Arc One: The Widow's Forge
The forge was cold.
Hannah stood in the doorway and felt the absence before she saw it. The fire pit, banked and gray. The anvil, silent. The bellows, still. Six months ago, this room had been the warmest place in the world. Now it was just another cold room in a cold house, and she had to force herself to cross the threshold.
She crossed it anyway. She always did.
The eastern sky was barely gray beyond the shuttered windows. The village of Ironvale slept on, farmers and craftsmen and wives who would wake to roosters and morning chores and husbands who came home at night. Hannah woke to this—a dead fire and a hammer that weighed more than it should.
She set about her ritual.
First, the kindling. She kept it in a bin by the door, dry scraps from old projects. Samuel had taught her that. "Dry wood or nothing, Hannah. Wet kindling is a sin against the craft." She arranged it in the pit, a small pyramid of hope.
Second, the flint and steel. She struck them together, once, twice, three times. Sparks fell. One caught. She leaned close and breathed on it, gentle and steady, the way you breathe on a child's skinned knee. The flame grew. She fed it twigs, then small branches, then finally the larger logs she'd split herself three days ago.
The fire caught. Light bloomed.
Hannah straightened and watched it for a moment. The flames danced yellow and orange and blue at the edges, and for just a second, if she didn't look directly at it, she could almost see him standing there. Samuel, with his thick arms and his patient eyes, reaching for the bellows with a joke on his lips.
"You going to stare at it all day, or are we going to work?"
She reached for the bellows.
---
The morning passed in the rhythm of the forge.
Heat the metal. Shape the metal. Heat it again. Hannah worked on a plowshare for Old Garrick, whose arthritic hands could no longer manage the hammer. It was simple work, the kind Samuel would have finished in an hour. It took her three. She was slower without him, yes. But she was also more careful. Every strike of the hammer was a conversation with the metal, a question and answer about what it wanted to become.
"The metal talks," Samuel used to say. "You just have to listen."
She listened.
The plowshare took shape under her hands. It wasn't beautiful—Hannah had never cared for beauty in her work. It was functional. It would turn soil. It would help Garrick plant his spring crops. It would do what it was made to do, and that was enough.
At midday, she heard footsteps in the yard.
She didn't look up. The plowshare was at a critical moment, the curve of the blade needing just one more pass before she could quench it. The footsteps stopped at the forge door.
"You're still at it, then."
It was Marta, the baker. Hannah could smell the bread on her, yeast and warmth and something sweet. Marta came every day at midday, ever since Samuel died. She never said why. She just stood there for a while, then left.
"Almost done," Hannah said.
"The children?"
"Lena's watching Tomas."
"Good. Good." A pause. "I brought bread."
Hannah looked up then. Marta held out a round loaf, still warm from her ovens. Her face was kind and worried and full of the pity Hannah couldn't stand.
"I'm fine, Marta."
"I know." Marta set the bread on a barrel by the door. "It's just bread."
They looked at each other. Marta wanted to say more—Hannah could see it in the way her mouth opened and closed, the way her hands twisted in her apron. But she didn't. She never did. That was why Hannah tolerated her visits.
"The village council meets tonight," Marta said instead. "You should come."
"Why?"
Marta's face did something complicated. "Just... come. It's important."
Hannah turned back to her work. The plowshare was cooling, the moment lost. She would have to heat it again. "I have children."
"The children can come. It's not late. Just after supper."
"I'll think about it."
Marta lingered another moment, then left. Her footsteps faded across the yard. The forge was quiet again, except for the crackle of the fire and the distant sound of children playing somewhere in the village.
Hannah picked up her hammer.
---
By evening, the plowshare was finished. Hannah set it by the door for Garrick to collect and turned to the next task: a broken hinge for the miller's wife, a cracked hoe for the cooper's apprentice, a bucket that had lost its handle. Small things. Endless things. The work of a village blacksmith.
She worked until the light failed, then banked the fire and went inside.
The house was small—a kitchen and two sleeping rooms, one for her and Samuel, one for the children. Samuel's side of the bed was still made up, the blanket smooth, the pillow untouched. Hannah had tried to change it once, to make the bed hers alone. She'd stood there for an hour with her hands on the blanket and couldn't do it.
She left it.
Lena was in the kitchen, stirring a pot over the small cooking fire. At ten, she was already serious, her dark hair pulled back in a tail, her eyes focused on the task. She looked like Samuel. The same stubborn set to her jaw, the same way of concentrating that made the rest of the world disappear.
"It's just porridge," Lena said. "Tomas wanted meat, but we don't have any."
"Porridge is fine."
"Where's Marta's bread?"
"On the barrel in the forge. I forgot it."
Lena gave her a look—that look, the one that said I'm ten and you're the parent, but really?—and went to fetch it. Tomas, six years old and perpetually covered in dirt, sat on the floor building something with sticks and string. He looked up when Hannah entered.
"Mama, look. It's a sword."
He held up his creation. It was, indeed, a sword—a straight stick for the blade, a crosspiece made of twine, a lump of wood for the pommel. A child's toy, crude and earnest.
"It's a good sword," Hannah said.
"When I'm big, I'm going to be a soldier. I'm going to fight in the king's army and be a hero."
Hannah's chest tightened. She knelt beside him and took the sword gently, turning it over in her hands. "Do you know what heroes are, Tomas?"
"People who fight."
"People who fight," she agreed. "And do you know what happens to people who fight?"
He shook his head.
"Sometimes they don't come home."
She said it quietly, without looking at him. Tomas was six. He didn't understand. But one day he would, and she hated that, hated the world that would teach her son about loss.
Lena returned with the bread. She set it on the table and began dividing the porridge into bowls. No one spoke. The fire crackled. Tomas went back to his sticks.
They ate in silence.
---
After supper, Hannah considered the council meeting. She didn't want to go. She wanted to sit by the fire and let the day end, to climb into her cold bed and wait for morning. But Marta had said it was important, and Marta didn't say things like that lightly.
"Get your coats," she told the children. "We're going out."
The village hall was the largest building in Ironvale—a long, low structure of timber and stone that served as meeting house, festival hall, and shelter in times of trouble. Lanterns glowed in the windows. Voices murmured inside.
Hannah pushed open the door.
The council was already gathered: the village elder, Old Man Hemmings; the miller, a fat man named Cobb; the cooper, the weaver, the two farmers who owned the best land. They sat at a long table, and they all looked up when Hannah entered.
"She's here," someone muttered.
Hannah felt the weight of their attention. She'd felt it for six months now—the looks, the whispers, the way conversations stopped when she approached. A woman running a forge. A widow with no husband to speak for her. An irregularity in the proper order of things.
She found a bench near the back and sat, pulling Tomas onto her lap. Lena stood beside her, arms crossed, already defensive.
The meeting continued. Drainage in the south fields. A dispute about grazing rights. The price of flour. Small things, village things, the endless business of survival. Hannah listened with half an ear, waiting.
Finally, Hemmings cleared his throat.
"Item seven," he said. "The blacksmith."
Hannah's hands tightened on Tomas's shoulders.
"The forge," Hemmings continued, not looking at her, "has been without a master smith for six months. The widow Hannah has done... acceptable work, all things considered. But the village needs a proper smith. A man. Someone who can take on apprentices, handle the larger commissions, represent us at the regional fairs."
Silence.
Cobb the miller nodded. "It's not right, a woman doing a man's work. Unnatural. Bad for trade."
"We've had inquiries," Hemmings said. "A smith in Millbrook has a second son looking for a forge. Competent, they say. Young, but strong. He could be here by summer."
Hannah stood up.
Tomas squirmed. Lena grabbed her arm. Every eye in the room turned to her.
"You're selling my forge," she said. It wasn't a question.
Hemmings finally looked at her. His face was not unkind. That almost made it worse. "Hannah. You've done well. No one denies it. But you're a woman alone, with children to raise. This work—" he gestured vaguely, as if the forge were a dirty thing "—it's too much. Too heavy. Too... much. Let a man take the burden. You can stay in the house. We'll see you're provided for."
"My husband built that forge."
"Your husband is dead."
The words hung in the air. Hannah heard someone gasp. Tomas buried his face in her neck. Lena's hand tightened on her arm until it hurt.
Hemmings's face reddened. "I'm sorry. That was cruel. But it's also true, Hannah. Samuel is gone. The forge needs a smith. The village needs—"
"The village needs someone who can do the work," Hannah said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried. "Have I failed to do the work?"
Silence.
"The plowshare for Garrick," she said. "Is it done?"
"It's done," someone muttered.
"The hinge for the miller's wife?"
Silence from Cobb.
"The hoe for the cooper's apprentice? The bucket handles? The horseshoes for every plow horse in this valley?" She looked around the room, meeting eyes. "Show me the work I haven't done. Show me the complaint against my craft."
No one spoke.
Hemmings tried again. "It's not about the work, Hannah. It's about—"
"What?"
He couldn't answer.
Hannah looked at them all—the men who wanted to take her home, the women who wouldn't meet her eyes, the children who watched with wide eyes and didn't understand. She felt something in her chest, something she'd kept banked for six months, like the coals in her forge.
It wasn't grief. It was anger.
"This is my forge," she said. "Samuel built it for us. For our children. I worked beside him for ten years. I know every tool, every technique, every secret that place holds. And you think you can take it from me because I don't have a husband to speak for me?"
"Hannah—"
"No." She moved toward the door, Tomas still in her arms, Lena following. "You want to sell my forge? You'll have to drag me out of it first. You'll have to explain to every farmer in this valley why their plows are breaking and their horses are going lame because the new smith doesn't know what he's doing. You'll have to look my children in the eye and tell them why their mother's work isn't good enough."
She reached the door and turned back.
"I'll be at my forge tomorrow. Same as every day. Same as every day for the rest of my life, if that's what it takes. The council can meet without me."
She walked out into the night.
---
The walk home was dark and silent. The children didn't speak. Hannah didn't know what to say.
In the house, she put Tomas to bed first. He was already half asleep, his small body heavy in her arms. She laid him down, pulled the blanket up, and kissed his forehead.
"Are you a hero, Mama?" he murmured.
"No," she said. "I'm just a blacksmith."
"That's good," he said, and was asleep.
Lena was in her room, sitting on her bed, still dressed. She looked up when Hannah appeared in the doorway.
"They're wrong," Lena said.
"I know."
"They're so wrong."
"I know."
Lena's face crumpled. For a moment, she looked ten years old instead of forty pretending. "I hate them."
Hannah sat beside her. She put an arm around her daughter's shoulders and pulled her close. Lena resisted for a second, then collapsed against her, shaking.
"I know," Hannah said again. "Me too."
They sat like that for a long time. The fire burned down. The wind picked up outside, rattling the shutters. Lena's shaking stopped, and her breathing evened out, and Hannah realized she'd fallen asleep.
She laid her down, pulled off her shoes, covered her with the blanket. Then she went to her own room.
Samuel's side of the bed was still there. Still made. Still waiting.
Hannah sat on her side and looked at it.
"I don't know what to do," she whispered.
The house was silent.
"I don't know how to do this without you."
Nothing.
She lay down, still dressed, and stared at the ceiling. The anger was still there, banked like her forge fire, waiting for morning. But underneath it was something else. Something colder.
Fear.
She was afraid. Afraid of the council, afraid of the village, afraid of the world that wanted to take everything from her. Afraid that she wasn't strong enough, good enough, enough enough to keep what was hers.
But underneath the fear, underneath the grief, underneath everything—there was something else.
A memory.
Samuel, teaching her to hammer. Her first try, awkward and weak. His hand over hers, guiding the strike. His voice, patient and warm.
"Again."
She'd done it again. And again. And again. Until she got it right.
Hannah closed her eyes.
Tomorrow, she would go to the forge. She would light the fire. She would pick up her hammer.
And she would do it again.
---
End of Chapter One