Smoke rises from chimneys. Chickens scratch in the dirt. A baker sweeps his doorstep while a group of children chase each other past the well.

It is an ordinary day in an ordinary village. The kind of place travelers pass through without a second glance.

Inside Master Tamaki’s forge, the heat is oppressive. Sweat drips down Sero’s spine as he pumps the bellows, coaxing the fire hotter. His master is supposed to be finishing a sword for a visiting merchant. But Master Tamaki hasn’t been able to hold a hammer properly for three days now.

That means the work has fallen to Sero.

He doesn’t mind. He likes the rhythm of the forge. The way the metal softens and surrenders under heat. The way he can shape something shapeless into something sharp.

He wipes his forehead with the back of his arm.

The bellows wheeze.

Outside, horses approach.

Sero doesn’t look up. Travelers pass through all the time. Sometimes they stop to commission nails or horseshoes. Occasionally a farmer needs a plow blade fixed.

The footsteps that stop at the open doorway are light, measured. Accompanied by the clink of metal.

A shadow falls across the floor.

A woman stands in the doorway. Young. Dark hair braided away from her face. Dressed in traveling clothes that are clearly fine, clearly expensive, clearly not meant to blend in with village life.

Behind her, a man.

Broad-shouldered. Blonde. Staring at Sero like Sero has already offended him somehow.

Behind them, guards. Six of them. Maybe eight. Horses stamped with the royal crest.

Sero’s hand freezes on the bellows.

He knows that crest.

He knows that face.

He’s seen it on banners during harvest festivals. On coins that pass through his fingers far too quickly. In stories told by traveling merchants who claim to have glimpsed royalty once and never forgotten it.

Princess YN.

The King’s daughter.

Standing in his master’s doorway.

Sero opens his mouth. No sound comes out.

The Princess tilts her head. A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips.