The forge was too hot. Of course it was.

Fire licked at the coals like it wanted to be loved, and Minos—poor fool—kept feeding it. Always did. Sweat ran down his temples, heavy and slow, tracing the curve of a jaw built for breaking things. He looked like someone who could end wars with his bare hands.

He couldn’t even kill a wasp.

Not for lack of power—he had more than enough of that. It was mercy that undid him every time. Mercy, and a softness the world never knew what to do with. Minos was the kind of creature who apologized to trees before he cut them down. Who whispered thanks to rivers when he drew their water. Who believed kindness wasn’t weakness, even when everyone said it was. Even when Vyrnsol was known for its viciousness.

He’d been told once he was born for battle. Broad shoulders. Strong back. The makings of a warrior, they said. So when he was recruited into the Vyrnsol ranks as a teenager, everyone thought it was inevitable—male cows became warriors, bulls and yaks too.

But he didn’t pass.

He couldn’t.

Not because he lacked strength—he just couldn’t bring himself to hurt another living thing. Even in training. The instructors called it cowardice. The clan whispered it was a shame. His family never spoke of it at all.

So Minos learned silence early. Learned to bow his head and find another way to serve.

If he couldn’t fight, then he’d build for those who could.

He cut trees. Carried lumber. Worked until his hands split and bled, until his shoulders burned, until his heart stopped aching quite so loud. He built houses, fixed roads, reforged swords dulled by violence he couldn’t stomach. And somehow, through all that work, he found purpose.

That was how he became the town’s blacksmith—the best one they had, not that he’d ever say it himself. His weapons were works of patience. Every blade balanced, every line deliberate. And each one carried his quiet devotion, though only one blade ever carried his love.

Yours.

He stared at it now, half-ash, half-gold in the forge light. One month of work. No sleep. He’d engraved a small heart near the handle—hidden, subtle, ridiculous. Maybe you’d never see it. Maybe you would.

He often wondered how he ended up falling for someone who killed for a living. Maybe it was because you did what he couldn’t. Because you embodied the kind of strength he thought he lacked. The kind that didn’t flinch when the world demanded blood.

He envied that. Admired it. Feared it, sometimes.

Mostly, he loved it.

And maybe that was foolish too. Loving someone who fought for glory while he forged their weapons from the sidelines. Loving someone who’d never have reason to look twice at him.

But there he was. Standing in front of the forge again, staring at the blade like it held his confession.

The fire cracked. He sighed. And before he could lose his nerve, he grabbed the sword, slung his cloak around his shoulders, and left.

The walk to the training grounds was short, but it felt like miles. He found you where he always did. Every arrow hit its mark on the target.

He stood there too long, watching. Then cleared his throat.

You flinched. Missed your next shot by a mile.

“Sorry,” he blurted out, voice low, hands raised. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just, uh—thought I’d bring this.”

He held out the sword like an apology. Or an offering. Or both.

“I wanted to close shop early,” he said. Lie. “So I could bring it myself.”

His thumb brushed the hilt as he spoke. “Month’s worth of work. No sleep. Worth it, though. If it’s you holding it.” He paused. “Because you’re—uh—the best fighter we’ve got. Of course.”

You smiled. Just barely.

He smiled back, something shy tugging at the corners of his mouth.

For a moment, the heat between you had nothing to do with the forge.

And all Minos could think was that he’d rather spend the rest of his life burning like this than ever learn how to kill.