Page 161 of Reign

Godwin soon appeared by my side, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “It’s good to have you back. Your absence was noted.”

I gave him a kind smile before returning to the task at hand. Murmuring the incantation under my breath, I remained wary of speaking Yfelle aloud with so many ears nearby. The blade glistened as I spoke—a gleam sweeping across its surface as the spell took hold.

“Never would’ve guessed you were a wiza—witch, Smith,” Godwin remarked, picking up the enchanted weapon and placing another sharpened blade in front of me. “Nor did I imagine you were a woman.”

He shook his head, as if both revelations had somehow disappointed him.

“Does that change the fact that you noticed my absence?” I asked, a hint of indignation in my tone.

Godwin paused—his gaze drifting past me, as if he could see through the canvas to some faraway place while he pondered my question.

“I suppose not,” he admitted.

“Do you have any magical heritage?” I asked, though his previous threats of water-trialing witches left me doubtful.

“No—only man I’ve met who hated magic more than me was Red,” he replied, his fingers tentatively reaching for his tight and twisted scar.

“But this morning, during my conversation with Prince Fitzroy, he earned my trust and loyalty,” Godwin added, his hands no longer grazing his cheek, but busy sorting through weapons.

“The current King’s reign has brought nothing but disease and division. I pray that bastard will rule like his magical grandfather—that’s what he’s promised.”

A surge of pride swelled within me as Fitzroy rose to meet such a formidable challenge, though my admiration was tainted by deep hurt.

As I continued enchanting, my thoughts turned to Red—how he’d died by rope for no other reason than his hard-line views against magic.

I’d have guessed Godwin would’ve done the same—died a martyr in the name of magical banishment. But I suppose one should never assume.

It was as if the two men were cut from the same cloth, but with different knives. Both hated magic. I’m sure both had their reasons. Yet in the end, only one refused to tar all sorcery with the same brush, learning that the actions of one person don’t speak for an entire community.

The remainder of the day passed in a blur of spell work and iron, combining the two things I loved most: forging and magic.

As the golden light filtering beneath the canvas deepened to black, I knew the day was drawing to a close. Usually, I’d welcome a break from labor, yet tonight, I felt only the heavy weight of what lay ahead. With each passing breath, war crept nearer, chasing the first rays of dawn; by sunrise, a deadly battle would be poised on the horizon.

As I feared the near future, a clamor behind me spurred me to turn. I saw the men rise in unison as Fitzroy entered, clad in a simple outfit reminiscent of the one I’d once complimented. Though I knew our paths would cross again, I had no time to ponder my reaction. When our eyes met, I wasn’t sure what to feel—if anything, I was numb.

The men bowed, and I followed suit; now dressed in a tunic and breeches, a bow felt far more fitting than a curtsy.

“Good eve,” Fitzroy said as he circled the smithy and inspected the weapons. “I’m pleased with the work you men have done.” He met each man’s eye, ensuring they felt his appreciation. When he reached me, I lowered my gaze, avoiding his acknowledgment—no longer craving his approval.

“My good man,” Fitzroy said, extending his hand to Godwin, who accepted it with a resolute shake. “I’m very impressed.”

“Thank you, my liege,” Godwin replied. “None of us have taken a break all day—we’ve been working harder than the gods on the first day of creation.”

“Go now and eat,” Fitzroy commanded, gesturing toward the exit. “You’ll need your strength on the morrow.”

I ducked out of the stifling smithy into the cool evening breeze, joining the others as we made our way to the bonfire for pottage and ale.

“Niamh,” Fitzroy called, sending a shiver down my spine—I noted how he’d returned to addressing me by my first name. “May I borrow you?”

I longed to tell him to vex me no further, yet I knew he must be seen as a respected leader. Despite his earlier cruelty, I still cared for him.

Nodding silently, I followed him through the encampment.

As we neared his tent, he uttered, “What on the gods’ green earth are you wearing?”

“Practical clothing,” I replied, avoiding his gaze.

He held open the entrance flap, and I slipped under his arm, catching a faint hint of his musky scent.