The morning hit her like a sack of bricks wrapped in sunlight.
Uma rolled out of bed sore in places she didn't know existed. Her shoulders ached. Her calves felt like over-wrung cloth. Even her fingers buzzed like they'd fought someone in her sleep and lost. But she got up. The gloves were waiting on the nightstand. That was enough.
The forge was already alive when she arrived. Smoke curling up into the sky. The clang of steel bouncing off stone walls was like a warning and a welcome. Hamron spotted her and waved her in like he'd been expecting her since dawn.
"Right on time! Come on, Ghost Girl—we've got bars to make."
She didn't flinch at the nickname. Just tugged the gloves on, nodded once, and stepped inside. The heat hit her like a second sun. She kept walking.
Hamron wasted no time. "Heat it. Flatten it. Watch the color. Orange is perfect. White means you've messed up and I'm yelling." He handed her a misshapen chunk of scrap and a pair of tongs. "Go."
She took it carefully. Her hands weren't shaking, but they wanted to be. She moved toward the firepot, every step louder than it needed to be. The scrap dropped in with a soft hiss. She waited. Waited longer.
"Pull it."
She jumped. Reached in too fast. Metal clamped wrong. She nearly dropped it.
Hamron didn't say anything. Just watched as she shuffled toward the anvil and took her first swing.
The hammer bounced. Weak. Off-target.
She frowned. Adjusted. Tried again.
Still wrong.
"You're swinging like it's for a crowd," Hamron muttered. "Get closer. Wrist steady."
She grits her teeth. Took a breath. Hit again.
Better. Still bad. But better.
By the time she'd flattened half of it, her arms felt like soup. Her back had started making quiet little complaints. Her gloves were damp inside. But she didn't stop.
She finished shaping the first bar around midmorning. It was bent. Uneven. Ugly in a way that tried to be charming and failed. Hamron picked it up, squinted at it, and grunted.
"Not pretty. But it holds."
She held up her board with shaky hands.
T H A N K
Y O U ?
"That wasn't praise. That was survival. But sure, take the win."
She rolled her eyes and leaned on the table like her ribs were giving out.
Lunch came behind the forge—shade, bread, water, and something that tasted like dried regret. Hamron chewed like he didn't notice or didn't care.
"Most folks quit before noon. You're still here."
Uma wiped the sweat off her cheek with the back of her wrist, then scribbled:
N O
Q U I T
Hamron nodded like that confirmed something about her. "Good. Because the next part's worse."
She groaned silently and took another bite.
After lunch, they worked on molds. Clay and sand and frustration. She packed it wrong. Too loose. The shape cracked when Hamron tested it. He didn't yell. Just pointed.
"Try again. Tight. Like packing snow. But hot and angry."
She did it again. And again. The third time held.
Barely.
Then came the crucible.
She didn't trust it the second she saw it. It looked heavy. Dangerous. It had opinions. And it did. Because the second she tried to lift it, it tilted in her grip and nearly kissed her boot with a splash of orange death.
Hamron caught it.
"Closer to your chest. Don't go full arms—use your legs."
She nodded. Tried again. Slower.
They poured.
Only spilled a little.
He didn't say anything.
But he didn't frown, either.
By the time they finished the last pour, her arms buzzed, her neck ached, and she felt like she'd aged seven years. But she stood. Still breathing. Still there.
Hamron handed her a water flask. "Alright. You didn't die. You didn't quit. You didn't set anything on fire. For a first day? Not bad."
She raised her board.
W I N ?
He snorted. "Close enough."
The walk home was slower than usual. Her bag felt heavier. Her scarf stuck to her neck. The dirt path stretched longer than it should've. But she kept walking. The gloves hung from her belt now, stained and broken in. They felt like they belonged to her a little more than they did this morning.
The house smelled like stew. Warm vegetables. Salt. Firewood. Comfort.
Serosa was already at the table. No papers. No talking. Just tea and calm.
Uma dropped into the nearest chair and stared at the bowl in front of her like it had been sent from the heavens.
Serosa slid it forward. "Didn't die?"
She raised her board slowly.
M O S T L Y
"Good. I need you to carry water tomorrow."
Uma groaned without a sound, shoved the spoon into her mouth, and melted slightly as the flavor hit her tongue.
Halfway through the bowl, she picked up the board again.
T H A N K
Y O U
Serosa didn't reply.
But her hand brushed Uma's hair back with a rough sort of gentleness like she wasn't quite used to doing that kind of thing.
"Good work today."
Uma didn't write back.
Didn't smile.
Just leaned into the touch for a moment and let herself breathe.
That night she sat on her bed, hands bandaged, arms useless, and back sore. But she stared at the gloves where she'd set them by the window. They weren't perfect. Neither was she.
But she'd survived.
And tomorrow, she'd do it again
The following weeks passed in a blur of sweat, steel, and whispers.
Uma woke with the sun now. Earlier, sometimes. Not out of obligation—but because her body expected it. She knew the weight of her boots before they hit the floor. Knew the feel of the tongs before she picked them up. The forge wasn't home, but it was something close. Something hers.
Hamron didn't hover anymore. He watched. Corrected. Sometimes he just grunted when she got something wrong and waited for her to fix it without help.
'That's new,' she thought one afternoon, hammering a spearhead into shape after her third try. 'Didn't even yell that time.'
The orders had changed again.
Less farming tools. More guard gear. Pike ends. Plate. Replacement buckles. One man came in asking for metal cagework—a quiet voice, fast pay, no name.
She didn't ask.
But she noticed.
And she listened.
The town wasn't panicking. Not yet. But something in the air had changed.
Shops closed early. Kids didn't linger in the street. Lanterns were lit faster. People spoke softer.
'Like the town's holding its breath,' she thought, passing the baker's stall one morning. The woman usually greeted her with a smile and too many words.
Now? Just a nod. Tired. Distracted.
She still went to the market for errands, but it felt like walking across thin ice. Every step made her more aware of how quiet everything had gotten. How every conversation felt like it ended the second she got close.
She understood more now.
Not fluently. But enough.
The lessons had stopped two weeks ago. Serosa just… stopped giving words. Didn't explain why. Just said, "You've got the basics. Listen more."
So she listened.
And caught things.
"North road closed."
"Herd gone missing again."
"Found tracks by the old watch stump—drag marks."
She didn't always understand the details. But she got the shape of things. The worry.
The way people looked to the horizon more often.
Hamron didn't say much either. But she saw the way he packed tools tighter. The way he started checking the shop door lock twice before leaving.
Even the apothecary girl—who usually never shut up—started talking only when spoken to.
"Tell Serosa that I won't have fennel root for a while the forest is too dangerous."
Uma hadn't said anything. Just nodded.
Because what else was there to say?
Dinner grew quieter too.
Serosa wasn't distant. Just… occupied. Her mind is always somewhere else. On maps. Names. Numbers. Uma would pass her on the porch some nights, papers stacked beside her and a mug of tea long since gone cold.
She didn't ask.
But she stayed close.
Sometimes she'd lean on Serosa's shoulder without warning, or steal a forkful of food just to get a raised eyebrow. It worked. A little. The tension never fully broke—but it bent.
And that was enough.
'She's doing what she can,' Uma thought, watching Serosa rub her temples at the table one night while muttering about scouts and spear counts. 'But she's tired. Everyone is.'
The house still felt safe.
But even safety had limits.
And for the first time, Uma started wondering what would come next if the town ran out of space to pretend.