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Eight days after the Fateless One left, Skald gritted her teeth and sat down next to Agarth at the fire.

If he was surprised by this, he hid it well, and wordlessly offered her his flask. She took it with a nod and drank deeply, surprised that the flask was as full as it was. He didn’t seem to be drinking as much as she remembered.

The silence hung heavily between them, and eventually Skald sighed. “It’s been over a week.”

Agarth nodded. “She’ll be back.” There was perfect faith in his voice. She half expected him to announce that he was packing up and joining the not-so-secret cult in the mountains that was hailing her as a prophet.

“So you are not worried about her? Not even a little? I thought you were friends.” She couldn’t keep the scorn out of her voice.

Agarth laughed a little. “If you knew the things I have seen Dawn walk away from, you wouldn’t be asking. But in answer to your question, yes, I do worry about her. But not in the way you mean.”

Skald opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but he beat her to it. “Why are you concerned, anyway? It’s not like you welcomed her presence in the first place.”

Skald opened her mouth to say that it was none of his business, that she wasn’t worried, but the image of the Fateless One’s grave face and tired eyes entered her mind and stopped her voice.

Skald remembered how she had flinched at the insults she had flung at her but not protested, and how the Fateless One had protected her when the forge was attacked despite that. She remembered how her hands had moved over the forge, sure and steady, all traces of self-consciousness and hesitance forgotten.

Skald hadn’t been able to get her out of her head, for all those reasons and more. She felt her face growing hot and hoped Agarth would put it down to the fire.

He did not. He laughed so hard and for so long that Skald was abruptly reminded of how much she disliked him.

“Ah, I knew you had a heart! Well, you’ve got a hell of a first impression to make up for, Skald. Might want to pick some flowers or something before she gets back.”

“I’m a blacksmith,” she said, rising to her feet with as much dignity as she could manage. “Not a feckless poet.”

She turned on her heel but before she could leave, Agarth spoke again, all traces of humour gone from his voice.

“Don’t hurt her any more than you already have.”

She didn’t pretend not to know what he was talking about, but she didn’t reply either. Skald turned back to the forge, her mind far away, lingering on the Fateless One and the danger she had sent her into, the danger she was partly responsible for.

Perhaps a gift wouldn’t be a bad idea, but nothing as useless as flowers. Daggers perhaps, delicate and deadly, made by her own hand.

Perhaps they could say what her words could not.