Page 34 of Reign

“Why?” Bash asked.

“He feared that if I left the Wetlands, I’d never return,” I replied, knowing his worry had more weight to it than he realized.

Suddenly it dawned on me. “I believe he’s here, working as a blacksmith.”

The thought of encountering my father filled me with dread. Short-haired, clad in breeches, and pretending to be my brother—I couldn’t predict how he’d react. Would he even recognize his own daughter in disguise? Perhaps it would be better if he didn’t.

“Name?” Red requested.

“Finn Smith,” I replied, presenting my hand as the others had done.

Red sighed heavily as he shook it. “Your father’s gone.”

“Gone? Wha-what do you mean?” My legs wobbled as Bash steadied me with a gentle hand on my back.

“He left for the Wetlands just last night,” Red continued.

“Why?”

Red’s expression soured. “I’m afraid I must bear some awful news. Your sister’s gone missing after a magical beast was spotted in your village.”

The thought of my bereaved father making the long journey back to the Wetlands to search for me, while I knew I’d never return, left me hollow.

“I cannot imagine what your poor mother’s going through,” Red added, his rough voice softening. “My wife would be inconsolable if our son disappeared after an evil beast reared its head.”

My mother’s warnings rang true. While magic was feared, I had two options—hide or be tried. I drew in a shaky breath as the weight of the realization hit me. Niamh could never exist again.

Red’s gaze lingered as he awaited my response to the news.

Clearing my throat I stepped forward, moving away from Bash’s touch. “Very well. Show me what tools we have.”

Red gave us a tour of the makeshift workshop. The shift in conversation offered a much-needed reprieve, distracting the men from their pitiful stares. Though the smithy lacked the practicality of the one my father had built, I was still impressed.

“You’ll spend most of your time here, fixing weapons and armor,” Red explained. “Or out at the shipyard, repairing the vessels.”

Godwin sighed heavily, running his finger over the deep trenches on his face. “The war hasn’t been kind,” he muttered. “I’ve picked buckets of flesh from chain mail and scrubbed countless pints of blood from armor—just to prepare for the next batch of soldiers to sully.”

I watched the men at work, noting their sluggish filing and hammering. Though we’d only just arrived at Cambas, the veteran soldiers looked defeated.

A boy, who didn’t appear a day over sixteen and was built like a maypole, awkwardly shuffled around with a sword in hand. The blade, dull and brittle, looked as if it would shatter from the gentlest touch. I knew from my father’s teachings that a well-made blade should bend before it breaks.

That weapon was an embarrassment to ironwork.

“Is this the standard of sword you’re giving the men to fight with?” I questioned, tutting at the shoddy job.

I waited for his reply, studying his face—mottled like an old hen’s egg, speckled with pockmarks and pimples. His thin lips parted, but no words came out.

Impatient as always, I snatched the blade from his trembling hands and carried it over to the forge.

“If you don’t know how to do something properly, ask someone who does to teach you,” I snapped.

I knew I was talking out of turn, but I didn’t care. On the battlefield, I’d be thanking my past self for speaking up when my weapon didn’t shatter mid-fight.

“Ca-can you…show me?” the boy asked timidly.

I nodded, confident in my ability to teach. After all, I’d spent many hours instructing Finn, helping him become a better blacksmith.

“What’s your name?” I asked.