The hammer struck steel with a rhythm like a war drum, each blow echoing through the cramped forge. Sparks erupted, tiny embers flaring briefly in the air before dying against the soot-stained stone floor. Kara Veyne's hands, rough and calloused from years at the anvil, gripped the hammer's worn handle with a ferocity that mirrored the fire in her emerald eyes. Her red hair, tied back in a messy braid, clung to her sweat-soaked neck, the heat of the furnace painting her freckled cheeks a fierce crimson. The air was thick with the scent of molten iron and burning coal, a sharp tang that stung her nostrils with every breath. Through the grimy window of her father's forge, the jagged peaks of Ironreach loomed like the teeth of some ancient beast, their shadows stretching long and dark over the molten rivers snaking through the valley below.
"You'll scare off any suitor with that temper, girl," her father grunted from the corner, where he polished a freshly forged blade. His voice was rough, but there was a teasing warmth in it, the kind only a parent could muster after years of watching their child grow into a storm. "All that banging—sounds like you're trying to wake the dead."
Kara didn't look up, her hammer slamming down again with a metallic clang that reverberated through the small forge. "I'd rather swing a hammer than bend a knee," she shot back, her voice sharp as the edge of the steel she shaped. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, but it vanished as quickly as it came. She wasn't in the mood for jests—not today, not when the weight of Ironreach's troubles pressed heavier than the iron in her hands. King Veyl's dragon riders had been spotted closer to the border villages, their shadows darkening the sky like storm clouds. Whispers of war had crept into every tavern and marketplace, and though Kara had no love for politics, she knew what it meant: more swords, more armor, more work for the forge—and less time for anything else.
Her father chuckled, the sound low and gravelly, but he didn't press further. He knew better than to prod a fire when it was already blazing. Instead, he turned back to his blade, the scrape of his whetstone against steel blending with the rhythmic pounding of Kara's hammer. For a moment, the forge felt like it always had—a sanctuary of heat and iron, a place where the world's troubles could be drowned out by the song of metal and fire.
That moment shattered with a roar that shook the earth.
The sound tore through the forge like a thunderclap, rattling the tools on the walls and sending a cascade of dust from the rafters. Kara's hammer froze mid-swing, her heart slamming against her ribs as the roar rolled into a deep, guttural growl. It wasn't thunder—it was something alive, something massive. Her father dropped his blade, the steel clattering against the floor as he stumbled to the window. "What in the hells—" he started, but his words were cut off by a deafening crash.
The roof exploded inward, wooden beams splintering like kindling as something colossal smashed through. Kara threw herself to the ground, shielding her face as debris rained down around her. The air filled with the acrid stench of smoke and sulfur, and when she looked up, her breath caught in her throat. A dragon—its scales black as midnight, its amber eyes glowing like molten lava—lay sprawled across the forge, its massive body crushing the anvil she'd been working at moments before. One of its wings was torn, jagged gashes weeping dark blood onto the floor, the scales around the wounds scorched and smoking.
Before Kara could process the sight, a figure leapt down from the dragon's back, landing with the grace of a predator. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair falling in tangled strands across a face marred by scars. His gray eyes were sharp as a blade, glinting with a dangerous intensity as they locked onto her. He wore battered leather armor, patched and stained with blood, and a longsword hung at his hip, its hilt worn from use. In his hand, he held a dagger, its tip pointed directly at her throat.
"You," he growled, his voice low and rough, like gravel grinding underfoot. "You're the smith's daughter. Fix her wing, or I'll gut you where you stand."
Kara's pulse pounded in her ears, but she didn't flinch. She'd faced down drunks and bandits in the taverns of Ironreach; she'd stared into the eyes of men who thought they could break her with a word or a fist. This man—this rider—was no different, dragon or not. Slowly, she rose to her feet, her hammer still clutched in her hand, its weight a comforting anchor against the chaos around her. Her father scrambled to her side, his face pale, but she waved him back with a sharp gesture. She didn't need protecting—not now, not ever.
Her gaze flicked to the dragon, then back to the man. Up close, she could see the scars that crisscrossed his face, one slicing through his left eyebrow and ending just above his jaw. He was younger than she'd expected, maybe in his late twenties, but there was a hardness in him, a darkness that spoke of battles fought and blood spilled. His gray eyes held no mercy, only a cold determination that sent a shiver down her spine—not of fear, but of something else, something hotter, something she couldn't quite name.
"Touch me," she said, her voice steady despite the storm in her chest, "and you'll eat steel."
The man's lips twitched, a flicker of something—amusement, maybe?—crossing his face before it vanished behind that icy mask. He didn't lower the dagger, but he didn't advance either. Instead, he tilted his head, studying her like a wolf sizing up prey. "Brave words for a girl with soot on her face," he said, his tone mocking. "But I don't have time for games. My dragon's bleeding out. Fix her, or I'll burn this place to ash."
Kara's grip on the hammer tightened, her knuckles whitening. She wanted to swing it, to wipe that smirk off his face, but she wasn't stupid. A dragon, even an injured one, could reduce the forge—and half the village—to cinders in a heartbeat. And this man… he wasn't bluffing. She could see it in the way he stood, the way his hand hovered over his sword, ready to draw at the slightest provocation. He was dangerous, maybe more dangerous than the beast behind him.
But there was something else, too. Something in the way the dragon's amber eyes locked onto her, unblinking, as if it could see straight into her soul. A strange heat bloomed in her chest, not from the forge, but from somewhere deeper, somewhere primal. It wasn't fear or anger—it was… recognition? She shook her head, shoving the thought aside. Dragons didn't bond with humans, not unless they were riders, and she sure as hell wasn't one of those.
"Fine," she said at last, her voice clipped. "But I'm not your servant, and I don't work for free. Tell me what's wrong with her wing, and maybe I'll help."
The man's eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise breaking through his cold facade. "Her name's Ashka," he said after a long pause, his voice softening just a fraction as he glanced at the dragon. "She took a spear to the membrane during a skirmish with Veyl's riders. The wound's deep—too deep for her to fly. If she doesn't get patched up soon, she'll die."
Kara's gaze shifted to Ashka, taking in the jagged tears in the dragon's wing. The damage was bad—worse than anything she'd ever seen—but not impossible to fix. She'd mended plows and swords; a wing couldn't be that different, could it? Still, the thought of working on a living, breathing dragon sent a thrill of unease through her. And this man—whoever he was—didn't exactly inspire trust.
"Name," she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. "And don't think I'm stupid enough to believe you're just passing through. No one 'passes through' Ironreach with a dragon unless they're running from something—or to something."
The man's jaw tightened, and for a moment, she thought he might snap. But then he stepped closer, his dagger still in hand, and leaned in until she could feel the heat of his breath on her face. "Call me Talon," he said, his voice a low growl. "And if you don't start working, I'll make sure you wish you had."
Kara held his gaze, refusing to back down. Her heart hammered in her chest, but she'd be damned if she let him see it. "Then sit down, Talon," she said, spitting his name like a curse. "I'll fix your dragon. But if you so much as twitch wrong, I'll bury this hammer in your skull."
The tension between them crackled like a storm about to break, and for a moment, neither moved. Then, slowly, Talon lowered his dagger, though his eyes never left hers. "Get to work, smith," he said, stepping back. "We don't have much time."
Kara didn't respond. She turned to Ashka, her mind racing as she assessed the dragon's wing. The heat in her chest flared again, stronger this time, as those amber eyes followed her every move. Something was happening—something she couldn't explain. But for now, she had a job to do. And if Talon thought he could scare her into submission, he was about to learn just how hard iron could bite.