that no simple deflection would knock it from my grip. Impressive for a blade with a crystal blade, clearly, Cybses’ skill goes far beyond what meets the eye.

As I tuck it carefully into my belt, Cybses’ eyes linger on me, and I feel an undercurrent in his gaze, as if he is searching for something — perhaps a spark of understanding that he thinks I should have but don’t. A strange tension hangs between us, charged with unspoken words and guarded secrets, until his expression softens once more, a serene smile spreading across his face. But I can’t shake the feeling that he has marked me in some way, that by accepting this dagger, I have crossed an invisible line in a world I barely understand.

“Can I ask you a question?” Curiosity, my own fatal flaw. It is that same need to know that keeps me teetering the edge of danger and control.

Cybses glances up, his expression shifting into one of interest, a slight arch in his brow. “Sure,” he says, reaching behind the counter for his rag, dabbing at the soot on face with practiced ease.

“Is it hard, living in Faymore?”

I watch him closely as I speak, searching for any subtle changes. Now that I know, I can’t unsee it — he is part of the Fae. High or low, I couldn’t say. The world of Fae is as mysterious to me as the Endless Forest itself, vast and filled with hidden threats and wonders I have only heard of in snippets, usually warnings. All I know are the basics, enough to recognize his kind, to identify the dark blue undertone of his skin and the faint points of his ears. There is a power to him, one that lingers just under the ash and soot, a deep, earthly strength that subtly fills the air. It is in the way he moves, almost seamlessly, as though each step flows with an inherent rhythm, nothing wasted, nothing amiss.

I have seen what even a hint of my power does to people. Just me scent — unmasked by ash or smoke — is enough to send villagers scattering, their expressions twisted in fear. But Cybses? He’s respected, revered, even welcomed here in ways I could never imagine for myself.

He pauses, as if gauging the weight of my question. When he finally meets my gaze, there is something in his eyes that feels like pity. A flicker, barely there, but I see it. He masks it quickly with a practiced smile, but the glance lingers, making my stomach clench.

“I am a mental wielder,” he says, and I detect a hint of pride in his voice, “and not just with a hammer. It is a gift, one that people value. “Besides,” he adds, almost casually. “I am the best blacksmith in this region. My work is trusted by many.

I force a smile, hoping he doesn’t notice the ache that suddenly forms in my chest. A pang of jealous stirs. To have powers that people admire, that bring them security and respect, not the recoil of terror I have grown used to. I can’t help but imagine what it must be like for him, to be welcomed openly, to feel like he belongs without needing to hide.

The front door creaks open, interrupting my thoughts. Devlyn’s wine-red hair appears as she steps inside, her gaze settling on me with that look he gets when I have wandered off longer than intended. Our eyes meet, and I feel a wave of calm steady me.

“Thanks, again.” I nod toward Cybses, trying to convey some of the respect I feel, some of the awe that is only deepened now that I know more about him. He simply waves a hand dismissively, as though my thanks mean little compared to whatever debt he owes Mother.

With a last look, I turn and follow Devlyn outside, my mind swirling with new questions and a bitterness I try to ignore.

As I step outside the shop, a cool, crisp air greets me, tinged with a familiar earthy scent of Faymore — wild herbs drying on stands, freshly turned soil, and the faint whiff of nearby river water. The light is softer here, filtered by the edging of a dense canopy of trees, casting mottled shadows across the cobbled streets. Faymore feels like a town carve out of a forest itself, where nature and civilization almost seem to coexist. I take a deep breath, trying to settle myself in this space that is more exposed than I am used to, as though I am under a magnifying glass.

Devlyn’s gaze lands on the dagger in my hand, eyebrow raised. “Find a new toy?

I grin, tossing the dagger up and catching it with practiced ease before it has a chance to nick my palm. Its weight and balance feel just right.

“It is solid, well-made. Although,” I tap my ribs where a couple of daggers are stashed beneath my vest. “I am out of sheaths.”

Devlyn smirks, unbuckling one of her thigh dagger holsters and tossing it to me. She is the deadliest woman with knives I have ever met, and she is not shy about showing it.

“Remind me when we get back to the castle to work on more weapons training with you,” she says with a seeing look.

I chuckle as I buckle the holster around my thigh, the leather soft but snug. “Daggers, I can handle. It is those longswords that are the same size as me struggle with,” I laugh, adjusting the holster over my thigh — the same one that bore a faint handprint this morning. I slide the dagger in, pleased with its weight on my hip. Well, at least that mark’s covered now by the new stabby weapon.

As we turn fully into the street, I realize just how different everything feels without relying on my powers. The agreement to keep them in check seemed simple in the abstract, but now that I am here, exposed to the unpredictability of people, movement, and noise around me, a small pang of doubt creeps in. Normally, I would extend my sense without a second thought — a subtle sweep to feel the presence of others, a touch, a heightened awareness to be certain of my surrounding. But without that comforting reach, I feel oddly… vulnerable. Blind, almost. Every instinct urges me to release just a sliver of power, to anchor myself, but I clamp down on it.

Ahead of us, a few scouts are gathered on horseback, their eyes scanning the road leading out of Faymore with a wary focus. Among them are Devlyn’s imposing black stallion and the dappled white mare I rode yesterday. I watch as Devlyn mounts her horse with effortless grace, making it look as natural as breathing. She belongs here, or anywhere she chooses to be, and I can’t help but feel a pang of admiration for grounded she always seems, in her own strength, without needing her powers to keep her centered.

I gather myself, as much as I can, as I approach the mare, realizing just how different life could be without powers. Relying on pure instinct alone, without the quiet, humming certainty of my powers, the beast, that leaves me feeling unsteady. But there is also a strange thrill in the vulnerability, in knowing that I’m navigating through the world without the safety and curse I am so used to.