The forge glowed with the heat of a thousand hunts. Sparks hissed and died on the stone floor, and the air was thick with smoke and the scent of scorched metal. Dachande stood over the anvil, hands steady, eyes narrowed in concentration.

The rest of the clan slept. Only he remained awake, as he had for many nights, driven by a purpose he could not name aloud. The blade was nearly finished. It was not large—nothing meant to impress the council or hang in a hall. No, this was for her. A weapon sized to her grip, balanced for her strength and speed. A blade for the princess who had chosen him, low-born as he was, and made him more than he thought he could ever be.

The metal had been scavenged from the remains of a defeated rival’s warship. He had claimed it as his prize, not because of its value but its story. Steel forged in conflict, tempered in fire—like them. Like her. Like his mate. His claws guided the blade’s edge along the stone, slow, deliberate. He had worked it for days in secret, hammering, shaping, sharpening, until it was as perfect as his hands could make it. But still, it felt unworthy.

He thought of her as he worked—the way her eyes shone beneath the mask, the way she moved like wind through the trees on the hunt, the sound of her breathing beside him in sleep. All that she was, all that she deserved. "This is all I have to give you," he muttered in English, the words tasting strange on his tongue. He rarely spoke it, but tonight, the forge was his confessor, and the stars beyond these walls his witnesses.

Dachande lifted the blade, turning it to the light. Its surface gleamed darkly, etched with markings only they would understand—symbols of the hunt, their bond, and the quiet promise he had made the night they joined as mates. A promise to protect. To stand beside. To honour. He set to work on the final touches, wrapping the hilt in leather cured from a beast they had hunted together, binding it tight with sinew. Every movement was precise, as if to make up for all the ways he could not speak what burned inside him.

At last, it was done. He cleaned the blade, cradling it in both hands as if it were sacred. And in truth, to him, it was. He stood there a long moment, the forge’s heat warming his armour, his skin. Then he left the chamber, walking through the quiet halls until he reached their shared quarters with a hint of nervousness.