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Chapter 7 - Chapter One — Sparks of Defiance (Part I: Forge & Father) (closing stretch

When the door closed behind Ronan, the silence stretched between Father and me like a taut bowstring. The forge hissed and crackled, yet even the fire seemed to wait for what neither of us wanted to say.

I placed the hammer back on its hook, deliberately careful, as though the wrong sound might shatter the fragile quiet.

"You shouldn't let him in here so often," Father said at last. His voice was calm, but I knew him well enough to hear the weight beneath it.

I wiped my brow with the back of my hand. "He doesn't mean any harm."

"Maybe not," Father admitted. "But wanting something—wanting someone—can be its own kind of harm."

The words made my chest tighten. I wanted to ask him what he meant, if he'd seen more than I thought he had. But the lines of his face were worn with the kind of exhaustion no rest could mend, and I bit my tongue.

Instead, I returned to the trough, dipping my hands into the water though it was lukewarm now. The grime swirled away, leaving only pale skin marked with faint scars. I traced one along my palm, a memory of when I was too small to lift the hammer properly but too stubborn to stop trying.

"You taught me that steel breaks if it's left soft," I said finally. "That it has to be tested, again and again, until it learns to endure."

Father studied me across the anvil. The forge-light caught in his eyes, making them seem like embers themselves. "Aye. But remember, Eria—steel breaks if you strike it too hard, too soon. People do too."

I didn't answer. Not because I disagreed, but because part of me knew he wasn't warning me about Ronan at all. He was warning me about myself.

The night deepened. Outside, voices faded as villagers drifted home from the tavern. The square grew quiet, save for the distant cry of an owl. The forge dimmed as Father banked the fire, leaving the coals to smolder.

I sat on the low stool, exhaustion settling over me like a second skin. My muscles trembled from hours of work, but my mind refused to still. Images churned behind my eyes—the smirk Ronan couldn't seem to lose, the heaviness in Father's voice, the whispers in the square about fae armies.

And always, always, the shadowed figure from my dreams.

When sleep finally dragged me under, I was back in the fire. The world glowed red-gold, and sparks fell like stars in the dark. But I wasn't alone.

He was there again.

Tall, broad-shouldered, his face half-lost in shadow, yet his presence filled the air until I could hardly breathe. His eyes glowed faintly, like banked coals—watching, measuring, burning into me.

"You dream loudly, little mortal," his voice murmured, though his lips barely moved. It was low, rich, threaded with something that pulled at my chest.

I tried to speak, but my tongue felt heavy. My heart thundered, not with fear but with something stranger, more dangerous.

His gaze drifted over me, lingering as though I were the one glowing in the forge-light. His expression was unreadable—half curiosity, half hunger.

I wanted to demand who he was. Why he invaded my nights. Why his presence felt like both a threat and a promise. But when I opened my mouth, only a whisper escaped:

"Why me?"

The shadowed man tilted his head. The faintest smile curved his lips, though it wasn't kind. "Because you are not afraid."

The heat surged higher, until I swore it would consume me whole. My body ached with the force of it, trembling as though the fire had crawled beneath my skin.

And then—just as suddenly as he appeared—he was gone.

I woke with a start, sweat cooling against my skin, my heart hammering as though I'd run from the forge to the river and back again. The room was dark, quiet save for Father's even breathing from the other side of the house.

I pressed a hand to my chest, willing my racing pulse to slow.

Not afraid, he'd said.

But in that moment, lying awake with the fire still burning behind my eyes, I wasn't sure if that was true.

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