The inn’s dim light flickers across the rough wooden beams above, casting long shadows over the narrow room. The air smells faintly of smoke and stale beer, mingling with the earthy scent of porridge being stirred nearby. The innkeeper shuffles over, placing a bowl of porridge, a cup of milk, and two freshly boiled eggs in front of me. The porridge looks gray, and unappetizing, lacking any richness. I pour the milk over it, hoping to soften both its texture and taste, and begin beating it with my spoon mixing the contents together. The innkeeper looks at me with distaste as if I ruined what he calls a meal.
“Did you hear? The Prince of Wales is in Berkshire. Departed from Gascony and arrived at Wallingford Castle just past midnight. Heard a few guards talking about it late in the night, nearly drunk themselves under the table they were so concerned of the prince’s late arrival,” the innkeeper says, his voice thick with curiosity. “Why such a strapping young man would come here, one may ask. What could it mean?”
"Perhaps it's because Wallingford Castle is one of his residences, along with Berkhamsted in Hertfordshire. And do not forget, he is next in line for the throne—he is likely to have business here. Which, if I may remind you, is none of your business," I say, pointing my spoon at the innkeeper.
He glares at me, his eyes dark with annoyance before walking away, but I pay it no mind and try a taste of the porridge. Yup, bland and not a hint of flavor, I think to myself as I place the bowl to the side and instead reach for the hard-boiled eggs.
As I finish my meal, or rather just the two eggs. I place a Groat, 4 silver pennies, on the table, grabbing my things and walking out of the inn.
Stepping out into the open air, a sharp chill bites at my skin, cutting through the layers of my cloak, a harsh reminder of late fall's grip. The morning sky is a thick blanket of gray, heavy with clouds that promise no relief. The cold wind gusts through the village, carrying with it the unmistakable stench of burning bodies. Acrid smoke rises in twisting tendrils, curling into the overcast sky and mingling with the foul odors of rotting waste—both human and animal. My breath hangs in the air in thin, misty clouds, vanishing almost as quickly as it forms. I pull the dry cotton cloth tighter over my nose and mouth, hoping to block out the relentless stench. But it’s futile—the odor clings to me, seeps into my clothing, and fills my lungs with every breath, an ever-present reminder of the decay surrounding the village.
The village feels disturbingly still, the air is heavy with an oppressive silence. The only sounds are the occasional crackle of distant fires and the low murmur of voices, carried on the wind like faint whispers. A few villagers shuffle past me, their faces pale, uncovered, their eyes hollow and resigned to the plague-ridden air. They move as if they no longer care about the toxic breath they take in hopelessly, beaten down. But not me. I refuse to let that same despair sink into my bones. I adjust the cloth again, determined to survive, the weight of my family’s name pressing against my chest like the medallion I wear.
I inhale sharply, my temples beginning to ache, the frigid air doing nothing to ease the bitter taste of smoke that clings to my throat. Ahead, the marketplace comes into view, bustling with activity, yet a haze of desperation lingers in the air. The cold wind stings my eyes, making them water slightly as I pass by a stall piled with late fall vegetables—turnips, cabbages, and withered carrots. Most of them are barely ripe, their skins bruised, and some already showing signs of rot. The sharp, earthy scent of damp soil mixes with the smell of decay, lingering in the cold air like an unwanted reminder of scarcity. A vendor’s rough hands, red from the chill, sort through the wilting produce, his breath visible as he mutters to the few customers brave enough to haggle over such meager offerings.
On my right, a man argues loudly over a sheep, pleading to trade five scrawny chickens in exchange. The chicken’s feathers fluffed against the biting cold, huddling together in their cage, their clucks barely audible over the wind. Another stall displays furs and pelts, arranged haphazardly on wooden racks and rough-hewn tables. The thick scent of animal hides clings to the air, musky and raw, barely masking the underlying odor of rot that seems to hang over the marketplace. Heavy winter pelts—wolf, deer, and bear—are draped across the stall, their fur dull in the weak light, some showing patches where the hide has worn thin. Smaller pelts, fox and rabbit, lie folded in uneven piles, their once-lustrous coats now matted and stiff from exposure to the cold air.
A small frail woman, her face pale and wind-chapped, stands at the stall, bartering desperately for a fur coat. She grips the worn fabric of her cloak tightly around her thin frame, shivering as the cold bites at her exposed skin. Her eyes dart nervously from the vendor to the coat—a heavy, dark brown fur lined with coarse wool.
“This is all I have,” she says, her voice trembling. She cups a few pieces of silver pennies in one hand, the meager sum clinking softly in her palm.
The vendor, a burly huntsman with a face hardened by long hours in the cold, his beard unkempt and wild inspects the coat with a practiced eye. He frowns, his calloused fingers brushing over a rough patch on the sleeve where the fur has thinned, still he shakes his head.
"This coat is worth more than that what you are offering," he grumbles, his voice rough like the worn fabric of his apron.
Her grip on the pennies tightens, and she glances at the thinning pelts hanging around the stall, her breath visible in the cold. "Please," she whispers, her voice almost drowned out by the wind. The desperation in her eyes is clear, her need for warmth softening the harden vendor.
The man sighs, glancing at the slow trickle of other customers in the market. He gives a reluctant nod. “Very well. The coat’s yours.”
She hands over the coins quickly, her fingers trembling from both cold and relief as she pulls the fur coat close to her body. The vendor pockets the few silver pennies with a grumble. His eyes meet mine as he catches me staring at the whole exchange, and he offers a slight nod. I return the gesture before continuing down the marketplace.
The square hums with the strained voices of traders, their haggling edged with desperation. It’s less bartering, more begging—every word an echo of survival. I adjust the cloth-wrapped object on my back, pulling the leather straps tighter as I walk toward the smithing stalls, the familiar weight a strange comfort against my spine. Firelight flickers over the edges of anvil and hammer, casting long shadows on the cold morning earth. Smoke, sharp steel, and the faint, underlying stench of decay hang in the air, all mingling into a haze that fills my lungs with each shallow breath.
"Is that a sword?" The question, clear and light, jolts me from my thoughts.
Turning, I see a young woman by the forge, her hands dusted with soot and her lower face hidden beneath a smudged cloth. She stands over a makeshift campfire poking charcoal with a long iron poker, but her gaze is fixed on the wrapped object slung over my shoulder. Her eyes, sharp and questioning, travel over the cloth, taking in the outline of the hilt beneath.
“What?” I manage, blinking to clear my vision. For a moment, the flickering firelight blurs, and her face merges with another—my sister’s, tear-streaked and afraid. My heart pounds, and a dull ache presses behind my temples, a memory clawing its way forward. I smell burning wood, the scent thick, and then cloth... flesh. My sister's cries rise in my mind, faint and desperate. Why? Why did this happen? Where’s Mommy? Daddy? I can almost feel her in my arms, her body shaking against mine as I promise her safety I couldn’t give.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
A hand on my shoulder brings me back. I blink again, feeling warmth around me. The young woman wraps a blanket over me, her eyes searching for my sanity, more curious than fearful. She walks back to her forge and grabs a metal mug; she swishes water around it and tosses it out onto the ground. She turns to a small iron cauldron over her campfire opposite where the forge and anvil are resting. She uses a wooden ladle to fill the mug with warm liquid from the cauldron. She gestures toward a worn stool near the fire, her eyes urging me to sit.
“You do know there’s a plague?” I murmur, a hint of unease slipping into my voice. “How can you be sure I’m not… infected?”
Her gaze softens, though her eyes remain wary. “My father died of the plague. I know the symptoms.” She pauses, glancing at me more closely. “You… don’t look plagued. Just haggard. And haunted.”
Fair enough, I thought and sat down.
Her calloused fingers brush mine as she places the mug in my hands. The warmth spreads through my fingers, and I drink slowly, surprised by the taste—a rich, savory broth, full spices. It fills me, grounding me in the present as I drain the cup. The young woman watches me, a hint of a smile breaking through her smudged features.
“Thank you, I like to think my mother taught me well in the kitchen,” she says with gleam in her eyes, “it’s bone broth, amazing how it helps clear the mind and fills you with warmth.”
“It’s good,” I reply, glancing out at the dull, gray market around us, the haze of desperation heavy over everything. Here, by the fire with the taste of stew lingering on my tongue, it feels like a different world, somehow apart from the rest.
She nods, shrugging slightly as she pokes the coals again. I take a breath and glance toward the forge and anvil behind her. “I’m sorry about your father. Was he the blacksmith here?”
She loosens her auburn hair, letting it fall around her shoulders like chestnut-colored flames. “Yes. I took over the forge in his honor.”
“You?” I blurt, unable to mask my surprise. “You’re… a man?” The words come out awkwardly, and I feel my cheeks heat. Her build is sturdy, her shoulders muscular, but her face and stance; I look at her figure, her chest…I have made an error.
She meets my gaze sharply, then, with a smirk, thwacks me over the head with her ladle. “I am a woman,” she says, her voice firm but amused. “I was their only child, so I begged my father to teach me. Good thing I did, or his trade would have died with him.”
Her eyes turn toward the forge and the fire that is burning, her yellowish hazel eyes gleaming with memories of the past.
I wince, rubbing my head. “I apologize. That was rude of me.” I pull the blanket off my shoulders, setting it aside, though my head still pounds.
She glances down, her gaze settling on the cloth-wrapped sword hung across my back. “Sure,” she says, eyeing me with a spark of interest. “But only if you let me see that sword.”
My stomach tightens. I am not sure I want anyone’s hands on it, and yet something in her gaze—familiar and trustworthy—compels me. Despite her reddish hair and hazel eyes, something about her reminds me of my sister. Perhaps it is her warm playful smile, as if she is the only one in on the joke.
I unsling the sword and unwrap the cloth, revealing a scabbard of dark leather, almost black, with fine gold lines tracing its length. At the center, my family crest is stitched: a shield divided into four quadrants, each symbolizing a piece of my heritage. In the top-left, a twisted oak with, what my father called, “rune-marked” branches signifying deep ancestral roots, while a raven in flight against a crescent moon in the top-right symbolizes wisdom. The bottom-left holds a flame entwined with a sword blade, representing resilience and honor. The bottom-right displays thorned vines, embodying hidden strength. Midnight blue and silver dominate the design, bordered by twisting branches and faint “runes” I’ve never understood.
The young blacksmith’s eyes light up as she examines the scabbard. “A noble’s crest,” she murmurs, her fingers tracing the vines. She looks at me, a glimmer of fear surfacing as she realizes. “You… you’re a noble?”
I shake my head quickly, voice low. “No, I’m not. I only… came across this sword. It’s better to keep it hidden. It draws too much attention.” I pray she believes me, shrugging as if it’s nothing. She nods absently, her gaze returning to the scabbard, tracing the leather with a frown.
“This leather… and that metal… I’ve never seen anything like them. This isn’t from here, is it?” She looks at me, and I shrug, half-truthfully; I do not know everything about this sword myself.
My father’s secrets had died with him. I thought to myself gloomily.
Her hands move to the hilt, a careful touch sliding over the pommel, cross-guard, and grip. Her eyes studying every inch and every detail. “The pommel—an unknown metal,” she murmurs. “Shifts between silver and bronze, with those swirling patterns, just like the twisted oak on that there crest.” Her fingers glide along the grooves that spiral inward to a smoky crystal set in the center, flickering with a faint life of its own under the firelight.
I nod my head listening, “the design is intricate, almost hypnotic, with grooves spiraling inward to a small, gem-like stone set at the center—a dark, smoky crystal that seems to almost pulses faintly under the firelight.”
Her gaze turns to the grip, wrapped in indigo leather, almost black with an iridescent sheen that glints subtly as she tilts it in the light. “This leather—it’s unlike any hide I know. It’s soft to the touch, but strangely resilient. It is wound in a flawless spiral, blending strength and elegance in every turn. This suggest masterful craftsmanship far beyond any ordinary means.”
“And the cross guard,” her eyes shift to the guard of the hilt, “crafted from the same unknown metal as the pommel. With wing-like curves that echo the raven’s wings, and delicate engravings run along its surface like vines interwoven with faint, unfamiliar symbols.”
She lifts the sword, revealing the intricate details with a practiced eye, yet she has not even unsheathed it. Then, as if reading my thoughts, she slowly draws the blade. A low, resonant whisper fills the air as it slides free, a sound like ancient stone grinding softly against metal. The metal itself gleams with a silvery, liquid sheen, darkening toward the edge, where faint, shadowed patterns ripple like flowing smoke. The blade’s edge is sharp, impossibly so, holding both a cold brilliance and muted darkness.
“It’s remarkable,” she whispers, her fingers running along the edge with a hint of awe. “Sharper than even the best steel. There’s something… mythical about this blade. It’s almost like magic.”
I reach for the sword, taking it gently from her hands and sliding it back into its scabbard. She watches me with keen interest, tilting her head. “Where did you say you found that sword?” she asks, curiosity lighting her eyes.
“I didn’t,” I reply curtly, beginning to wrap the blade back up, securing it with quick, practiced movements. This was a mistake.
She steps closer, voice dropping. “How much for the blade? Name your price, and I’ll pay it.” Her eyes track my hands as I fasten the leather straps.
“It’s not for sale,” I say firmly, slinging the weapon over my shoulder and across. “I won’t part with it.”
“There’s something… mythical about that blade,” she insists, her gaze intense. “I just want to study it further. If I could examine it, maybe even take it apart—”
“There is no such thing as magic,” I snap, cutting her off. “My father died protecting this blasted thing, and I won’t dishonor his sacrifice by pawning it off. As much as I hate this… ridiculous heirloom…” My voice trails off, and I realize, too late, that I said too much.
The young blacksmith’s face goes pale, the firelight casting jagged shadows across her features as she stares at me with new wariness. Her gaze shifts away, hands moving reflexively to her sides as if pulling back from a flame. “I didn’t realize… that you were… of noble blood,” she mutters, voice low and edged with something like distrust. “My apologies,” she adds stiffly, her words brittle in the quiet between us. “I didn’t mean to overstep.” Her gaze flickers briefly over the sword before settling somewhere near the ground, her body now angled away from me. The warmth between us feels extinguished, replaced by something sharper, colder.
The soft crackling of the forge fades beneath the ambient murmur of the marketplace. She straightens, her face carefully neutral, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Please don’t take offense at my curiosity… my lord. It’s not my practice to deal with nobility.” Her tone cools further, almost brittle. “We don’t often have your kind here.”
Around us, a few villagers glance our way, sensing the tension, their curious stares pressing in like the chill that sharpens the autumn air. She shifts her weight, stepping farther back, her eyes dropping to the flame in her forge as if dismissing me. The meaning is clear: I am no longer welcome here.
Without another word, I turn and step out of her stall, each stride measured as I slip back into the crowded marketplace. The cold air feels sharper, stinging against my skin as I push forward, weaving past villagers who barely notice me. The sounds around me blur into a distant hum, my thoughts weighted, yet strangely hollow. The ache in my head persists, small and relentless, matching the faint throb in my chest with a dull pressure that settles just beneath my ribs—a low, irritating pain, persistent but not overwhelming, just enough to remind me it’s there.