by Lisa Daniels
“That fast, huh,” she said. He responded with the longest rattling snore she'd ever heard.
The bedsheets crumpled around Helga, warm and comforting against her skin. Quentin lay flopped out, taking more space than what should be legal, his arms flung out, chest rising up and down, and soft snores rumbling out his mouth. Helga propped herself on one elbow to examine the hybrid in better detail. His intelligent face looked wonderful like this, without the lines of worry and stress itching at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Helga wondered if her mother had ever done this. Looked at her father without prejudice and admired the beauty of his sleeping face. Touched him with the same tenderness she now afforded Quentin, letting her fingers slip over jawline and neck.
Quentin didn't stir, deeply slumbering. Helga couldn't keep her mind still. The blemishes of her arm glinted in the moonlight. All the scars of the forge there, seen as a thing of beauty by this strange man. Her hands needed to be put to more work soon. Crafting and crafting, preparing for disaster.
If only it worked out the way they all wanted. Some dreams were shattered, but others got made. Because of these people—because of Mia, and Zaine, and Quentin, Helga no longer needed to hide in her shop, tucking her hair back and pretending to be a man just to sell her goods. She no longer needed to scrape every coin just to be able to afford unprocessed metal and scrape tiny sapphires to eke out a living.
She'd have her own store front. With her own brand of items, probably using those stupid names Quentin had suggested.
If, of course, the war didn't burn things into ashes, and they didn't press gang her into anything.
Or put her into the less desirable chain gangs.
The other fun thing about her new life was dealing with Meep. That dragon would likely grow big enough to make carrying it around awkward in a week or so of time. But if the dragon trusted Helga enough, well, maybe it'd help her in the workshop. Carry tools for her, take the workload off her shoulders.
Certainly wouldn't be boring, anyway. Helga smiled at Quentin, still stroking him with a feathery glide of her fingertips.
You are forgeblood, Old Tam's words whispered in her mind. You may not have the magic of others, but the heat and act of creation calls to you. You are tempered by heat, forged by the tools you choose to use.
Do not waste this gift.
“I won't,” Helga whispered, before letting herself rest in the crook of Quentin's arm.
Neither did she plan to squander her talents or abandon the people who needed her.
She had a gift.
She intended to use it.
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Table of Contents
A Terrible Morning
