Page 108 of Fallen Nocturne

He starts removing the braces. I watch, mesmerized by the way he moves.

The journey back to the forge is quiet. Coral walks between us, her head held high, still buzzing with the joy of those thirty seconds of flight. Every few steps, she stretches her wings and listens to the braces click, as though reassuring herself that the miracle is still there.

Arescaine keeps pace on her other side, carrying the folded frame beneath one arm. I catch myself glancing at him again and again. This mysterious stranger spent weeks shaping hope from metal and wire while everyone else prepared me to lose her.

Each time he notices me looking, I turn my attention back to Coral.

The forge comes into view, smoke rising from its chimney. Coral immediately trots inside like she owns the place, heading straight for her favorite spot near the water barrel.

Standing at the anvil with a hammer in his hand is Hrólfr Dravorin, son of Durakain.

His grey-streaked beard is braided with metal rings, framing a face weathered by age. Sharp, assessing eyes flick toward Arescaine. “Ah. You’re back.”

Then his gaze settles on me.

I swallow against the lump in my throat.

Guilt always finds me in Hrolf’s presence. My mother ordered the siege of Dunrovin and prevented medicine from reaching the mountain. His daughter died because the healers could not obtain the blood and supplies she needed. No apology can return her to him or absolve me of the fact that the order came from my family.

My gaze drifts around the forge. After his capture, Hrolf was imprisoned in the capital, but the arrangement did not last. Too many elves wanted him dead, and Hrolf had given them reason enough. The weapons he made had helped slaughter thousands.

Eventually, he was moved to Völundr and given a place to work so his talent would not be wasted. Even so, he has never agreed to forge weapons for elves. Pots, kettles and tools, yes. Never blades.

I have always understood why.

When I look back at him, he is still watching me.

“The Elven Queen of Aelfheim,” he says. “You never told me who you were, little elf.”

Now he knows exactly who I am.

“Hrolf.” Arescaine’s tone turns cautious.

“Don’t ‘Hrolf’ me, vampire.” The dwarf sets down his hammer and moves toward me. I have to force myself not to step back.

But he stops three feet away and does something I never expected.

Hrolf closes one fist and presses it to the center of his chest, bowing his head.

“Your Highness, I owe you a debt.”

“What?” Arescaine asks, echoing the question in my mind.

“Back in Tavan, a girl saved my life.” His hand moves to his ribs, touching a spot that must still carry a scar. “I was being beaten to death. Would have died, too, if she hadn’t stepped in and healed me.”

Arescaine looks from Hrolf to me, surprise breaking through his usual control. Then the corner of his mouth lifts in a faint smile.

Hrolf raises his head, his eyes never leaving mine. “I didn’t know who you were then. I just knew you had a kind heart. Turns out you’re the bloody Queen of Aelfheim.”

He shakes his head, something like wonder in his expression.

“Lady Deirdre told me you saved my life as well,” I say. “She said you gave your own blood when I was ill.”

Hrolf shrugs, as if donating enough blood to leave him weak for days means nothing.

“Forgive me for not coming to thank you sooner,” I say quietly. “My uncle forbade me from wandering through Völundr alone, especially near this forge.”

Hrolf’s gaze flickers toward Arescaine. The look that passes between them is gone before I can make sense of it.