Elara’s POV

The wrench slipped and cracked straight into my shin.

"Son of a—"

"Easy there, city girl."

Finnian’s voice drifted up from beneath the broken plow harness, muffled and amused. He rolled out on his back, golden hair wild with straw and grease, a smear of black oil streaked across his left cheek like war paint. His grin was insufferable.

"That’s the third time this week."

"I’m aware." I rubbed my shin and glared at the wrench like it had personally offended me. "This thing is heavier than it looks."

"It’s a wrench, Ela. Not a battle axe."

"Could’ve fooled me."

He sat up, wiping his hands on a rag that was dirtier than his fingers. The morning light cut through the open doors of Morrison’s forge, painting the cluttered workspace in slabs of gold and shadow. Tools hung from pegboards along every wall. Half-assembled carriage parts lined the far corner. The air smelled of iron filings, machine oil, and the faint sweetness of hay drifting in from the field behind the barn.

I bent down and picked up the wrench again, adjusting my grip.

"No. Here." Finnian stood and stepped behind me. His hand came over mine on the handle, shifting my fingers lower. "Grip here. Thumb underneath. Use your wrist, not your shoulder."

His chest was close to my back. Close enough that I caught the scent of cedar soap beneath the oil. My brain stuttered for three full seconds—blank, empty, useless—before I jerked sideways and put a solid foot of distance between us.

"Got it. Thanks."

If he noticed my reaction, he had the grace not to comment. He just stepped back, picked up a different tool, and ducked under the plow again.

I flexed my fingers. Looked down at my hands.

They were unrecognizable. Calluses had thickened across my palms over the past two weeks. My nails were short, ragged, permanently edged with grime no amount of scrubbing could fully reach. The cuticles were dark with oil. A fresh blister was forming at the base of my right thumb.

These were not the hands of a woman who had once organized imperial records in a palace library. Not the hands that had signed correspondence on behalf of—

I shut that thought down. Hard.

The telephone on the front counter rang. I set the wrench on the workbench and crossed the shop floor, wiping my palms on my apron.

"Morrison’s Forge."

"Oh, is that you, dear?" The warm, quavering voice of Mrs. Patterson crackled through the receiver. "I was calling about my carriage. The front axle, remember?"

"Of course, Mrs. Patterson. Finnian finished the ironwork this morning. We’re just reassembling the brackets now. It should be ready for you this afternoon."

"Oh, wonderful. You’re such a sweetheart. And the cost—will it be the same as the estimate?"

"Exactly the same. I’ll have the invoice ready when you pick it up."

"Bless you, dear. I’ll bring some of my ginger biscuits."

"That’s very kind. We’ll see you later, then."

I hung up and made a note in the ledger, adding the completion time estimate beside the original work order. My handwriting looked strange against Finnian’s scrawl—neat and precise amid the chaos of crossed-out figures and coffee rings.

"Mrs. Patterson?" Finnian called from under the plow.

"She’s bringing biscuits."

"That woman’s ginger biscuits could end wars." He slid out again, propping himself on one elbow. "You know, you’ve got a real talent for that."

"For answering telephones?"

"For people. The way you talk to them. Mrs. Patterson used to hang up on me because I couldn’t give her a straight answer about timelines." He sat up fully. "And old Mr. Jameson yesterday—you sorted out his plow issue so quickly. He’s been bringing that thing in every month for a year."

"It was just a bent plowshare."

"Exactly. Obvious to you. Invisible to him. That’s my point, Ela."

I shrugged and turned back to the ledger. The morning’s accounts needed balancing. I pulled the invoice stack toward me and began cross-referencing the numbers with the supply receipts, falling into the rhythm of addition and subtraction that asked nothing of me except accuracy.

It was almost noon when the rhythm broke.

I was adding up a column of figures—axle bolts, bracket screws, iron rivets—and my pencil just stopped. Mid-number. Mid-breath.

Valerius would be having his lunch right now.

The thought arrived without warning. A door I hadn’t meant to open, swinging wide.

He’d be sitting at the small table. Kicking his legs because his feet didn’t reach the floor. Talking with his mouth full about whatever story he’d invented that morning, because my son never stopped inventing stories. He’d have crumbs on his chin. He’d wipe them with the back of his hand instead of his napkin, no matter how many times I reminded him.

And Lyra.

Lyra would be in her high chair. Mashing something soft between her tiny fingers. Smearing it across the tray. Laughing at the mess because everything was hilarious when you were that small and the world hadn’t taught you otherwise. Were they playing with those colored blocks? The bright wooden ones that Kaelen had bought—

Stop.

My pencil trembled against the page. The numbers swam.

I could see them so clearly. Valerius building a lopsided tower. Lyra reaching for it with sticky fingers. The tower falling. Both of them laughing.

Without me.

A tear hit the ledger. Then another. The ink on the invoice began to bleed.

"Ela."

Finnian’s voice was quiet. Close. I hadn’t heard him get up.

I pressed my hand flat over the wet spot on the paper, as though I could hide it. "I’m fine."

"You’re not fine."

"I said I’m—"

"And I said you’re not." He pulled a stool over and sat down across the counter from me. His blue eyes were steady. Patient. Unwavering. "Talk to me."

"There’s nothing to talk about."

"Your hands are shaking."

I looked down. They were. I curled them into fists and pressed them against my thighs.

"I miss them," I whispered. The words scraped out of my throat like rusted metal. "I miss them so much I can’t breathe."

Finnian said nothing. He just waited.

"He’s five," I continued, and my voice cracked on the number. "He’s five and he wakes up every morning and I’m not there. And Lyra—she won’t even remember my face. She’s too young. She’ll grow up and she won’t know—she won’t—"

I couldn’t finish.

Finnian leaned forward, forearms braced on the counter.

"Ela. Look at me."

I forced my eyes up.

"You survived torture." His voice was low. Not gentle—firm. Almost fierce. "Real, actual torture. The kind that would have broken most people permanently. You didn’t break."

"Finnian—"

"You carried two children. You brought them into this world. You managed imperial affairs that grown men couldn’t handle. You stood in rooms full of people who wanted to destroy you and you held your ground."

"That was different."

"How? How was any of that different from this?"

"Because I’m not that person anymore!" The words tore out louder than I intended. They echoed off the metal walls of the forge. "I’m not—I’m broken, Finnian. I’m sitting in a blacksmith shop covered in grease, hiding from my own life, and I left my children behind. What kind of mother does that?"

"The kind who’s trying to survive."

"Don’t."

"Don’t what? Don’t tell you the truth?" He stood up. The stool scraped back. "You’re not broken, Ela. I refuse to let you call yourself that. You’re hurt. There’s a difference. Broken things stay in pieces. Hurt things heal."

My jaw clenched. Tears kept falling. I hated them.

"You didn’t leave those kids because you don’t love them," he said. "You left because you thought it was the only way to keep going. And maybe it was. Maybe you needed this. But don’t you dare sit here and tell me you’re weak. Because the woman I’ve watched these past two weeks—learning a trade she never trained for, charming customers, solving problems, dragging herself out of bed every morning when I know she didn’t sleep—that woman is the furthest thing from broken I’ve ever seen."

The forge was quiet. Just the tick of cooling metal. The distant bleating of sheep in the field.

I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes.

"Come on," Finnian said. His voice was softer now. "Lunch. My treat."

I dropped my hands. Exhaled. "My treat."

"You barely made a handful of coins this week, Ela."

"Then I’m spending a few of them on lunch. Don’t argue with me."

He stared at me. Then something shifted in his expression—half-exasperated, half-admiring. "Fine. You’re buying."

I slid off the stool. Untied my apron and hung it on the hook by the door.

As we walked toward the door, I caught my reflection in the chrome-plated hub of the carriage wheel.

A messy braid, an oil-stained shirt, grime packed under my fingernails.

I looked nothing like the polished court lady I used to be.

I looked real.