Forged In Flame: Of Ash and Flame book 1

The forge never slept. Even when the bellows were quiet and the hammer hung idle, the smell of iron lingered. Smoke, soot, and ash clung to the beams like it was meant to be there. I grew up in that smell, and some days I thought it had seeped into my skin, into my bones. Sparks leaped as my hammer struck steel, ringing through the workshop like a song. My arms ached, sweat stung my eyes, but I refused to stop until the blade’s edge gleamed the way Father had taught me. “Wrist loose, not stiff,” his voice called for the doorway. I scowled. “I am keeping them loose.” He strode inside, wiping his hands on a rag, his dark beard glinting with gray in the firelight. “Loose enough to let the hammer do the work. Stiff enough to guide it. The balance, Elara. Always remember to balance.” I swung again, slower this time, and the steel rang true. Father, or others call him Garrik, gave a grunt of approval, the kind that meant more than any praise. My chest warmed. “See?” he said, resting a heavy hand on my shoulder. “That’s the sound of iron remembering its purpose.” The forge door banged open and my little brother, Ronan, darted in breathlessly. His brown curls plastered onto his forehead. He was slightly taller than the other 10-year-olds in town, and he tried to carry himself as a boy of 15, but his rambunctiousness and lack of thinking always showed his true age. “Ma says dinner is on the table and if you don't come now, Elara, Ma says you’ll be in big trouble.” He wrinkled his nose. “Again!” I rolled my eyes and laughed, setting the hammer down. “Maybe I like being in trouble. Should have been my middle name.” I patted his head before I playfully pushed him away. Father chuckled, tugging lightly on Ronan’s arm as he passed by. “Both of you, enough. Your mother’s patience wears thinner than my apron.” We left the forge behind, the fire’s glow spilling out into the twilight as we crossed the small town, following the small dirt road to the farm. Our cottage was small with worn beams, a sagging roof, walls patched more times than I could count, but it was home. The smell of herbs and broth met us at the door. Mother stood at the table, her hair bound in a kerchief, her hands busy ladling stew into bowls. She looked up as we entered, her eyes soft but tired. “Elara, your arms will fall off before you let that hammer rest. And Garrik—” she gave Father a pointed look, “You’re no better, letting her work herself to dust. Father held up his hands in mock surrender. “The girl’s got a fire in her. I’d be a fool to snuff it out.” Since I was a young girl, I have always been fascinated by the forge. Something always pulling me in. It had something to do with the heat of the flames, licking at my skin, the smell of hot metal, and the music the hammer made when it struck true. Being at the forge always puts me in a trance. Many a night, I have missed dinner to come home to a scolding from Mother and a cold dinner. Mother sighed, but a smile ghosted her lips. “A fire burns brightest before it burns out.” The four of us ate together, the table crowded but warm. Ronan slurped his stew loudly until I smacked his arm. Mother scolded me, Father laughed, and for a while, the world outside out cottage didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that our crops didn’t harvest enough, producing barely enough to feed us through winter and a small bushel or two to sell. It didn’t matter that, since the King moved his royal shipping line from Arrowhead Harbor to Black-Cliff Peir, now known as Kings Harbor, that all the blacksmith jobs have gone with it. The forge only getting a few commissions a month, barely enough money to pay the raised taxes each month. My parents tried to hide the hardships from us, but I noticed. I noticed that the stews became thinner and thinner. Things around the farm went unfixed. Ma has even taken up trading wool from our goats in town for various household needs. Arrowhead Harbor was once a booming village. With the Kings shipping being docked here, we once had sailors from all over the world coming into port. This brought all sorts of people with various needs. The forge could barely keep up with the demand; Father had to hire other apprentices to help with the orders. The farm was yielding plenty of crops to keep not only us fed but the entire town as well; we had more than enough to sell to the local shops to keep the whole village fed. However, since the Royal ships pulled away from the docks for the last time, they pulled this village down into the depths of the water with it, sinking it to its demise. This is why it was so important that we win the Kings Royal Blacksmith Competition. The royal contract will change everything. That is why I have been putting so much into my designs lately. Everything must be perfect. This contract will keep our family in enough Gold for the next year, enough to set us up for years to come. It wasn’t just about winning and gold for me, it was about proving to the world that the Ironborne Forge was enough, enough to rise from the ashes that the King caused and become a known name throughout Arcadia. My family’s name will rise. After dinner, while Mother cleared the bowls and Ronan dozed by the fire, Father beckoned me outside. The night air was sharp, and the stars scattered like sparks against the dark. He leaned on the fence, his shoulders heavy. “Before we leave the village tomorrow, Elara,” he paused, as if weighing his words — “There is something you must know. The road to Vrahan is not safe. Orc raids grow bolder every season. The Kings wyvern riders are being sighted more often now, burning bandit camps to ash. Danger waits on every path.” He must have seen the worry on my face, because he reached for my shoulder. “You’ve never been beyond these fields, beyond this village. I’ve tried to shield you from the horrors that lie just outside our borders, but promise me one thing. That tomorrow and until we return home, you will listen to everything I say. Should I tell you to run, you run. Should I tell you to hide, you hide. Should I tell you to save yourself, you must listen. The fire must live on with you. Promise me!” I wanted to argue. To tell him I would never abandon him, that he was iron himself, unbreakable. But when I looked back at the cottage, at the soft glow of the hearth through the window, at mother moving quietly inside, at Ronan curled up safe by the fire, I swallowed my words. For them, I nodded. “I promise.”