HEIR | The Cursed Monarchy | Book 1

Treachery: Part III, Chapter 13

As Cecily rested her forearms against a basin of melted snow-water, she looked down at the reflection it cast and was shocked at how pale she looked. Her face was gray, her eyes were red and swollen from the dust and heat from the forge. She was only twenty-five years old and yet her eyes held such a tired expression, especially now since they were lit from underneath by the yellow light of the fire. She dipped her hands into the cold water, gently working the grime out of her skin. The scrubbing stung, but by the time she was done, her hands were immaculate. She pulled her hands out of the water and dried them.

She blushed as she remembered, albeit rather fuzzily, peeking at Daire Niadh through the reflection of the parlor mirror in her uncle's tailor shop – it felt like another lifetime. He was so attractive that it was downright devastating. Then, when he spoke her name, Raven, the room spun with a sensation that was breathtaking and beyond imagination. It was no wonder that she yielded everything to him. She could feel herself, even now, being enraptured by his power and her body's reaction to him was unmistakable. Her blood ran hot, and she wanted the dark prince to quench her insatiable thirst.

Cecily shuddered and shook her head to dismiss her wayward thoughts. The draw to Daire was more intense than she realized. Chilled by this, she wrapped her hands around her arms and looked away from her reflection. She could still feel his presence surrounding her.

She knew that to survive, she couldn't dwell on the past, and she couldn't be alone. Cecily looked up at the fire. Then, her eyes roamed to the wall next to her bed where she marked a tally for each new day in the Delve. 

Eighty-four seasons had passed since her first mark. 

Seven years without the sun and the stars.

With a sigh, Cecily began the task of fastening her heavy leather apron over another of sheepskin and then securing it at the waist. Though she was denied her moment in court, she felt like she had a new purpose altogether, over and above just staying alive. She had given part of her life to the dwarves, investing herself in a way that truly mattered to those around her, and she needed to express her gratitude to the person who sought to make that happen.

Resolute, Cecily built a fire made for casting: the banked edges were higher than she made them for forging and the charcoal at the core glowed white, falling away in the ash and small puffs of smoke. She crouched before a small mold in the heat of the fire with her back to the other smiths. The backwash of light from the fire caught the deep raven of her hair and made of it molten copper, pouring down past her shoulder.

When she stood up and reached for the bellows, she protected herself with an old tunic marked with burns already ancient on the front of it, and covering that, the apron of boiled animal-hide Bryn had made for her six seasons ago.

The bellows sighed as she pumped. The fire cracked and roared, and the mold at its center glowed white hot. She chose a pair of long tongs, the ones that are made to work with the hottest iron. With care, she edged them forward, past the mold to a crucible of molten metal. She had never done this before, so she held her breath, watching the surface of liquid silver, praying that her masters had taught her properly – that she knew the importance of keeping her hands steady.

Cecily's left hand was still the weaker of the two due to a wound from last winter that had healed rather poorly. Though it had finally begun to knit properly, a scar that would last a lifetime ran down the center of her palm. More than that, her hand didn't work as well as it used to, and she was not one to take incapacity lightly. She had fretted daily, trying too hard to accomplish with one hand the things she had never quite been able to do with two.