Devouring Hollow Hearts || ONC'24

》Chapter Nine《

The shearing of steel on pumice vibrated through Chyrie's wrist as she worked. Soot smudged the fading tan of her skin, the grit of metal shavings rubbing between her fingers as she pressed the blade into her stone over and over again.

Behind her, Dailes pretended to be asleep, but she'd noticed his breathing change an hour ago.

And Xiran—Xiran had left at the break of light without his pack.

She'd eyed it with curiosity, mesmerized by the stuffed pockets he'd willingly left unattended. After sleeping beside her all night. Chyrie didn't understand the strange pulse of her heart as she scooted closer to the leather bindings and unfastened a thick cleaver.

A curved ax with polished walnut for the grip.

Her finger pricked over the aging wood, spurs Xiran's calloused hands likely didn't feel. The hardwood was wearing, seared with runes in the hilt as well as the blade itself.

Chyrie heaved her weakened frame–thighs quaking with over-exertion– to the bench beside her anvil and began gently polishing the hilt.

As her thumb worked the rush over the hilt, methodically smoothing over the surface with dried, marsh grass. The texture nipped at her skin until she was finished, leaving a smooth wood.

Careful to avoid the impressions and carvings, Chyrie soaked a rag in coal water and rubbed the hilt down in a few sweeping motions before pulling out a tincture of beeswax and sealing it over.

Her concept of time warped as she worked, sharpening the blade and moving to test it against her arm.

"What are you doing?"

Chyrie's body went stiff when she realized her mistake.

Xiran's voice was a soft memory against the cavern walls, his attention drawn to the blade in her hand.

Where she anticipated anger, she only found a gentle smile.

"You helped me," she murmured, glancing back toward his ax. "I thought I might repay such kindness the only way I knew how."

Chyrie watched a few hairs fall to the floor and nodded to herself.

With a wraith's silence, Xiran stepped toward the forge with little hesitation, his hand resting against the flat face of her anvil. He leaned down to inspect her craftsmanship, his chin a scales length away from her shoulder.

Chyrie stole a secret breath at his nearness, gaze holding steady on the ax.

A warm hum brushed against her ear as Xiran used his free hand to brush away several straying strands of hair.

"You've done well to avoid the jera," he said.

"Is that what these runes are called?"

"Some," he answered, nodding. "Others might be called Uruz or Berkanas. Your intention is what matters most."

Chyrie pointed to one similar to a lightning strike. "What does this one mean?"

"To protect."

She blinked, heat flooding her cheeks.

"The wielder?"

Xiran carefully took the ax from her, examining the marks with sadness as he considered.

"It is considered more than a spell, but a vow to protect. The Jera prevents the blade from turning on its master."

Chyrie's gaze flickered from the beautifully scorched runes to the hidden pain still lining Xiran's irises. He offered her answers without ever delving into those depths, a pain she was sure he'd been out-running for some time.