Page 1 of The Blacksmith’s Wish

Chapter One

It was best not to think on the nightmare.

Gowan Black fixed his gaze on the heart of the forge, forcing his mind into the steady glow of the flames rather than the lingering thoughts clawing at his mind. Heat licked across his face, sharp and familiar, yet it did nothing to chase the chill that still clung to his bones.

He had woken with a gasp; his chest seizing so tightly he’d thought for a moment he might truly die. Sweat had soaked his linens, his breath coming in ragged bursts as though he’d run for his life. And still, even now, the echo of it remained. Images he could not quite grasp, only feel.

Fire. Pain. Helplessness.

He’d been so shaken that he’d sought out the familiar and made the short walk to his sister Anne’s home for first meal with her and her husband, Camden, the village healer. The visit had helped settle him greatly.

After breaking his fast, Gowan returned to his shop, donned a leather apron, and prepared to begin his daily tasks.

His grip tightened on the iron rod. Unlike the metal in his hand, he had no control over what haunted him. No hammer strong enough to beat those visions into silence. No forge hot enough to burn them away from the forefront of his mind.

The hammer fell. A sharp crack rang through the shop as iron met anvil, the sound clean, solid, and real. Again he struck. And again. Each blow drove the chaos from his mind, shaping not only the metal, but his own fraying control.

The ax head beneath his hands began to take form, its edges refined with careful precision. Gowan worked with relentless focus, jaw and shoulders set. He did not rush. He never did. Every piece he crafted bore the mark of his stubborn pride, no defect tolerated, no corner cut. It was what had earned him the title of master blacksmith.

If only he could master his own thoughts and dreams.

The shop, built beside his cottage, stood wide and well-used, every surface marked by years of labor. Racks of hammers and tongs lined the walls, with iron rods stacked neatly despite the clutter of broken tools waiting for repair. Barrels of water stood ready beside the forge, steam rising in soft hisses when heated metal met their depths. Along the far wall, a long table held finished goods ready to be claimed.

Movement outside caught his eye. Gowan lifted his head, narrowing his gaze as a pair of men on horseback approached, their figures wavering slightly in the heat rising from the forge. For a fleeting moment, unease flickered, an old instinct he could not quite bury.

Turning, he glanced toward his apprentice. “Conor,” he said, his voice roughened from smoke and silence. “See what they need.”

The boy, eager for any excuse to abandon the crooked nails he’d been practicing on, dropped his tools at once and rushed forward, wiping his hands on his tunic as he went. Gowan watched him go for only a heartbeat before returning his attention to the ax.

He ran a thumb carefully along its edge, testing. Nearly perfect. Eyes narrowed, he studied the tool. With a low breath, he lifted the hammer once more.

“Master,” Conor called, returning at a quick pace, one of the men trailing behind him. “They require horseshoes.”

Gowan did not turn at once. He set the ax aside with deliberate care, every movement measured, before finally lifting his gaze. “Retrieve a pair of horseshoes and place them on the shoeing surface.” He gestured toward a shallow wooden crate filled with neatly stacked shoes.

“Ye can help me with this task,” he told the eager boy.

Conor hurried to the crate and grabbed several before going to the back of the shop.

The man stepped forward. Up close, he was unmistakably a warrior, broad-shouldered, travel-worn, with a long sword strapped across his back and the quiet alertness of one accustomed to danger. Although seeming a bit older than him, perhaps forty, his eyes remained sharp and watchful.

“My horse threw a shoe, and we are too far to ride back to the keep for our blacksmith to see about it,” the man explained.

Gowan recognized the warrior, despite never crossing words. “This way,” he said, motioning for the warrior to follow.

“How fare things at the keep?” Gowan asked, always interested in knowing of any new clan matters.

The warrior shrugged. “Quiet at the moment. Expect it to remain so for now, as we have nae heard of any threats.”

He wondered about the life of a warrior, always prepared for imminent danger, training to defend the clan. It was an admirable calling.

“I am called Hamish,” the warrior said, extending his right arm. They clasped wrists.

“I am Gowan,” he replied and looked to the other warrior, whose attention was on some women passing by.

“He is Farley,” the warrior said, sliding a glance to his companion.

After the men departed, heading away from the village, Gowan turned back to his work. The forge greeted him with its familiar roar, flames licking hungrily at the iron as though nothing beyond its heat and rhythm mattered. If only that were true.