The city's hum faded into the gentle rhythm of late morning, too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. The Copper Candle sat in the drowsy light near noon, its lanterns unlit, windows cracked open to let in the warm breeze.

  I kept one arm around Seraphina’s waist, guiding her gently as I helped her up the narrow stairs. She didn’t resist; she simply leaned into me, her head resting on my shoulder, her steps slow and weary.

  Our room greeted us with a soft creak of the hinges and the lingering aroma of lavender from the sprig she’d tucked behind the curtain days earlier. I walked her to the bed and gently eased her down, careful not to wake her too much.

  “Boots,” she muttered, still mostly asleep.

  “I’ve got them.” I knelt and unlaced the scuffed leather, gently tugging each one free with a soft thump. Her socks were bunched at the toes. I peeled them off and softly rubbed the arch of her foot once. She sighed, sleepy and grateful.

  Her belt and tunic came off next. I moved carefully, with respect and familiarity, flowing with the rhythm of undressing her without making a big deal out of it. She raised her arms when needed, her breathing steady. Her skin was warm from the sun and forge, soft under my hands. I fought the urge to linger. She was just on the edge of sleep.

  Once I got her settled under the sheets, she murmured, “You’re warm.”

  I kissed her temple. “You’ll be warmer soon.”

  At the wash basin, I poured cool water into the bowl and scrubbed the soot off my jaw and arms. The light from the window pooled across the wooden floor, casting long shadows over the bed and desk. My reflection in the basin water looked tired, eyes red, hair damp with sweat. But the sword was still in progress. That was all that mattered.

  By the time I slipped under the covers, Seraphina was curled on her side, breathing softly. One hand reached across the mattress, as if searching for mine in her sleep. I gently took hold of it and then looked at the wooden ceiling.

  The city feels pressed in around the quiet. A wagon clattered somewhere in the distance. A dog barked, annoyed and faint. Then silence returned. But beneath it all, I could hear the soft, steady breath of my wife, peaceful and nearby.

  And yet, sleep still wouldn’t come. The sword stayed in my mind.

  I examined it carefully, part by part. The balance of the hilt. The weight distribution. The polish it still needed. The edge required sharpening—a slow, deliberate process with a whetstone and leather strop. And then the hilt wrap—probably wrapped in oiled hide or copper wire for grip and weight.

  Every detail had to be perfect. Not because it was a royal request, but because it deserved to be. Because something in me needed to see it through to the end. I closed my eyes and let her breathing's rhythm center me. Tomorrow, I’ll finish the sword. Today, I rested with the woman who believed I could forge anything—even a future.

  The city hummed beneath a sun steadily climbing toward mid-afternoon. I eased the door shut behind me, boots hitting the stone steps outside the Copper Candle, and pulled my coat tighter as I stepped into the street. Seraphina was still asleep, peacefully and deeply. She had earned every hour of it. I didn’t feel like eating yet, but my throat was dry, and my mind was restless. The forge heat still clung to my bones.

  A few blocks away, I found a small corner tea shop with shaded tables and pale blue awnings gently fluttering in the breeze. I ordered something spiced and dark and sat down facing the street. Just watching. The city had its rhythm: carts rolling by, a couple of kids arguing over marbles, someone yelling about bread being fresh when it clearly wasn’t. I sipped the tea. Strong. Bitter. Perfect.

  “Had a busy night?”

  The voice came from beside me—calm, smooth, familiar. I didn’t jump, but my grip on the cup shifted slightly.

  The cloaked man stood just outside the circle of shade. Same hood. Same unreadable eyes. Same feeling, like a book that refused to open.

  I pointed to the empty seat. “If you’re going to ask questions, you might as well sit.” He did. His cloak settled quietly with barely a sound of fabric. He didn’t order tea. Just sat.

  “You looked tired,” he said after a beat. “Productive night, then?”

  “Oh, you know. Just forging all night and buried in paperwork by morning. Living the dream.”

  A faint smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. “How’s your wife? She seemed strong. Steady. People like her don’t come around often.”

  I felt a shift in my chest—pride, maybe. Or something deeper. He wasn’t wrong. “She’s sleeping,” I said. “We both needed the rest.”

  “Of course,” he said, glancing toward the street. “Weather’s holding up nicely. No storms in sight.”

  “Do you have any real questions, or are you here for small talk?”

  He tilted his head slightly to move the hood aside, revealing a hint of cheekbone and stubble. “There are groups mustering,” he said softly. “Moving this direction.”

  My jaw tightened a little. “Groups of what?”

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  He didn’t respond. Instead, he stood and brushed an invisible speck of dust off his sleeve. “That’s all I came to say.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  He paused. “A sensible man would be,” he said, voice dry as the wind off old stone. “But it seems you are not sensible.” With that, he turned and walked down the street, vanishing into the crowd like smoke in sunlight.

  I stared at my tea until it got cold.

  The hallway creaked beneath my boots as I stepped back into the Copper Candle, the weight of the strange conversation with the cloaked man still lingering behind my eyes. I climbed the stairs, carefully pushing open the door to the room.

  Seraphina was already awake, sitting upright with the blanket slung low across her hips, nothing else between her and the morning. Light streamed through the window, casting a soft glow on her bare skin, highlighting the curve of her breasts and the dip of her collarbone. Her hair was a wild, tangled mess, falling over one shoulder as if she’d just rolled out of someone’s arms. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The way she looked at me—slow, unreadable, still glowing from whatever dream she’d just left—said enough.

  She looked at me, serious. Not angry, not cold. Just… direct. “Are you seeing someone else?” The question struck me hard in the chest.

  “What?” I said, blinking. “No. Gods, no. What the hell kind of—”

  “There’s no one else?” Her tone stayed the same, but her eyes searched mine. Watching.

  “There’s never been anyone else,” I said, stepping closer, voice low and steady. “There won’t be anyone else. You’re it, Seraphina. You’ve always been it.” A heartbeat went by. Then another.

  Her lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. “Good,” she purred, tilting her head as she leaned back against the pillows, the blanket slipping down her thighs, then off entirely. She stretched confidently, one hand sliding up to cup her breast, the other trailing lower with deliberate slowness. “Because if you were, you’d be missing all of this”—she arched slightly, her fingers drawing a line from her chest down over her stomach, stopping just above where her legs parted. “And that would be a damn shame.” Her eyes locked on his, daring him to look, daring him to move. Then she laughed—rich, sultry, wickedly amused—as if she already knew he couldn’t resist.

  I exhaled, somewhere between relief and disbelief. “You’re evil.”

  She winked, slow and smug. “You love it.”

  Then she shifted—no teasing, no games this time. Just a soft smile, a subtle flick of her fingers toward the space beside her, and the slow, deliberate glide of her tongue across her lips. An invitation. A promise.

  I didn’t need to be told twice.

  I removed my clothes and slipped beneath the blanket. Seraphina curled into me without a word, skin to skin, her body fitting against mine like it had always belonged there. Her breath synced with mine, slow and steady, the last traces of tension melting into quiet laughter and something heavier—something that stayed.

  My hand traced the curve of her waist, then wandered lower, settling on the soft round of her ass. I gave it a playful slap. She turned her head, eyes wide with mock outrage, lips twitching with amusement. I smiled and leaned in, catching her mouth in a kiss that was slow and deep, the kind that didn’t ask—it took.

  My other hand moved to her hip, fingers curling softly as I guided her over me. She followed, graceful and unhurried, eyes fixed on mine as she settled into position.

  Later, when the room had fallen silent and the sun had moved further across the floorboards, she finally spoke.

  “I know how things work around here,” she said quietly. “Some men have multiple wives. It happens, especially if they own land or have a trade. A big family.”

  I haven't said anything yet.

  “I’m not fighting that,” she continued. “But I’m your first wife, and the first wife gets rights.”

  I turned my head toward her, raising a brow. “Rights?”

  She nodded, looking entirely serious. “I get final say on the others… and the first child.”

  I snorted. “You’re already more than I can handle. And what’s this about children already?”

  She gave a soft laugh and leaned in, her breath brushing my cheek. “That’s not a no.”

  “It’s a you,” I murmured, wrapping my arm around her waist again. “And you’re plenty.” She kissed me, slow and sure. Then she rested her head on my chest again and said nothing more.

  We woke to the soft creak of floorboards above and the amber light slanting low across the room. The afternoon had slipped by unnoticed. Seraphina stretched like a cat beside me, her hair tangled, eyes half-closed. I kissed her shoulder and got up first.

  By the time we reached the downstairs, the Copper Candle’s common room was starting to fill up. Lanterns cast a warm glow on the walls. The smell of roasted meat and baked roots drifted from the kitchen.

  Mark was the first to notice us, already seated, halfway through a mug of ale, and arguing with a piece of bread that had more crust than center. He looked up, grinned, and raised his mug.

  “Look who decided to wake from the dead.”

  “Not dead,” I said, pulling out a chair for Seraphina. “Just well-rested. Finally.”

  Seraphina sat in the chair, hair still damp from a quick rinse. “So what’s for dinner?”

  Mark leaned back, resting his boot on the edge of the empty chair beside him. “Stew, bread, and something the innkeeper swears is beef but tastes like old goat with ambition.”

  I flagged down the waitress with a nod. “Two bowls of the ambitious goat, then.”

  Seraphina raised an eyebrow at me. “You’re really selling it.”

  Mark shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You’re hungry, you’ll eat it. And if not, I’ve got backup bread. It could break teeth, but it’ll keep you full for days.” The girl returned with two steaming bowls, placing them in front of us with a practiced tilt to avoid spilling. Seraphina poked hers with a spoon.

  “I think it blinked.”

  “Extra taste,” I said, already tearing off a piece of bread. “So, Mark. Any excitement since this morning?”

  He snorted. “Only if you count watching Mira trip over her own skirt while delivering messages. That girl can hustle, I’ll give her that. But the way she jiggles—she nearly bowled me over by the forge door.”

  Seraphina smirked. “She was probably trying to get a look at your lantern.”

  Mark flushed. “I’ve got more to show than just a lantern.”

  “Prove it,” I said, sipping the stew. “Still tastes like goat.”

  Mark leaned forward, elbows on the table, watching me over his bowl. “So... the sword. That’s what the commission was for, right? What’s left to do?”

  I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and set the spoon down. “Polishing and etching. The blade’s forged and tempered, but it still needs refinement and details. Something worthy of the man it’s going to.”

  Mark whistled softly. “And the scabbard?”

  “After the blade’s done,” I said, glancing at Seraphina. “Thinking something bold. Regal. Maybe lacquered wood.”

  She nodded, lifting her spoon. “Red lacquer would stand out. Deep crimson. Not flashy, but noble. Gold fittings to match the pommel.”

  Mark leaned back again, chewing thoughtfully. “So you’re really making a sword for a king.”

  I shrugged. “It was a royal commission. Doesn’t mean he’s the one who’ll use it.”

  Seraphina raised an eyebrow. “But you’ll make it seem like he will.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Because anything less... wouldn’t be a test.”

  Mark looked between us and grinned. “I still can’t believe you dragged me into all this. Yesterday I was eating crusty bread in the cheap lane. Now I’m rubbing shoulders with royalty.”

  I grinned back. “That’s what you get for running into us.”