The forge never slept, not truly.

Even after the fire had dimmed to a bed of coals and the bellows had gone still, the air still held the scent of iron and smoke. Emberlight danced along the stone walls like spirits too restless to leave.

Liora leaned against the worn doorframe, apron still dusted with ash. She wasn’t supposed to be here this late — the forge was her father’s domain, sacred and serious. But she always came back when he was there.

Thorne.

The apprentice.

He was not yet twenty, broad-shouldered but quiet, all muscle and modesty. He worked like someone born from the anvil, with hands that shaped metal as if coaxing it to speak.

He didn’t notice her at first.

He was bent over the workbench, turning a blade in his hands, inspecting its balance, his brow furrowed with the kind of focus she had seen only in artists and priests.

Liora swallowed. Her heart did that strange thing again — lifting, catching, then settling low in her ribs like a secret.

She shouldn’t feel this.

He was her father’s chosen. The orphan taken in, the boy given shelter in exchange for loyalty and silence. He was not a man to court the blacksmith’s daughter — and she was not a girl allowed to dream of such things.

Still.

“I thought you left hours ago,” she said softly.

Thorne didn’t startle. He never did. He turned, not hurried, and smiled — that shy, uneven smile that warmed the spaces no fire reached.

“I was almost done,” he said. “Didn’t want the steel to cool too quick.”

She stepped inside, trailing fingers along the bench. Her hand brushed a half-formed pendant, still rough at the edges.

“What’s this one for?” she asked.

He hesitated. “No one.”

She looked up.

He looked away.

“It’s just… something I started. To practice shaping curves. Filigree’s harder than I thought.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “It looks like ivy.”

His voice was quiet. “I was thinking of your hair.”

Silence.

Her breath caught.

He didn’t look at her — not quite — just kept running his thumb along the curve of the metal, as if afraid it might cut.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she whispered.

“I know.”

But he hadn’t taken it back.

Liora stepped closer, the forge suddenly too small, too warm, too filled with things they weren’t saying.

“You never speak like this when Father’s around.”

“I wouldn’t be your father’s apprentice for long if I did.”

She almost laughed, but it came out softer — like a sigh. Her hand moved to the pendant again, brushing his.

He finally looked at her, really looked.

The forge crackled behind them. The night wind pushed gently against the shutters.

“You’re not nobody, Thorne,” she said.

And when she left that night, she carried the warmth of the forge in her chest — but it wasn’t the fire she remembered.

It was the way he’d said her name.

Like he’d been holding it in his mouth for years.