Lyr Thornwright's Arc

Chapter 2 of 8

Lyr laid the willowlight wood on her workbench and picked up her smallest file. Her hands stayed steady now. But the file's teeth were made for iron, not for wood soft as this. She dragged it once across the sliver. A curl too deep peeled away. She stopped, sweat cold on her neck. One more mistake and the precious wood would be ruined. She set down the file and stared at her tools. Every blade on the bench was cut for metal. Chisels for silver. Files for steel. None of them could shape willowlight without tearing it. She had the cure and the steady hands at last, and still she could not carve the pendant. The thought made her want to throw the whole bench through the wall. There was one man who worked wood. She had passed his shed a hundred times and never spoken to him. He was poor, quiet, always trading trinkets with a fox. He was also afraid of her. Everyone was. But he had the tools she needed. She wrapped the willowlight and walked to his door before she could change her mind. He was bent over an anvil display, an old family piece, arranging hammers on a rug. When he saw her, he dropped one. It rang against the stone floor. "Finn Ashwood," she said. "I need carving tools. Fine ones. For wood." Finn straightened slowly. His eyes moved from her face to her furs and back. He looked like a man deciding whether to run. "You make blades and work with metal,” he said. "You don't carve." "I do now." She unwrapped the willowlight and held it out. "I need to shape this. My files ruin it." He stared at the glowing wood. His fear left his face all at once. He stepped closer, careful, like a man approaching something holy. "That's from the tree," he said. "The fox brings it." He almost smiled. "I trade him for it too." Lyr said nothing. She would not explain the curse. She would not explain anything. Finn crossed to a carved wooden chest and lifted the lid. Inside lay narrow gouges and knives, their edges thin as paper. He chose three and held them out. "These bite soft wood clean," he said. "No tearing." She reached for them. He did not let go. "Show me," he said. "I've never seen anyone carve willowlight. I want to watch." Lyr's jaw tightened. She worked alone. She always had. But the tools were in his hand, not hers. She thought of the ruined stone, the wasted nights, the wood too rare to work with twice. "Fine," she said. "You watch. You don't talk." He handed her the smallest gouge. She pressed it to the willowlight and pulled. A thin, clean curl lifted away. The wood held. Her hands did not shake. For the first time, the pendant felt possible. But now a stranger stood at her shoulder, and she had let him in.