Sterling Forge's Arc

Chapter 1 of 31

Sterling Forge pulled the fourth blade from the coals and knew before it hit the anvil that he had lost it again. The tip glowed cherry. The middle sulked orange. The base was almost black. He hammered anyway, because hope was cheaper than iron, and watched the steel bow sideways like a wet reed as it cooled. He swore and set it in the scrap pile with the other three. Silver he could coax. Silver forgave a slow hand and a cold corner. Steel did not. A sword needed the whole length hot at once, and his forge, for all its stone and bellows, ran hotter at the throat than at the mouth. Every blade he drew came out warped. Every warp meant he was no closer to the sword he had been drawing on scrap paper for months, the one he kept promising himself was possible. He shoved open the door and stepped out into the square for air. The fountain trickled. The cobblestones were slick with frost. He tipped his head back to cool his face and caught movement across the square instead. A figure in a dark cloak moved along the far wall, hugging the shadows. The hood slipped for one step and he saw pale purple hair beneath it. Linny. He should have gone back inside. She had made herself clear. She had called his warnings hypocrisy. Even after he helped save her father, once Lena and Nell were married, she turned her back to him again. The last he had heard she had turned the shop into her studio and her sister worked out of Nell’s cabin. But art didn’t require sneaking. Still, whatever she was doing at this hour was not his business. But Linny had a habit of walking straight into things that ate people. He wiped his hands on his apron and followed. She cut across the square and around the corner toward the library. He kept a wall between them. She stopped at the side door, glanced once over her shoulder, and knelt. Metal scraped in the lock. The door gave. Sterling caught it before it swung shut and slipped inside behind her. She was already up the aisle, a small lantern hooded in her palm, moving like she knew exactly which shelf she wanted. He stepped on a loose board. She spun. The lantern flared. Her other hand came up with a short iron blade — one of his — leveled at his throat. "Forge." Flat. Not a question. "Put that down." "You followed me." "You're breaking into the library." "Then leave." He did not leave. He looked past her at the shelf she had been reaching for. Bound ledgers. Scrolls and maps. Old ones. The kind that logged the woods she nearly died entering. "You're here for a map," he said. She lowered the blade an inch. "It’s none of your business.” He snarled and stepped closer. “Surely you know by now that’s not true.”