Forged by Magic (Falling for Fables, #1)(23)
And she had. Until the silence.
A strange sensation clenched my heart, and I frowned. There was no reason to feel guilty. Maybe Lilia’s arrival in Wyndale had made me softer than I usually was. That was the only logical explanation.
Back at my home, I unlocked the door to the shop on the ground floor. Hollowed out inside, the room held a brick forge along one wall, where I spent hours of my life surrounded by flickering sparks that filled the air like fireflies. Horseshoes and decorative bracelets hung along the timber beams, and my work table held various hammers and tongs. I motioned to an open spot on the floor beside the anvil.
“Just dump the logs there. I’ll sort it all out in the morning.”
The wood tumbled from her arms, logs thudding. “Nice shop.”
I pulled off my gloves and ran my hand along the smooth steel of the anvil, pride unexpectedly blooming in my chest. “I’ve worked real hard on it.”
“What do you make most of here?” she asked in a too-casual voice. That was when I caught the slight flare of her nostrils, quick as a snake. I kept my expression blank, but inside, my heart kicked my ribs. She should not be able to smell any hint of dragons, and yet…there was that flash in her eyes. That knowing glint.
I fought the urge to search the room for any clue as to what had set her off, but I forced myself to appear relaxed.
“A lot of horseshoes. Candlesticks are also a favorite around here, plus the wagons that roll in for every Midsummer Games always need new fixings.”
“Seems like such a waste, what with all this space and your tools. You could craft some incredible daggers and swords.”
“You and your fixation on weapons.”
“I have a right to be. You threw my mother’s dagger into the sea.”
I leveled my gaze at her. “I thought we were being more honest with each other now.”
“I swear to Freya that’s the truth. The dagger you stole from me was once my mother’s.”
“You don’t worship the Old Gods in Fafnir.”
She hissed at me—really hissed. “I’m tired of arguing with you. I’m going to bed.”
Daella, with her fierce, wild eyes and her vibrant intensity, spun on her feet toward the door. I caught her arm. The heat of her body seeped into my hands like a furnace. Steam hissed where we touched, and the collision of our skin sent a thick fog sweeping across us.
She glanced back at me, and her cheeks bloomed like spring flowers. “What’s happening?”
“I’m an elf from Edda. We have a bit of Vatnor magic in our blood, and orcs run hot, like you’ve said. Have you never touched an elf before?”
“No, I can’t say I have.” Her eyes narrowed. “You go around touching orcs on a regular basis?”
“Unfortunately not,” I drawled.
The pink of her cheeks deepened. “If all this is true, shouldn’t your touch burn me like fresh water does?”
“It seems not.” I cleared my throat. “I want to take you to Lilia’s tavern tonight.”
The thought had been rattling around in my head ever since she’d told me about her captivity. She’d never been out dancing, and she’d never spent the evening surrounded by rowdy storytellers and their booming laughter. Me, I’d rather sit in the quiet of my living room with the fire blazing and a book in my hand, but there was something in the way Daella carried herself that told me she’d enjoy the magic of these midsummer nights.
Not that her happiness mattered. But I’d promised the others to make her fall in love with this place, so she’d be less likely to tell Isveig about us once she returned to Fafnir. She’d already made it clear she didn’t care for her emperor. I was starting to think it wouldn’t take much to get her on our side. Hopefully. She seemed pretty dead set on hating dragons.
She scoffed. “You want to…take me to a tavern?”
“The Traveling Tavern. Everyone loves it.”
“You are a very confusing person, Rivelin the Blacksmith.”
“You’re going to be here for weeks. Might as well settle in and enjoy it.”
“Fine, let’s go to your sister’s tavern,” she said, swiping aside the steam still fogging the air. “Mind letting go of my arm now?”
I loosened my grip, and instantly, my hand felt cold. The heat of her had been far more welcome than I wanted to think about.
“Shall we go?” she asked in that fake chirpy voice of hers.
I motioned at the door. “After you.”
A lmost everyone in the village had turned out for the celebration. Paper streamers looped from one end of the square to the other, and lanterns hung from the tree limbs that snaked overhead. Several wooden tables had been crammed into the space, and there wasn’t an open spot at any of them. Dozens of attendees wandered through the crowd or broke off into small groups to gossip the night away.
A small stage had been erected just beside Lilia’s tavern, where the dwarf bard stomped his foot and sang a tune about the Old Gods. Fireflies darted about, buzzing with the same cheerful energy as everyone else.
Beside me, Daella took it all in, her cheeks flushed. I’d noticed her looking around the village with that same expression a few times now. Her eyes snagged on my sister’s tavern, and a slight smile tugged the corners of her lips. I understood why. Lilia’s Traveling Tavern was infamous.