Chapter 4 — The Bridge
The forges breathe like beasts.
Heat slams into me the moment I step through the archway. Smoke and iron fill the air, thick enough to choke. Men stop what they're doing — hammers still mid-swing — just to stare. The Southern girl in borrowed Northern furs.
No crown. No escort. Just me.
"I wouldn't go in there, Majesty," a steward warns, shifting behind me. "The Forged-Born aren't fond of strangers—"
"Good thing I'm not here to be liked," I say, walking straight in.
The heat bites my throat. Sparks fly close enough to sting, but I don't flinch. I walk toward the largest anvil where a man with arms like iron swings a hammer so heavy the floor trembles with each strike. He looks up only when I'm close enough to see the burn scars along his jaw.
"You're not supposed to be here," he says, voice low.
"Neither are false accounts," I answer. "And I hear you have both."
That gets the room's attention. A few of the smiths glance up from their work. He narrows his eyes. "You think a girl from the South knows anything about forge work?"
I step closer, studying the metal glowing on his anvil. "You're over-tempering. Two breaths too long. When you quench it, it'll crack at the spine."
He stares. Then he does as I say, counts the breaths, and dips the blade into the brine. The sound it makes—shhhhh, not scream—is the sound of steel done right. He lifts it, tests the edge, then looks at me like he's not sure whether to bow or curse.
"You've seen this before," he says.
"My father ran a merchant's forge," I answer. "I saw enough to know when men waste good iron."
There's a beat of silence. Then, from somewhere near the back, someone mutters, "She's not wrong."
The man grunts. "What do you want, Majesty?"
"I want to see where the King's gold goes," I say, "and where it disappears."
He frowns, but he calls for the ledgers anyway. I flip through pages, scanning marks, lines that don't add up. "These numbers are wrong," I say, showing him. "Every month's total increases, but the ingots stay the same. You're being robbed."
"By who?"
"Someone who thinks no one reads," I answer, setting the ledger down. "You've got more eyes for steel than for ink."
He stares for a long second, then laughs once — short, sharp. "You might survive here after all."
"Maybe," I say. "If I fix enough of this."
When I leave, they're still watching me. Not with hatred. With something closer to curiosity.
That afternoon, the great hall fills for council.
The King sits at the center — no crown, no robe, just dark leather and exhaustion.
To his right: generals.
To his left: nobles who look at me like I'm the first frost in spring — something to be endured until I melt.
I stay standing. I don't need their chairs. I need them to listen.
"Your Majesty," one lord begins, voice sharp as glass, "the southern girl visits the forges and touches ledgers. That's not queenly conduct."
"I didn't marry a ledger," the King says without looking at me. "But I expect the truth from whoever holds one."
The man sputters. "You'd take her word over ours?"
Valerius Raelix finally turns his head. His eyes — molten amber — find me first, then the men. "I take numbers over noise."
The table goes quiet.
I step forward, sliding a folded parchment across the wood. "The forge records. The numbers don't match the tithes. Someone's hoarding coin meant for coal and grain."
"Impossible," a steward says. "The Temple oversees distribution."
"Then the Temple should pray for better handwriting," I answer.
A few muffled laughs ripple around the room. One of the older lords bristles. "You speak above your place, Duchess."
"And yet here I am," I say. "Standing."
The King's mouth almost twitches. Almost. "Let her finish."
I point to the numbers. "The people in the lower forges are rationing brine to temper steel, while the priests in the high quarter eat off gold plates. You don't need magic to see the theft."
Silence. Then murmurs. Then anger — not all of it aimed at me.
The King reaches out, dragging the parchment closer. He reads, jaw tightening. "If this is true—"
"It is," I say. "I checked the counts myself."
He looks at me long enough for the whole room to feel it. "Then I'll have the weights tested and the accounts reopened. Effective immediately."
The steward pales. "Your Majesty—"
"Effective," the King repeats, "immediately."
And just like that, it's done.
When I step away, I hear it from the crowd of workers who gathered at the edge of the room to watch:
a whisper — soft, unsure — Bridge.
Later, in the courtyard, I hear a horse scream.
By the time I reach the stables, the handlers are panicking. A black warhorse thrashes against its halter, hooves striking sparks off stone. One man yells to fetch the king. Another bolts.
"Move," I say, stepping through the gate.
"Majesty, please—"
I ignore him. The horse rears again, eyes white, chest slick with sweat. I step close enough to smell the salt and smoke on its breath. "Easy," I whisper. "It's just noise. You're all right."
I keep my voice steady, the same tone I use for Jei when she wakes shaking from nightmares. Soft. Measured. Real.
"In," I say. "Out."
The horse's head drops an inch. Then two. Then its weight shifts, shoulders relaxing. Its breath slows to match mine.
"There," I whisper, brushing a hand down its neck. "Nothing to fear."
Behind me, silence. The handlers are frozen, staring like they've seen a ghost.
"She calmed it," one of them says. "Did you see that? She—she bewitched it."
"No," I say without turning around. "I just remembered how to be patient."
But even I know what this will sound like once it spreads.
The next day, the whispers reach the court before breakfast.
"She controls beasts."
"She whispered the dragon's name."
"She's a witch."
By midday, the council chamber is full again — nobles red-faced, priests clutching their amulets. The King stands at the head of the table, arms folded. The light catches in his hair like sparks caught in flame.
One man steps forward. "Your Majesty, this woman's presence brings danger. She charms beasts and men alike—"
"Finish it," the King says.
"—she bends your temper."
The room changes temperature. The torches flicker. The air smells like heat before lightning.
Valerius's hand tightens around the table edge. His voice drops. "You think my will bends?"
The marble beneath us glows faintly, veins of gold spreading underfoot. I can feel the heat climbing through the stone, through my shoes, into my legs. The council freezes.
I move before anyone else does.
"Valerius," I say softly. "Look at me."
He does. His pupils are slits. His jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth.
"Breathe," I say, same tone, same rhythm. "In. Out. One. Two."
He holds it. Then exhales, long and slow. The marble cools. The glow fades.
He looks at me, not as a king or a dragon, but as a man trying not to burn down the room. "You could have been ashes," he murmurs.
"You wouldn't have let it happen."
He stares a second longer, then turns to the council. "We're done here."
When they file out, I can feel the new weight in the air.
Not just fear. Something else.
They call me witch behind closed doors.
But in the forges, they call me something different.
Bridge.
And for the first time since I left the South, the word doesn't feel like mockery.
It feels like the start of power.