Chapter 324: Pale Steel and Quiet Revelations

Mary gave him a nod as she reached for the second box.

The wood creaked softly as she slid it closer to herself, fingers calloused and steady—the same hands that had shaped steel and bone and stubborn ideas into something usable. For a brief moment, she hesitated—not out of doubt, but out of a craftsman’s habit of savoring the reveal. Then she flipped the lid open and turned the box around, pushing it across the desk toward Orion.

"Go on," she said. "Those are yours to look at."

Orion’s smile widened the instant he saw inside.

Nestled within dark padding lay two shortswords, resting parallel to each other like matched thoughts. The first thing that struck him was the color. They were not the gray or darkened sheen of forged iron, nor the deep polish of steel. Instead, the blades were a soft, creamy white—pale but not dull, with a faint luster that caught the light slipping in through the small window high on the wall.

Skylur fangs.

Even without being told, he knew.

The material had been worked down into elegant, lethal lines, the natural resistance of the fangs refined rather than erased. The blades were short, as they had discussed—not long enough to demand sweeping arcs or brute strength, but long enough to be decisive in close quarters. Each blade carried a shallow fuller running most of its length, carefully carved to reduce weight without compromising rigidity. The edges were thin and keen, subtly curved to favor cutting motions while still allowing precise thrusts.

He lifted one carefully from the box.

It was light—lighter than it looked. The balance point sat exactly where it should, just forward of the grip, making the blade feel like an extension of the hand rather than a burden. The grip itself was hollowed, as Mary had promised, wrapped in supple, treated leather that molded comfortably beneath his fingers. The tang ran full-length through the hilt, thin but strong, giving the weapon a reassuring integrity.

The guard was what made his breath hitch.

Interlaced metalwork formed a subtle vine motif, the same design they had agreed upon for the daggers. It wasn’t ornate to the point of excess—Mary never indulged in useless decoration—but it was deliberate. The vines curved naturally, protective without being aggressive, framing the hand rather than crowding it. Along one edge of the guard, a discreet crescent had been inlaid, small enough to miss at a glance, meaningful enough to matter.

At the pommel, polished river jasper caught the light, its muted tones grounding the pale blade, adding just enough weight to perfect the balance.

Orion swallowed.

"They’re..." He searched for the word and found that it refused to come easily. "...perfect."

Mary snorted softly. "They’re weapons. Don’t get sentimental."

But her eyes were sharp as she watched him, measuring his reaction the way she measured steel.

He turned the blade slightly, inspecting the edge, the join between fang and metal, the precision of the work. "You really did it," he said quietly. "You made the Skylur fangs behave."

"That’s one way to put it," Mary replied. She leaned back against the cluttered shelving behind her, arms folding loosely across her chest. "They were difficult. Harder than steel in some ways, more temperamental. They don’t like heat the way metal does, and they fight you if you try to force them into a shape they don’t want."

Orion glanced up at her.

"But," she continued, lips quirking, "once I stopped trying to treat them like iron and started listening, it got easier. Different techniques. Slower work. Less hammering, more... persuasion."

"Imagine persuading a real Skylur," Orion said, and they both chuckled.

"You did good work," he told her.

She shrugged. "That’s because I’m good. And I made sure to do my best, especially since it was a new material I hadn’t used before. Anything less would be an insult—to the material, and to the person who’ll be using it."

He set the blade back into the box gently and closed the lid halfway, as if reluctant to trap them inside again. "Tobias is going to lose his mind when he finds out you’ve figured this out."

Mary huffed a laugh. "Oh, he already knows I was right to ’collect’ those fangs. Once he realizes we can reliably use them for weapons like this? He’ll be over the moon. Probably start talking numbers before I can even wash my hands."

Orion nodded.

He straightened, reaching for both boxes. "Thank you, Mary. Truly."

She waved him off. "Go. Before I decide to nitpick something and keep them another week. And do tell me if she likes them."

He smiled, bowed his head slightly in respect, and left the office, the weight of the boxes grounding and reassuring in his arms.

The smithy was still alive with sound as he passed through—hammers ringing, bellows breathing, voices calling measurements and warnings. Morning light streamed in through high windows, catching on sparks and steel. Brenda was nowhere to be seen, likely already swallowed back into the rhythm of work.

Orion stepped out into the cold air and made his way home.

---

He entered quietly, moving to the bedroom.

Sophia was sitting cross-legged on the bed, a book open in her lap, hair falling loosely around her shoulders. She looked up the moment he closed the door behind him.

"Why do you look like Philip?" she asked immediately.

Orion blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

She pointed vaguely at the boxes in his arms. "Philip moves around with boxes like those," she told him.

Philip was the pack teacher, and Sophia was right—the man always carried boxes with him. Boxes filled with books.

Orion laughed despite himself and crossed the room, setting the boxes carefully on the table. "Come here," he said, beckoning.

Sophia narrowed her eyes and raised both hands, crossing them into a dramatic X in front of her chest. "Nope. If you’re planning on hurting me, you should know my mate is very strong. One hit or even one bite and you’ll disappear."

He stared at her.

Then he gave her a flat, unimpressed look.

"Sophia."

She cracked a smile. 𝕗𝗿𝕖𝐞𝐰𝗲𝕓𝐧𝕠𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝐨𝚖

He shook his head, chuckling softly, and closed the distance between them. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he reached out and gently tugged her closer. She let herself be pulled in without protest, still grinning, the book clutched loosely in her hands.

"What are you reading?" he asked absently, already reaching for it.

Before she could answer, he took it from her grasp.

The moment his eyes landed on the open page, he froze.

Then he gasped—loudly, dramatically, as if personally offended by the existence of the text.

He turned to her, eyes wide in mock horror.