The rhythmic pounding of the hammer had been the sound to Crispin's life. It was the sound that marked mornings and evenings; it threaded itself through meals, arguments, and sleep alike. It had always been steady.
This morning, the cadence was wrong.
It came too fast, too crowded, layered with sounds that did not belong to a single forge at work. Snorts cut through the air. Hooves scraped against stone. Harness rings chimed in uneven rhythms; metal knocked metal in restless impatience. Voices overlapped outside, low and insistent, carrying the clipped authority of men used to being obeyed.
When Crispin surfaced from the heavy, dreamless sleep that followed exhaustion, the sunlight was already pouring through the narrow window. Pale bands stretched across the floor, catching on the edge of the bed and glinting off a metallic mass tucked beneath his chin.
Regy lay still. His quicksilver surface appeared dimmed and cool, drawn inward to conserve weight. Crispin shifted, easing his shoulder out from under the slime without breaking contact. The bond pulsed, an acknowledgment rather than a response.
Something is wrong, Crispin thought. The certainty settled before he was awake.
He dressed. Boots were half-laced as he crossed the room, then he stepped out onto the porch.
The clearing in front of the forge was full.
Almost the entire cavalry of the city appeared to be waiting their turn. Horses packed shoulder to shoulder in a way Crispin had never seen outside of mustering drills. Massive destriers stamped and snorted; breath fogged the cool morning air. Smaller mounts danced sideways under firm hands, ears pinned, unsettled by the density and noise.
Leather tack gleamed with fresh oil. Steel fittings caught the rising light in sharp flashes. Spears stood at the edge of the clearing, and guards stood in loose clusters. Some guards mounted their horses, others held reins, and all of them watched the forge, which set Crispin's teeth on edge.
The forge roared with heat and synergy.
Thorne moved through the chaos like a man carved out of it. His massive shoulders rolled as he worked; sweat already darkened his shirt despite the morning chill. He pulled white-hot horseshoes from the fire with practiced ease, crossed the clearing at a near run, and handed them off to waiting farriers without breaking stride.
The farriers worked like men under siege. They fitted, hammered, quenched, and passed on shoes in rapid succession. They led one horse out and brought another forward. There was no ceremony or conversation beyond curt instructions and shouted timings.
The forge had never moved like this.
He had watched his father work through lean seasons and long nights, through contracts that paid for coal and ones that came too late to matter. He had never seen demand like this.
Ash hovered near the hearth, pulsing a steady, brilliant blue. The coals beneath him burned at a translucent white that made Crispin squint. Heat radiated outward in controlled waves. The forge breathed around the bud, alive in a way Crispin had never seen sustained for more than a few minutes at a time.
Crispin scanned the crowd again. His gaze caught on crests and colors. These weren't just patrol horses. He saw officers' mounts. Couriers' rigs. Even a pair of ceremonial chargers appeared in the line.
He approached to attend to the animals waiting to be shod. Crispin brushed along a horse's neck, working grit free from beneath the tack lines. The animal flicked an ear, then relaxed.
When he stepped back, the soldier hesitated before pressing a few coppers into his palm.
He closed his hand around them.
"That's not sufficient," the captain said. He reached for his purse. "He's of the Tamer's Guild. A silver, at least."
Crispin shook his head. Without force, he set the captain's hand aside. He opened his palm and showed the coppers.
"This is enough. The soldier earned his coins, let him live on his salary."
He stepped away before the moment could harden into something else. Crispin waited until his father turned back toward the fire, then moved, slipping through the gaps between bodies and tack until he reached him.
He caught Thorne between beats, gripping his arm and steering him toward the shadow of the woodpile where the noise dulled and the press of eyes lessened.
"Dad," Crispin said, keeping his voice low. "What's going on? Why is the village guard at our door at dawn?"
Thorne wiped a thick layer of soot from his forehead with the back of his wrist. His eyes gleamed with a mirth Crispin had not seen in years.
"It seems my son's antics have raised our position in the world," Thorne whispered. He leaned in and gave a quick, conspiratorial wink. "First beating Lucien's black dragon in the pits and now surviving the Shadow-Thicket."
He jerked his chin toward the crowded clearing.
"They were at the doors before first light," Thorne continued. "Demanding service."
Crispin frowned. "Demanding."
"Aye," Thorne said. "No knocking. Just men in uniform asking how soon I could start."
"And you said yes."
Thorne snorted. "I said the forge works as fast as it always has. No faster."
That earned a flicker of relief.
He reached out and ruffled Crispin's hair with a heavy, calloused hand; the gesture was unselfconscious and familiar. "You're doing well, son."
The words landed heavier than praise did. His gaze slid back toward the hearth where Ash pulsed, unfazed by the attention.
"And little Ash," Thorne added, lowering his voice, "he's worth his weight in gold. My forge hasn't been able to maintain heat like this in more than a decade. Not without burning through coal we can't afford."
He straightened. Pride settled deep into the lines of his face. "At this rate, we might start getting some of that debt paid off."
Debt. The word sat between them like an old bruise.
Debt forced people to wait and say no when they needed to say yes; it tallied favors owed and cut corners while nights passed without counting the days to the next payment.
Crispin swallowed. His throat tightened as he watched his father turn back toward the anvil without hesitation, already absorbed again in the honest rhythm of work.
Ash pulsed brighter for a moment, then returned to his steady glow.
"If you want to repay him for the help," Crispin whispered, stepping closer, "get him a energized sunstone. Trust me. He'll be so happy."
Thorne studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Done."
The forge door creaked open behind them. Elara stepped out onto the porch. She wore a dress Crispin recognized, though he had not seen it in years. The fabric was fine, the cut careful; it was something she reserved for festivals or council functions long past. It fit her well, catching the light as she moved.
In her hands she carried a platter piled high with roasted cave-tatoes and seasoned rock-pheasant. Steam rose in fragrant curls; the smell was rich and inviting.
"Thorne, darling, you must eat," she called. "You've been working since before dawn." She turned toward Crispin. Her smile widened. "And my brave, brave son."
She crossed the porch in a flurry of movement. She set the platter down before turning to him. Her hands fussed at his tunic, smoothing fabric that did not need smoothing, brushing ash from his sleeve.
"You look exhausted," she exclaimed. Her voice carried just far enough. "Though I suppose that's what happens when you single-clear the Shadow-Thicket."
A nearby sergeant chuckled. "That so?"
"Oh yes," Elara said, laughing. "He's always been gifted. Even as a boy."
Crispin felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. The words should have sounded like pride. Instead, they rang hollow. He remembered her sneer only days ago. The way she had looked at Regy with open disdain remained fresh. The casual cruelty of a puddle of jelly. Scavenger.
He did not reach for the food. He did not look at her. "I need to head out for a bit," Crispin said.
His voice sounded distant even to himself. Flat. Controlled.
Regy shifted on his shoulder. A subtle ripple of awareness passed through the bond.
"Already," Elara said. Her smile tightened just a fraction. "You haven't eaten."
"Regy needs to eat," Crispin replied. "And I have a class in a few hours."
He stepped off the porch without waiting for a response. Boots crunched against packed earth. The crowd parted; murmurs followed him like a wake.
Behind him, Elara's voice rose again. She resumed her practiced warmth, filling the space he had vacated.
Crispin did not look back.
He walked toward the fungal groves. The sound of hammer and hooves faded with each step until only the low hum of the woods remained. The air there felt cooler, quieter, unclaimed.
Regy adjusted his weight against Crispin's shoulder.
Soon, Crispin thought.
Yes, Regy agreed.
The village could have its stories. They had other work to do.