The Shadow Weaver

by Ivy Cliffwater

Genres: Romantic Fantasy; Fantasy Romance

Synopsis

Forged from iron and shadow, Caris Ironside is one of the Cursed: an outcast hiding a deadly secret.

Caris is a skilled blacksmith and the only woman known to craft legendary swords. The novelty of her profession provides much-needed cover as she seeks vengeance for her mother's murder. Caris's search for the killer leads her to enter a brutal tournament disguised as a man, where she is quickly swept into the world of knights and courtiers.

When Caris's perilous mission takes her to Capita, a city ruled by The Order of Men, she must tread carefully. The Order is ruthlessly determined to eradicate the Cursed and will stop at nothing to see her fall.

As danger closes in, Caris finds herself relying on two unlikely allies: a fellow blacksmith haunted by his past, and a brooding captain who saved her life as a child. But their loyalty may not be enough when the darkness inside her begins to surface.

The Shadow Weaver is an epic romantic fantasy filled with forbidden power, deadly secrets and heart-pounding action.

Release date: October 28, 2025

Publisher: Hachette New Zealand

Print pages: 416

Sample

Ten winters later

The jagged stone walls of Murus rose before me cold and unyielding, and I wondered if he was behind them. The man whose hands had stained my life with blood and grief – the one who had torn the light from my mother’s eyes.

The sun reflected off a helmet, drawing my attention to the gaps placed at even intervals along the wall, where several sets of eyes watched the flow of people passing through the gate.

So, the rumors were true. An army of red-caped soldiers had taken up residence inside Murus. I had been right to come.

Nightmare’s hooves sounded over the stone bridge, taking us over the dry moat that encircled the city and its fortress. Even though I was careful to steer her through the crowds, people were startled by her presence.

She was a frightful beast. Nightmare was larger and blacker than any mare had the right to be. She was perfect.

‘Halt!’

Two soldiers stepped out of the shadows, blocking the only entrance into Murus. A murmur of frustration rippled through the crowd behind me.

‘Name?’ A soldier with black bushy brows and a bored expression came to stand at Nightmare’s shoulder. She turned her head and showed him her impressive teeth.

He took a step back.

‘Caris Ironside,’ I said.

‘And what is your reason for coming to Murus?’

‘Why are you asking me, and not those who went before me?’

His gaze went to the swords strapped to my back. ‘Just answer the question.’

‘Hurry up, will you?’ came a gruff voice behind me.

The soldier and I both turned to look at the man who spoke. He carried several sacks, and under a curly black beard, his face was red with the strain. He was glaring pointedly at me, not the soldiers blocking the entrance.

‘I’m here to work.’ And to kill a man.

‘Doing what?’ the soldier asked.

‘I’m a blacksmith.’ The soldier’s bushy brows rose so high they disappeared into his hair.

‘Plague, take it!’ The bearded man behind me threw down his sacks and put his hands on his hips. ‘Women can’t be blacksmiths!’

Impatient people annoyed me, but rude people made me angry. I considered dismounting and standing over the man, who was a head shorter than I, and telling him to be quiet. Instead, I took a calming breath and tugged my braid over my shoulder to inspect the blonde ends for any debris I might have collected during the nights I had slept on the ground.

It had taken several days to get here, and I didn’t want to give the bushy-browed soldier a reason not to let me into Murus.

‘Is that all?’ I asked the soldier.

His bushy eyebrows returned to their bored position. ‘Yes.’ He gestured to his men to let me through.

‘Wait, you don’t believe her bullshit story, do you?’

‘Don’t start trouble again, Mac,’ the soldier warned.

I lightly pressed my knees into Nightmare’s sides, urging her forward.

The man the soldier called Mac raised his voice so I couldn’t miss hearing him. ‘Women aren’t blacksmiths!’

Well, this woman was.

Murus seemed to burst at the seams; the cobblestone street overflowed with other travellers, hawkers and residents, all passing in and out of the city gates on foot, in noisy carts and on horseback.

The blacksmith’s shop I was looking for was close to the ancient stone fortress. Murus’s fortress had been empty when I visited last, but the blue flags now on the turrets and the soldiers around the entrance signalled it no longer was.

I dismounted from Nightmare and peered into a tidy and neatly organised shop. The old blacksmith wasn’t inside. Remembering the forge was attached to the side of the shop, I followed the familiar hammering sounds of a blacksmith at work.

Two women gripping baskets filled with washing were standing in my way, chatting with each other while watching whoever was hammering.

‘Excuse me.’ They moved aside reluctantly as I walked between them with Nightmare behind me. She flicked her tail at the pretty girl holding her wash basket on her hip. She was frightened enough by Nightmare’s size to scuttle closer to her friend. They both glared at me when I reached out to stroke the mare for her sassy behaviour.

The old blacksmith I had come to see wasn’t the one hammering. A much younger man was hammering a large piece of iron, every muscle and vein in his arms straining with the effort. He wielded the hammer expertly, and his blows were consistent and precise – something I knew from experience was very hard to do with a hammer as big as the one he held.

I watched him work, admiring his focus and skill. His shirt, adapted to leave his arms bare, clung to him with sweat as he laboured tirelessly, his back muscles flexing with every hammer strike. A wavy lock of fair hair had escaped the leather tie used to keep it out of his eyes.

I patiently waited as he took the piece he was working on to a large barrel and dipped it into the water using long iron tongs. He tucked the escaped strand of hair behind his ear, drawing my attention to his face. The blacksmith’s features were pleasant enough to look at. When our eyes connected, I couldn’t help admiring the thick, dark lashes surrounding his golden-brown eyes. He was not the old, gnarled blacksmith I sought.

He glanced at the women standing on the street, who were no longer pretending they were there to chat, then turned his golden gaze on me. Setting down his tools, he nodded towards Nightmare.

‘Are you wanting the mare reshod?’

He pronounced his r’s with a slight roll of his tongue, the depth of the burr in his voice bringing to mind honey warming in a pan. I shook my head, but he continued to approach me.

‘She’s an extraordinary mare. May I?’ he asked, coming closer.

Nightmare didn’t tolerate strangers touching her, especially men. ‘She isn’t the petting type,’ I warned.

He smiled warmly at me, then unhurriedly reached an enormous hand towards her black muzzle.

Not touching, just waiting.

Nightmare let out a slight puff of air through her enlarged nostrils and trod forward, pushing her nose into his palm. He smiled, raising his other hand to her neck.

‘You little hussy,’ I muttered.

‘Don’t be too mad at her,’ he smirked. ‘I have this effect on most fillies.’ His chuckle sounded more self-deprecating than cocky, despite his words.

I found that to be oddly charming.

‘So, what can I do for you?’ he asked, crossing his arms.

‘I was hoping to rent accommodation above the forge for a time. I was here three winters ago, and the blacksmith and I agreed that I could work in the forge for a place to stay.’ This wasn’t exactly true. Yes, I had stayed here, but it wasn’t me who had worked in the forge for the accommodation. I was an apprentice the last time I was in Murus, and the future agreement was not with me, but still, I had hoped the old blacksmith would remember me and allow me to work for him now that I was fully trained.

The blacksmith uncrossed his arms, surprise written all over his face.

‘You apprenticed as a blacksmith?’

‘Yes. Five years.’ I was well-trained, and I enjoyed my work very much.

‘Can I see something you’ve made?’ he asked with a tilt of his head.

I reached behind me for the sword I had strapped to my back. If he were a good blacksmith, he would be impressed by the sword I had spent months crafting.

The broadsword wasn’t too heavy or too light. I had folded the metal as much as sixteen times. I had measured the level of iron ore carefully to ensure the blade had some flexibility but wouldn’t cause the sword’s life to shorten with rust – all things I had learned as an apprentice.

The blacksmith took my sword and ran a finger along the delicate engraving on the pristine blade.

‘You engrave your own swords?’

I knew it wasn’t unusual for blacksmiths to outsource to engravers, hilt makers and even grinders who would sharpen the blade, but along the Red River, there was no-one to do that work, so I had learned to do it all myself.

‘Yes, I can engrave.’ Would he say it was a waste of a blacksmith’s time?

He studied my sword for a long time, inspecting every inch. I had etched a mountainous landscape beneath a full moon into the steel and carved the oak hilt into the shape of a horse’s head.

He looked up at me. ‘Beautiful.’

My face grew warm as he handed back my sword hilt first.

‘Do we have a deal?’ I asked. ‘Accommodation above your forge for my skills?’

‘Are you sure you want to stay here?’ he asked with a slight frown. ‘I’ve done nothing to those rooms since buying this place, and it gets unbearably hot up there when I light the forge fires.’

I nodded, remembering that the rooms were basic but adequate.

‘I have well-furnished rooms in the blacksmith’s cottage, but I have no wife, and we would be alone …’ His words drifted away, and I saw a slight flush creep up his neck.

Before I could respond, he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, it would be inappropriate.’

I bit back a smile and waited for him to decide.

‘No customers here would appreciate fine sword-making skills like yours. They want tools, horseshoes, pots, pans. All rather mundane things,’ he said, rubbing the stubble on his jaw.

‘I know the rooms are simple, and that is all I need. I like to make fine things, but I understand there isn’t always someone to buy such items.’ Hopefully, my words reassured him that my expectations for the work and the accommodation were not more than what was available.

‘Well … if you’re sure?’ He started to take off his work apron.

I didn’t hold back my smile this time.

‘Go settle your horse around back, and I’ll find the key.’

The two women still stood on the street. The pretty one carrying her basket on her hip gazed yearningly at the blacksmith’s disappearing back.

I led Nightmare towards the small lean-to that was built for housing horses. Nightmare wasn’t too happy to share the space with the blacksmith’s bay gelding, who seemed unbothered by his unfriendly guest. I unsaddled my mare and fetched fresh hay while she drank from the trough, then took some time to brush her down, hoping it would put her in a better mood.

‘You need to mind your manners. You’re a guest here, and I want you to behave,’ I told her in a firm voice.

In return, she kicked the bucket I had foolishly left beside her. ‘Nightmare!’ I gathered up the few possessions I had with me and left her to sulk.

An outside staircase led me to the top of the forge where I found the blacksmith waiting for me. He opened the door, and I followed him inside.

An old square table and two bowed chairs were in the middle of the room. The blacksmith bent to inspect the worn chairs, finding one broken but the other sound. He straightened and scowled at the offending furniture.

I shrugged. ‘I don’t need two chairs.’

I patted the lumpy but adequate straw mattress and went to the corner where an old stove stood. A pot rested on top that I could use to cook and heat water in. Across the room, faded blue curtains adorned a small window that overlooked the street. Under it was a large chest where I placed my things before inspecting the smaller room. It also had a bed in one corner and another window, which looked at the fortress gates. I could make out two figures standing guard at the entrance.

Under the window was a small table with a washbowl and a jug. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, which would easily wipe away with some elbow grease.

I rolled up my sleeves, ready to work on what would be my home for a time.

The blacksmith shook his head. ‘These rooms are a mess. Are you sure … ?’

I nodded.

‘I’ll fetch some water and rags,’ he muttered before leaving the room.

We got to work removing years of dust. The blacksmith fixed the broken chair with a few well-placed nails. He kindly brought me wood for a fire despite my assurance that I could make do with cold water for one night. He insisted and had a fire in the little stove going and water warming in no time.

While sweeping the floor, the sunset’s warm glow through the window made the rooms feel cosy.

The blacksmith returned with his arms filled with fresh linens and a down pillow.

‘I don’t need any of this,’ I told him, even though the pillow would be far more comfortable than my bed roll.

He ignored my protests and placed a generous share of his cold supper on the freshly scrubbed table.

I hadn’t eaten since early that morning, and my mouth watered at the simple offering: a cold chicken leg, a thick slice of bread lathered in butter and a large red apple.

‘I think that will do you for the night.’ He looked around the room.

‘Thank you for helping clean and for being so generous.’ I rested my hand next to the supper plate he had placed on the well-scrubbed table. ‘What’s your name?’ I couldn’t keep calling him the blacksmith.

He leaned against the doorframe, peering at me through his thick lashes. ‘Cillian Northwind. And what, may I ask, is your name?’

‘Caris Ironside.’

‘Goodnight, Caris,’ he said, the rolled r sending a shiver down my spine. He closed the door quietly, and I stared at it until my stomach growled, reminding me of the food he had left for me.

†

The next morning, I rose early and dressed for a day working in the forge. I washed my face with the water above the cold fireplace and brushed my teeth with the paste I always kept in my satchel. Before leaving the room, I put on my fingerless leather gloves that allowed me to work but protected my palms. They also covered the old scars that were an ugly reminder of the darkest night of my life.

I went to the stable to check on Nightmare and found Cillian feeding her an apple. The blacksmith quite literally had my horse eating out of his hand.

‘Good morning.’ He greeted me with a smile. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ I had slept very well. There had been no nightmares, no waking up and struggling to go back to sleep because of memories that always seemed to find me in the middle of the night.

‘Here, I made you a drink.’ He handed me a clay mug filled with a muddy-looking hot liquid.

I looked at him curiously, but he just smiled and gestured for me to try it. The smell was strong and unfamiliar. It wasn’t unpleasant, so I took a sip. It was bitter but not awful.

He chuckled at my expression and grabbed a small jug perched on the wall. ‘Here, you might prefer it with milk.’

I held out the mug to him, and he poured a generous amount of milk into it. He gestured for me to try again. I took a small sip and then another. It was only mildly bitter now, and the milk added a creaminess, which I enjoyed. I could feel its warmth moving through me already.

This might just be my new favourite drink. ‘What is this?’

He smiled, seeming pleased by my reaction.

‘Coffee. It’s made from a bean grown across the sea and is brought to Eritz in big sacks on large ships. It’s a popular morning drink in the big cities of Pedion, mostly because it gives you energy.’

Murus was the only city I had been to, and the idea that there were bigger cities with even more people further north was daunting.

‘How is this made from a bean?’ I asked as I continued to drink more of the coffee.

Cillian just chuckled. I watched him down his own, which he drank without milk. He handed me an apple and the wrapped oatcakes he had perched on the wall beside him. I munched on my oatcakes and sipped coffee while following him into his forge.

‘I will work four days in seven for you,’ I said.

Cillian shook his head at my offer. ‘That would be a crime for simple rooms I wasn’t even using.’ He moved to light the fire in the oversized hearth. ‘Two days for board and food is fair.’

‘That is far too generous, Cillian Northwind. I will work three days, but you can keep making me coffee in the morning.’ I handed him his blacksmith’s apron, and he grinned as he took it from me.

‘Fine, Caris Ironside. Three days and coffee.’ His eyes warmed with amusement, and I couldn’t help feeling pleased that I had put it there. ‘I warn you. I’m an old, cantankerous employer, and after three days you might want to renegotiate,’ he teased.

It wasn’t true, of course. I enjoyed working alongside the Murus blacksmith, and we quickly fell into a comfortable rhythm. The morning was quiet and productive, but there were frequent interruptions as Murus came to life. Cillian would leave me to work while he dealt with customers picking up items or placing orders at his shop next door.

At first, I didn’t notice as a crowd gathered to watch me hammer a simple kitchen knife blade. I was fully immersed in what I was doing, enjoying the feeling of my muscles working hard again. Days in the saddle had tired me, but not in the same way smithing did.

When Cillian returned with lunch, he gestured to the crowd I had drawn to the forge. ‘It seems a woman blacksmith is very good at attracting business,’ he said, grinning at me.

Children tugged at their parents’ arms, pointing at me as I looked up.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled, glancing away.

I took the food and cool water he handed me and sat on a stool out of sight of the gathering children. I rarely had an audience when I worked. Most of my customers knew me from childhood and had seen me learn my trade. They didn’t give much notice to my being a woman blacksmith.

‘You said yesterday that the man who raised you taught you the trade?’

I nodded and took a long drink of water.

‘What’s his name? I know all the blacksmiths in Pedion.’

I shook my head, sure that Cillian would not have met him. He had never joined a guild and rarely ventured from our small Red River forge. He said it was because he didn’t like being around too many people, but I knew the unfamiliar landmarks and winding streets confused him. ‘His name is Iain De Gellar. He wasn’t a blacksmith until later in life,’ I explained. ‘He had learned the trade from his father but became a soldier instead.’

‘So, how did a soldier become your guardian and teacher?’

‘He fished me out of the Red River when I was eleven.’ I suddenly lost my appetite and put down the slice of bread I had been nibbling on.

Cillian waited patiently for me to continue. I looked down at my hands, wondering how much I should tell him.

‘My father had died the previous month, and my mother and I were travelling when a patrol captain killed her.’

‘I’m so sorry, Caris.’ He shook his head.

‘I had jumped in the river to escape the same fate, and Iain found me miles downstream.’

‘So, he took you in and taught you to be a blacksmith,’ Cillian stated quietly.

‘Yes. He had a forge by the Red River, and I became his apprentice.’ He had also taught me how to fight with a sword and take down a man with my bare hands, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. A woman blacksmith was one thing – a woman who fought as well as a trained soldier was another.

‘It was Iain who knew the old blacksmith who was here before you, and he would come here every few years to buy supplies and trade goods. Like many others on the river, we led a simple life.’

‘So, you didn’t have an agreement with the old blacksmith to trade work for accommodation?’ Cillian raised a brow.

‘Not exactly,’ I admitted. Was he mad at my deception?

He chuckled. ‘I forgive you.’

‘How did you end up in this place?’ He looked nothing like the old blacksmith. If he were a relative, he would be a distant one.

Cillian was quiet for a while, making me even more curious about his story.

‘The old blacksmith died, and his family was looking to sell his shop and the forge, but no blacksmiths were willing to move to Murus. It’s a very isolated city.’

Murus hardly seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, but I grew up on the banks of the Red River, so what would I know? ‘Why did you buy it?’

He shifted on his stool and cleared his throat. ‘My wife was a midwife who had made some powerful people angry by helping someone. I felt it was dangerous to stay, and Murus was as far away from that danger as I could take her.’

He rubbed his palms over his knees and looked off into the distance.

‘She was expecting our first child, so I left her at home while I purchased supplies for our journey. I should never have left her alone.’ His voice broke at the end, and I braced for what came next.

‘By the time I got back to her, she was dead.’ His voice wavered.

‘She was killed?’

He nodded, looking down at his hands, now motionless on his knees. The air between us was heavy with his pain, and I wanted to comfort him, but I didn’t know how.

‘After that, I came here alone.’ He stood abruptly and gathered up our lunch plates.

There was no more talk of the past, and we returned to our work. I couldn’t help but look over at Cillian now and then. He had a way about him that made me feel safe. I didn’t trust people easily, but I was starting to wonder if I could confide in Cillian.

I had never had someone to share my story with, and never had a person entrust something so painful and raw to me. Was he lonely? For the last few years, loneliness had become a familiar friend. I had worked and trained, and that was all. Most women aged twenty were married or at least looking to marry. They had friends with whom they shared secrets and dreams. I had never kissed a boy or spent time by the river with friends. I had never been interested in pursuing friendship or romance. I always felt like an outsider watching others live lives I could never have because I knew that everyday life wasn’t for someone like me: someone who only thought day and night of revenge.

The first three days went by quickly. As promised, Cillian had a hot cup of coffee waiting for me every morning. I started the day making knives, nails, pots and pans. Later, we would chat while having lunch or sit silently, watching people walk by. The work brought me a sense of contentment, and Cillian was a calming person to be around. I’d worked alone in Red River for so long that I’d forgotten what it was like before Iain became too ill to work beside me.

It was my first day off, and Nightmare nudged me impatiently as I tried to saddle her. Bay, Cillian’s horse, munched away on hay, still unbothered by Nightmare.

‘I can’t believe you named your bay-coloured horse Bay,’ I snorted at Cillian, who was drinking his morning coffee.

‘I’m offended!’ He clutched his heart in mock horror. ‘And so is Bay.’

I shook my head, trying to bite back a smile and failing.

‘And what kind of name is Nightmare, eh?’ He looked at me over the rim of his cup as he took another sip.

‘Well, she’s black like night, a mare and …’ I paused for effect. ‘She’s a bloody nightmare to deal with.’

He threw back his head and laughed, causing the crows that waited on the wall for our leftover breakfast to launch into the air with a squawk.

Nightmare navigated the winding streets of Murus with ease, and I realised that making Cillian laugh had me smiling stupidly at strangers, so I immediately stopped.

I had adjusted to my surroundings over the past few days, and I enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the city. The markets were even more varied than three years ago and I took my time looking through all the different stalls. The banks of the Red River were vast but isolated, and I had only shopped from riverside villages where the food selection was small, all with very similar offerings. In Murus, there wasn’t just an extensive range of locally-grown produce – I also discovered imported foods I had never seen before.

One vendor was selling a giant, spiky, bright-yellow fruit. He called it a pine-apple. No pine trees I’d ever seen had fruit on them.

He explained that the fruit grew on the ground, not in trees, but couldn’t explain why they were called pine-apples. They looked nothing like an apple.

I bought one, a small bag of coffee beans and some honey cakes a child and her mother were selling.

The little girl smiled at me shyly. ‘She likes to stop and watch you work with the Murus blacksmith every morning on our way to set up for the market,’ her mother told me, making the girl blush.

With my shopping done, I waved goodbye to the little girl and her mother and headed back in the direction of the forge. Instead of stopping there, I went up the hill towards the fortress. I was close enough to see the guards’ faces, and it was a testament to their discipline that they gave me nothing but a cursory look in return.

The noise of steel striking steel reached my ears. It sounded like soldiers were training behind the fortress walls. How many were inside? There was only one way to find out.

‘I’m here to deliver some things to someone inside,’ I said.

‘To who?’ asked the guard.

Damnation. ‘A friend,’ I answered.

‘Bugger off. We don’t allow your kind in here.’

My kind? Blacksmiths? Women? Oh wait, does he think I’m a—

‘Not that kind of friend.’ I was dressed in men’s breeches and a shirt that had been worn and washed so many times that it was no longer white but grey. Hardly an outfit to entice a soldier to pay for my company.

‘I said, bugger off!’ He reached for his sword. It wasn’t wise for me to draw their attention, so I had no choice but to back up and walk away.

Entering the fortress was going to need some planning. I needed to find a legitimate way to gain access.

I headed back to Cillian, who was working on the colossal piece of metal I had seen him hammering the first day we met.

He looked at me with a smile, and I smiled back before taking Nightmare to the stable. When I returned, Cillian asked to see what I had purchased from the market. I wanted to share the honey cakes and the pine-apple with him, so I cut it up the way the vendor had shown me.

‘This is my new favourite apple.’ I ate another slice.

Cillian laughed and shook his head at me.

‘What are you making?’ I gestured to the piece he was working on.

‘It’s going to be a plough.’ He motioned for me to come over to the table we used as a workshop desk and view the detailed drawing.

‘Most ploughs are wood held together with iron nails and brackets, with one central piece of iron digging into the soil. I’ve designed this one to have multiple blades that rotate in the dirt as the horse pulls it, making it more efficient at breaking up rocks and much faster for the farmer.’

The design had many parts drawn with precise measurements, and he had labelled each piece to be crafted. Blacksmiths always created basic patterns and designs, but this was the first time I had seen plans as complicated as this. He had a unique talent for this clever type of engineering.

‘This is incredible!’

His cheeks flushed, and he reached up to rub the back of his neck. ‘You think so?’

‘Yes. You’re smarter than you look, aren’t you?’ I tilted my head, a smirk tugging at my lips.

He chuckled, and we went back to eating honey cakes and pine-apple.

‘What do you know about the people residing in the fortress?’ I asked, trying to sound only mildly curious.

He wiped at the juice trickling down his chin from an exceptionally juicy piece of pine-apple. ‘They just showed up one day.’ He shrugged. ‘A lord from Capita with three children is what I’ve heard. They arrived just over three months ago.’

‘What’s with all the soldiers?’ I asked.

‘They escorted the family to Murus from Capita. Whoever this lord is, he needs a well-trained militia, which doesn’t come cheap.’ Cillian wiped his sticky hands on his breeches as he continued. ‘If I had to guess, I would say this lord and his family are hiding from someone or have been exiled.’

‘Exiled by who?’ I was getting even more curious about the fortress inhabitants. Cillian shrugged again, but he avoided my gaze. Was he afraid to say more?

‘His militia seem rather well behaved compared with the few soldiers I’ve met,’ I said with a bitter taste in my mouth. Cillian laid his big hand on top of the one I had resting on my knee.

‘You have nothing to fear while you’re staying here. That’s a promise, Caris.’

I nodded but moved my hand from beneath his. Being touched, even out of kindness, made me uncomfortable. He didn’t seem bothered by my withdrawal, which I was thankful for.

That night I lay awake, unable to sleep. I could see the stony facade of the fortress through my little bedroom window. I couldn’t help but wonder if the man, with his hauntingly pale blue eyes and my mother’s blood staining his hands, found peaceful slumber within those cold, unyielding stone walls.

The rest of the week flew by. I visited the young girl and her mother at the market again and bought more of their honey cakes. I told the girl that I would be back working in the forge with Cillian in a few days, and her excitement filled me with pride.

On another of my days off, I took Nightmare for a ride outside the city gates. We found a meadow with a small stream. I stripped down and bathed, enjoying the pleasure of the water running over my hot skin. As always, I passed the fortress gates to check the guards’ faces before returning to the forge.

It was my first day back in the forge, and Cillian had asked me to stock up on horseshoes. By the end of the day, I had filled a wooden crate with new horseshoes and carried them to the shop.

‘You won’t need to make a horseshoe for months—’ I came to an abrupt halt when I rea