The studded print of scales smoothed over Chyrie's cheek as darkness sunk into the depths of Niukka's Forge.
She didn't know how long she stood at the cavern mouth, staring after Anryth and his men.
After Xiran led away in chains.
Even though Chyrie's limbs protested and fought, she pushed up and blinked away the dry sand crusting her vision. The room was still, the forge dimly crackling through the enveloping silence.
She'd seen no sign of Noxa, as if the giant wyrm had flown away with her master.
Beneath her, Dailes lay coiled in a perfect half-moon with his tail tucked neatly behind her knees while he exposed the soft spot on his neck. His breathing was slow, but surprisingly shallow.
The drakeling was conscious, dutifully watching over her crumpled frame as she slept.
Her pillow for the evening.
Chyrie couldn't help a small smile, but it fell away as he shifted a golden iris toward her.
"You collapsed," his warm tone engulfed her mind. "I had to catch you."
"I'm sorry," Chyrie whispered, running a hand over his slick scales. "I'm sorry for ignoring your warnings and sending you away..."
"Such are the Fae," he replied, his voice grumbling. "I've been told you are a manic species with a lot of heart. And foolishness."
"Told by whom?"
"Many."
She snorted, shaking her head.
"It's time to continue," Dailes said, lifting his head to stare at Niukka's Hearth. "You can do it."
Chyrie glanced from his head to the forge, a heaviness blanketing her. Defeat crept through the cavern corridors as she analyzed her left over supplies and realized how impossible three blades would be from a couple of blanks.
Her stock had been slowly dwindling. She no longer had room for error, limited to what she could collect from the eroding mines and discarded tools.
Melting them down from rust would make for imperfections—whether it be bubbling, splitting, or cracking. The possibilities for error overwhelmed her.
Narrowing her focus, Chryie scooped up the remainder of her supplies and stationed herself before the old wooden bench.
Three days was not enough time, not for three swords of equal value.
But she knew what thinking did to her.
Chyrie picked up her tongs and began heating her billet.
~ ~ ~
Sweat dripped against the hot iron of her fresh blade as she smoothed the surface with a porous rock.
Chyrie leaned over to a bucket of clay she'd dragged in from the torrential storms, strategically placed just beyond the bars of her cell to dampen a collection of soft earth. She'd filled it half way and allowed the sun to bake the moisture down to a small puddle before taking a wrapped hand to the mud and scooping out a large handful.
Carefully smoothing a thick layer over both sides of the shortsword, she shifted over in her seat toward a tall, narrow chamber of oil.
Not only would coating the weapon in clay make for a harder surface, but a faster quench.
Taking a deep breath, Chyrie waited for another moment before plunging the dirk downward.
The sizzling hiss of hot oil crackled through the air and sent shivers down her spine as she begged Niukka to cure this blade perfectly.
Pulling it out, the clay had hardened around the blade, creating a protective barrier for her to leave as opposed to the proper cooling she lacked. Winter was passing and the bitter chills had been traded in for the fresh waft of pollen and sycamore trees.
Part of her prayed this dirk would shatter upon impact, since she'd decided to get Anryth's weapon over with.
Chyrie's nose wrinkled with distaste as she hooked it against the rack.
She'd file it later.
Her primary goal now was crafting an ax similar to Xiran's so that he might feel comfortable using it.
"Dailes?" she called out, sighing. "Did you see where they threw Xiran's ax?"
The drakeling chuffed from his position on the ground, guarding her back like a wild animal.
"Please," Chyrie murmured. "I want to carve the Jera into this new ax so it might still protect him."
"You do not move," Dailes replied, rising to his feet and shaking off excess dirt. "I do not wish to be more concerned."
She fought the low chuckle building in her throat as the drakeling flared his wings upward, stretching them flat toward the ceiling. Dailes narrowed his frame to slink through the bars without disturbing the door, a feat Chyrie wasn't even certain she could do.
Her soul-bonded leapt into the air and dove into the trees, searching for Xiran's ax.
Barely a few minutes had passed before Dailes was dragging it by the handle through the bars. She watched the way his teeth chattered to avoid biting the markings.
He delivered the tool at her feet with a gentle chaos that made her smirk before grabbing the blade.
Chyrie's fingers slipped a little against his hot saliva, but she managed to clean off the handle and draw out the Jera in charcoal.
Two arrows pointing away from one another where the inside wings overlapped to form a square.
She didn't typically carve the handles of her weapons first, but Chyrie's idea was to build a more scythe-like version of Xiran's ax, better made for combat with sharper edges and a serrated curve.
Heating the tip of her scrap metal, she went to work stroking the faint outline of his Jera into either side of his hilt. She polished a thick branch of oak for his grip and smoothed the wood of any splinters.
Forging the head of the scythe took the shortest amount of time.
Chyrie measured the eye of silver, crafting it to fit the handle securely and burned it into place.
Because it was a thicker, heavier piece of metal, she heated and cooled the ax head several times before allowing it to rest on the rack.
In one day, she'd managed two weapons.
Chyrie's heart thundered in her chest, exhilarated and alarmed by the ease with which she pushed herself without thinking. Her muscles still ached from the days of training she'd managed with Xiran, her stomach growling in the quiet air if she took the time to listen.
She picked up another mango, doing her best not to devour the whole thing in one sweeping bite.
There was no food left, no time for her to search for the meat Xiran left in the woods somewhere.
She frowned.
There was only one blank left, and she'd need at least four with the dagger she was planning to press.
Chyrie's leg bounced, tension rising up once again.
"What is it?" Dailes asked.
"There isn't enough metal."
He chuffed a low breath and prowled closer.
Dailes inspected the melted stack of silver and iron, sniffing the block with a tight expression before lifting his head. The drakeling stepped away from the graveyard of broken blades and trailed the cavern walls until he found the opening.
He found the mines, tipping his head to look back.
Chyrie shook her head.
"It's dangerous, Dailes. There are corpses and fallen tunnels, who knows what you'll find."
"I will be there, so it will be fine."
His confidence was met with a burst of confusion and anxiety.
She continued to shake her head, looking for any former pieces that might be without compromise.
There were none.
Dailes knew it too.
"We will go find the metal and we will see this through."
"How do you know if it's even down there?" she rambled, fidgeting with bandages she'd fashioned earlier around her waist. The last thing she needed was infection to sprout, though the forge wouldn't protect her from it. "It's been empty since Anryth slaughtered the royal family..."
"I can smell it," he replied, tipping his head to the side. "It is there we will find it."
Chyrie's stomach turned.
Everything in her mind and soul begged her not to witness the bodies left scattered in those mines.
"You're sure?" she asked.
Dailes nodded.
She needed the silver, the iron and steel. Any tools she might find to reinforce her own.
Chyrie knew the only option lay inside the depths she so desperately avoided.
The drakeling studied her as she rose, before turning to lead the way.