Despite Dailes casually sweeping up rocks with his tail in an effort to cover the shrine, Chyrie couldn't help but stare as the glow softened behind each layer of rock.
Not only were her eyes fastened to the late goddess' temple, but the drake's broader shoulders and whiplike tail were strengthened. Larger. Sharp talons accentuated his paws, curling out from thick sheathes of skin and portraying more menace than his friendly head tilts would assume.
"Are all Fae so easily distracted?"
Dailes' voice still skittered through her mind, tingling like hot cider.
Chyrie's brows furrowed. "Hm?"
"Your sword," he replied, golden eyes flickering to the forge. "I do not think it should be that color."
As true as stone, her cast was now beaming with white-hot light, completely inflamed from their time in the temple.
She scowled in frustration and paced around her anvil, careful to lift the hilt with a leather glove left strewn on her work table. He was right. Should she have left the blade in a few minutes longer, the metal would've failed to harden properly and likely become brittle.
Careful not to knick the blade, Chyrie wedged the hilt into a press and eased a faint warp out.
A dark gray head snuck between her legs, rising to watch the cooling blade.
Dailes managed to navigate the space around him without knocking into her or the fresh weapon. He carefully examined the sword, curious.
"Why not reclaim your parents blades?"
Innocent enough, she supposed.
Chyrie huffed a long sigh and eyed the large cylinders of magma warily. She didn't know what she would do if Anryth noticed the drake now claiming her or the shrine only feet from the forge. Only two of five tubes were filled, leaving them with just enough time to hide what they'd discovered.
Including her parents' weapons.
"He gave me very specific parameters," she muttered, anger creeping into her voice. One in particular Anryth knew none of her work met. "I must use iron and silver combined, so these swords can take both fae and elf lives..."
"They do not kill?"
Chyrie shook her head, an absentminded finger tracing over the rusted tip of her anvil.
"Not Fae," she said. Another vision of her fathers murder scraped at the back of her mind but she persisted. "The iron content of our armaments is minimal to remove discomfort and Emberlin is a peaceful country."
Dailes admired her craftsmanship, sniffing the blade's edge. "It's not sharp."
"I have to sharpen it myself." Chyrie chuckled. "They are not created sharp."
The drakeling blinked in response, nodding with each of her answers. Learning.
Chyrie pulled at the blade one more time, grumbling under her breath as she adjusted the position. Without dips or cracks, the only thing she needed to worry about was some infernal warp developing after she quenched the blade.
Dailes released a disgruntled puff. "It is straight."
She wasn't confident.
Gravel crunched in the distance, ripping Chyrie from her calm focus as footsteps ground against the cliffside. She counted the crunches, both the soft fluid movements and the heavy ones that accompanied them.
Her sweat turned cold as she looked at Dailes.
"You need to go, now."
"I'm not afraid of the boney man," he answered, chuffing.
Chyrie's hands trembled, her grip on the sword slipping slightly. "Dailes, please. Do not make matters worse."
Minutes. She had minutes at best to convince the drakeling to move his scaly behind and the thrum of thoughts slashing through her was enough to steal her breath.
Thankfully, the beast only puffed a cloud of smoke in response, before skulking deeper into one of the mine's many tunnels.
Gripping her hammer, Chyrie pounded away on the steel surface. Sloppy, erratic work, but her handler wouldn't notice. She offered two prayers to Niukka in a hushed whisper, one to protect Dailes and the other spoken to the forge. More than anything, she needed this blade to withstand her distraction.
"Chyrivelle," Anryth greeted her, stopping beyond the iron bars imprisoning her. A frivolous measure compared the blood now running within her veins. Frivolous and insulting. "You've been busy, I see."
She fought her snarl of reproach as she turned, taking in his wretched finery. Once her eyes fixated on not only the tray of food in his hands, but the pack of supplies an elven soldier carried a step behind, Chyrie's lip stopped twitching.
Civility was the price for the delectable roast wafting into the night-a weighted price with worse consequences should she risk upsetting him again.
All she had to do was pretend to be gracious.
"Of course," Chyrie answered, meeting his murky blue eyes. Whether they were dull with grief or pain, she didn't know. "We've a deal, your highness. One I intend to fulfill."
The King of Rymedör's smile was nothing short of ghastly, lined with vengeance and deceit.
Chyrie knew not to trust him, knew his truth and her own were not the same. He could very well have her craft these blades only to slaughter each of her court in vicious execution.
She intended to fight.
No matter the cost.
Even if Anryth never planned to hand her the blade.
"Wonderful," he said, lips tugging upward once again. "I've brought you some supplies."
Chyrie took one long, steady breath as she approached the iron gate. She minded the jagged boulder near the farthest all, careful not to scrape against it or reveal her shaking hands.
"Thank you," she replied, bowing her head.
Anryth's brow raised. "Yes, well, I'll be traveling for the next few days and unable to attend our next appointment."
She forced back her scowl, instead pursing her lips as the guard handed her the tray of food first. A heaping plate of beast came second to the pile of pressed potatoes and greens steaming together, the aroma made her mouth water.
Chyrie barely remembered what it tasted like, unable to fathom how they kept it warm.
"Where will you be going?"
The question escaped her before she could stop it, her cheeks heating when both the guard's heads snapped in her direction. Their glares bore holes into her already marred skin.
"Curious?" he laughed, rolling his eyes. "An interloper has been caught off the coast, something about raiding the livestock we brought over on arrival. My men will see to your needs in the meantime."
Nodding distantly, Chyrie stepped back and set the tray of food on her anvil.
A broad brute, thin scars gouged into his cheek, walked up the gate with menacing brown eyes. The kind that haunted a person. He gripped the nearest bar and bared his teeth at her, shaking the metal against its hinges.
She locked her knees, refusing to flinch.
"Safe travels," Chyrie managed through gritted teeth.
The guard grinned, revealing sharp teeth with an unsettling yellow hue. She guessed what his breath might smell like and leaned away, grimacing.
Left alone with this tool watching her, she might just resort to poisoning or murder. Her hands weren't as practiced as before, but she could certainly throw a knife or two. They would land true.
He seemed to read the words written in her eyes because his predatory stance only widened.
"I'll trust you not to draw out the process too much," Anryth continued, his head tipping back in a stretching roll. "You've a month remaining. Make it count."
Chyrie swallowed roughly as he made his exit, followed by only one Ceirvani soldier. Two remained with her, standing on either end of the gaping cave mouth.
The former food-bringer slid a thick pack off his shoulder and chucked it toward her bedroll. A thud sent ash flying through the air, the faint clang of metal alerting them to the secret dagger tucked under her pillow.
She cleared her throat, pivoting toward her food and beginning to stuff her face with full bites.
The warmth of spice and grease melted over her tongue, smoothing the tension in her body as she ate. Chyrie's shoulders relaxed when her stomach strained, but she continued piling potatoes into her mouth.
Niukka's forge crackled behind her, offering a cover for the low moan torn from her mouth as she swallowed the last bite of roast. Strength returned in waves, shoving out the cold lingering against her fingertips and energizing her further.
"So you're Ceirvani men, yes?" Chyrie mused, tossing the tray on the floor and leaning against her anvil. Neither man responded to her. "I've heard many stories about the task force protecting Rymedör, but I can't help but wonder if they are true. How did assassins come to claim the throne?"
"Pipe down, will you?" the brute huffed. He'd taken a bite of an apple seconds before, chewing with his mouth wide open.
"Word from the south claims you've taken the throne yourselves," she continued. "I've considered this might all be a front to amass more territory and resources."
"We were all that remained when the southern continent ran us through with your weapons," the modest one snapped. He seemed to instantly regret it with a wince Chyrie gleaned from beneath his dark hood.
"Stolen weapons," she replied, lifting her chin. "Our shipment to Rymedör was sacked."
"So you've said," the brute growled, chucking his apple core into the forest beyond them and slinking up to the gate again. "Seems convenient, you're locked in here while the rest of them suffer-"
"Don't." Chyrie hissed. "I'll slit your throat where you stand if you so much as dare imply the luck of my imprisonment."
Challenge shone in his wretched brown eyes, his hand reaching for the lock and twisting just enough to open her cage. The brute stepped into the gateway, brows high.
"Kenall, stop," the second said.
Kenall, a name steeped in courage and translated to defender, took another step towards her.
He made her sick.
Chyrie subtly thumbed the small knife she'd hidden from the waistline of her bodysuit.
"I'd like to see you try, majesty."
Steadying herself, she paced her breathing and watched his every movement. The slight twitch of his fingers, the hateful glare, and the way he seemed rooted to the earth.
Chyrie prayed Setryr favored her this evening.
"You'll rot for this, Ceirvani," she growled, flashing her own canines in answer. "Anryth might burn you to match for taking his kill."
"Kenall, get out of there!"
Instead, the brute lunged for her and she ducked, rolling between his legs and slicing through his leather strapping. He waited a moment before dropping down low and tackling Chyrie to the ground.
Rock and charred bone bit into her flesh as they skid across the cavern floor, her burn screaming with raw pain.
The binding magic held her at bay as she fought.
"Kenall!"
Her attacker's arms wrapped around her tightly. Chyrie felt each crying nerve as his fingers gripped her wrist and swung her face first into the stone walls. Screaming, her tears stung along the outer edges of her eyes as she scrambled to regain balance.
Too slow.
She barely registered the muffled grunting behind her as Kenall brought his heel down, kicking into her spine and pulling her arms out from their sockets.
Her whimpers were muffled by the piles of ash in her wake.
No.
No more.
She writhed against his grip but couldn't break free until her arms pulled back and air flooded deep into her lungs in sweeping rasps.
Chyrie rolled over, bracing herself for another pivotal blow. She just needed to waste a few more seconds befo-her heart stilled.
Standing above her was Xiran- who eyed the Ceirvani's corpse with hardened vengeance.
Kenall's neck snapped.