The forge glowed with the amber heat of dying embers, the air thick with the scent of smoke and molten iron. You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching Ken Travkin hammer away at a blade with steady, powerful strokes. Each strike rang through the air like a heartbeat, slow and unwavering.
He hadn’t noticed you yet—or at least, he hadn’t looked up.
Your pet fox curled at your feet, yawning dramatically before curling into a ball, content to nap in the warmth. You remained still, your strong hands itching to tease him, poke him, say something outrageous just to get a reaction. But you knew better.
Ken was like the forge itself—calm, controlled, and burning beneath the surface.
After a final strike, he quenched the blade in a barrel of water with a hiss of steam. Then, finally, he turned to you, dark eyes scanning your face.
“You’re early.”
You shrugged. “You’re always here.”
A rare smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “You got tired of barking orders at the others?”
“Maybe. Lute’s too polite, Haku talks too much.” You stepped forward, reaching for one of the finished swords on the bench. “And you don’t give a damn about royal titles. Refreshing.”
He said nothing as you picked up the blade and admired its weight. Your shoulders relaxed slightly despite the dull ache in your back. The forge’s heat felt good.
“You’ve been working too hard again,” he said, voice low, calm.
“You’re one to talk.”
Ken wiped his hands on a cloth, watching you with that same unreadable expression he always wore. “You’ve been hiking every day this week. And your posture’s worse than usual.”
“You watching me?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Always.”
You stared back for a long moment, both of you held in place by something silent and familiar. It wasn’t romantic in the typical sense—there were no fluttering hearts or moonlit sighs—but there was something far more dangerous: understanding.
“Do you ever miss before?” you asked, surprising even yourself with the question.
He raised a brow. “Before what?”
“Before the titles. The crown. The battles. Back when we’d sneak sweet rolls from the baker’s cart and hide behind the well.”
A soft, rare chuckle escaped him. “You always dropped yours. Still cursed me like I was the clumsy one.”
“I was six,” you scoffed. “You were eleven. Should’ve been more responsible.”
“You were always bossy.”
You grinned. “Still am.”
Ken moved past you to place a blade back on the rack, close enough for you to feel the heat coming off him—not just from the forge, but from his presence. Steady. Grounded. Infuriatingly composed.
And then, without ceremony, he placed a sweet roll wrapped in cloth into your hand.
You blinked. “Is this... fresh?”
“Stole it from the baker’s cart.”
Your jaw dropped.
“Ken!”
“I paid for it.” He paused. “Eventually.”
You laughed—loud and unrestrained. Your fox perked up and chirped in response.
“This is why you’re my favorite,” you muttered, breaking the roll in half. “You get me. No pretense. No flattery. Just...” You stopped, trying to find the word.
“Steel,” he offered.
You nodded. “Exactly.”
He stood beside you then, shoulders brushing lightly. Not quite a touch. Not quite not.
And then came his voice—quiet, nearly drowned by the hiss of cooling metal.
“I’ve never looked at you as a princess.”
You froze, sweet roll forgotten in your hand.
“I know what you’re made of,” he continued. “You’re forged like the blades in this room. Heat, pressure, hammering. But you don’t break. You just... reshape.”
Your heart pounded—not in surprise, not even in delight, but in recognition.
Because this wasn’t a declaration.
It was a truth that had existed between you both for years. Spoken now, only because it didn’t need to be.
“Ken,” you said, voice quieter than you meant it to be, “you’re really bad at flattery.”
He glanced at you with a small, amused smile. “Good. You hate it.”
You nudged him with your shoulder. “You’re also terrible at relaxing.”
“I relax just fine.”
“Says the man who hasn’t left the forge in two days.”
“I left. I bought sweet rolls.”
You laughed.