Devouring Hollow Hearts || ONC'24

》Chapter Twelve《

The studded print of scales smoothed over Chyrie's cheek as darkness sunk into the depths of Niukka's Forge.

She didn't know how long she stood at the cavern mouth, staring after Anryth and his men.

After Xiran led away in chains.

Even though Chyrie's limbs protested and fought, she pushed up and blinked away the dry sand crusting her vision. The room was still, the forge dimly crackling through the enveloping silence.

She'd seen no sign of Noxa, as if the giant wyrm had flown away with her master.

Beneath her, Dailes lay coiled in a perfect half-moon with his tail tucked neatly behind her knees while he exposed the soft spot on his neck. His breathing was slow, but surprisingly shallow.

The drakeling was conscious, dutifully watching over her crumpled frame as she slept.

Her pillow for the evening.

Chyrie couldn't help a small smile, but it fell away as he shifted a golden iris toward her.

"You collapsed," his warm tone engulfed her mind. "I had to catch you."

"I'm sorry," Chyrie whispered, running a hand over his slick scales. "I'm sorry for ignoring your warnings and sending you away..."

"Such are the Fae," he replied, his voice grumbling. "I've been told you are a manic species with a lot of heart. And foolishness."

"Told by whom?"

"Many."

She snorted, shaking her head.

"It's time to continue," Dailes said, lifting his head to stare at Niukka's Hearth. "You can do it."

Chyrie glanced from his head to the forge, a heaviness blanketing her. Defeat crept through the cavern corridors as she analyzed her left over supplies and realized how impossible three blades would be from a couple of blanks.

Her stock had been slowly dwindling. She no longer had room for error, limited to what she could collect from the eroding mines and discarded tools.

Melting them down from rust would make for imperfections—whether it be bubbling, splitting, or cracking. The possibilities for error overwhelmed her.

Narrowing her focus, Chryie scooped up the remainder of her supplies and stationed herself before the old wooden bench.

Three days was not enough time, not for three swords of equal value.

But she knew what thinking did to her.

Chyrie picked up her tongs and began heating her billet.

~ ~ ~

Sweat dripped against the hot iron of her fresh blade as she smoothed the surface with a porous rock.

Chyrie leaned over to a bucket of clay she'd dragged in from the torrential storms, strategically placed just beyond the bars of her cell to dampen a collection of soft earth. She'd filled it half way and allowed the sun to bake the moisture down to a small puddle before taking a wrapped hand to the mud and scooping out a large handful.

Carefully smoothing a thick layer over both sides of the shortsword, she shifted over in her seat toward a tall, narrow chamber of oil.

Not only would coating the weapon in clay make for a harder surface, but a faster quench.

Taking a deep breath, Chyrie waited for another moment before plunging the dirk downward.

The sizzling hiss of hot oil crackled through the air and sent shivers down her spine as she begged Niukka to cure this blade perfectly.