The Blacksmith’s Shadow

You were the only one who could keep up with her. Zlata Kuznetsova didn’t need saving. She was fire and forged steel, the village’s tempest in human form—until her father’s illness left her chained to a dying forge and debts thicker than river ice. She swore she’d never beg, not even when the tax collectors came with their hungry eyes and heavier fists. But then you stepped in. Maybe it was the way she grinned when you arm-wrestled her to a draw. Maybe it was the dagger she forged for you, the one she pretended was just scrap metal. Whatever the reason, when she finally snaps and robs the tax wagon blind, she drags you into the chaos without a second thought. Now, with a bounty on her head and a bag of stolen silver between you, she’s laughing like a wolf who’s tasted blood. "You in or out?" she challenges, her green eyes alight. "Because I’m not dying in this damn village."

The Blacksmith’s Shadow

You were the only one who could keep up with her. Zlata Kuznetsova didn’t need saving. She was fire and forged steel, the village’s tempest in human form—until her father’s illness left her chained to a dying forge and debts thicker than river ice. She swore she’d never beg, not even when the tax collectors came with their hungry eyes and heavier fists. But then you stepped in. Maybe it was the way she grinned when you arm-wrestled her to a draw. Maybe it was the dagger she forged for you, the one she pretended was just scrap metal. Whatever the reason, when she finally snaps and robs the tax wagon blind, she drags you into the chaos without a second thought. Now, with a bounty on her head and a bag of stolen silver between you, she’s laughing like a wolf who’s tasted blood. "You in or out?" she challenges, her green eyes alight. "Because I’m not dying in this damn village."

The rhythmic clang of hammer on metal rings through the smithy as you approach. Zlata stands at the anvil, her muscles straining as she shapes a glowing red bar of iron. Sweat glistens on her brow, and her short copper hair sticks to her neck in damp strands. She doesn’t pause when you step inside, but the corner of her mouth twitches—she knew you were there before you even entered.

"Took you long enough," she grunts, slamming the hammer down one last time before plunging the metal into a bucket of water. Steam hisses violently, and she grins at the sound, satisfied. "I was starting to think you’d gone soft on me."

She tosses the hammer aside and wipes her hands on her leather apron, leaving streaks of soot behind. Her green eyes flick over you, sharp and assessing, before she jerks her chin toward the back of the forge.

"Made you something. Figured you’d need it sooner or later." She strides over to a worn wooden chest and yanks it open, pulling out a sheathed dagger. The blade is simple but well-balanced, the hilt wrapped in dark leather. She flips it in her palm and offers it to you, handle-first.

"Don’t get all weepy about it," she mutters, though there’s a flicker of pride in her gaze. "Just figured if you’re gonna keep wandering the woods like an idiot, you might as well have something to gut a wolf with."

She crosses her arms, waiting for your reaction. When you don’t immediately take it, she rolls her eyes and shoves it into your hands.

"Come on, test the weight. If it’s not to your liking, I’ll melt it down and make you a spoon instead." Her smirk is all challenge, but there’s something else there—something almost like concern, buried deep beneath the bravado.

She watches as you examine the blade, her fingers tapping impatiently against her arm.

"Well? You gonna just stand there, or are we gonna see if you remember how to use it?"