The black glass didn't ring like iron. It scraped—a cold, brittle sound that set his teeth on edge.

Tomás lowered the horn-tipped chisel against the raw volcanic stone. He exhaled a long, slow breath through his nose, his chest rising and falling beneath his heavy leather apron. Sweat coated his brow, chilled instantly by the late autumn wind rattling the wooden shutters of the smithy.

One wrong blow. One fraction of an inch too deep.

The chisel would shatter weeks of labor into useless gray dust. It required a master's touch—a level of precision his father’s trade never demanded. Obsidian was incredibly rare, a prize smuggled past the southern trade routes, and the hilt was carved from rare ashwood. Hard. Elegant. A material completely unknown to the crude forests surrounding Olmeda.

At twenty-two, his shoulders were broad enough to carry the daily weight of the forge. His muscles had been hardened by years of shifting heavy pig iron, by years of swinging the sledge until his bones ached. Olmeda expected its men to be plain. Functional. Built like the brutal stone mountains of Navarion.

He played the part. He wore the soot-stained apron like a second skin and kept his mouth shut.

Yet, his mind remained completely disconnected from the pile of common horse bridles and plowshares waiting near the coal bunker.

He struck the chisel. A tiny flake of obsidian chipped away, dark as a moonless night.

He ran his thumb safely along the smooth flat of the black glass, a quiet focus tightening his jaw. His father would call him a fool for wasting time on a decorative piece that couldn't be sold at market. It didn't fit the needs of a farmer or a common linesman. It was a useless luxury in a village that only valued survival.

But it wasn't meant for a villager. It was a gift for Elías.

His childhood friend was an artist—the only person in Olmeda who would look at the dark, polished blade and appreciate the sheer craftsmanship of the work instead of searching for a practical use. Elías would understand the hours it took to shape the volcanic stone. They had been close since they were boys, and this was simply a token meant for someone who actually valued beautiful things.

He set the chisel down on the scarred wooden table, the tool clicking softly against the oak. His hands were stiff from the cold, the joints aching under the strain of the repetitive work.

Stepping toward the small, grime-streaked window, he looked out across the village square, his heart giving a sudden, heavy thud against his ribs.

Katerina.

She walked past the local pastelería, her vibrant emerald green gown cutting through the gray gloom of the square. Even from across the cobblestones, the rich fabric and intricate black lace detailing made her look entirely separate from the muddy village of Olmeda. The beautiful, fair-skinned daughter of the mayor paused at the threshold of the bakery, tucking her heavy wool shawl tight against the freezing wind before disappearing inside.

Tomás didn't call out. He didn't dare cross the street. They had only spoken a handful of times in passing—brief, polite exchanges about winter supply lines and wagon wheels—but the mere sight of her made the heat of the hearth feel miles away.

His hand flattened against the cold windowpane, his eyes tracking the closed wooden door of the bakery. The memory of her red hair and the curve of her jaw stayed with him, a quiet, fierce intensity that made his blood run hot. He wanted the stable life he was supposed to build. He wanted the three solid barns, the thriving family business, and the pride of offering a traditional future to the mayor's daughter. He wanted to prove he was more than just the boy who sharpened her family's scythes.

The wind kicked up outside, rattling the frosted glass pane beneath his palm. A small, quiet shadow slipped past the stone boundary wall of the smithy, cutting off his thoughts.

Tomás blinked, his gaze dropping to the doorway of the shop.

Lucia stood there. She was clutching her yarn doll tightly against her chest, her cheeks bright red from the late autumn wind. She didn't step fully into the sweltering dark of the forge, lingering on the threshold where the heat of the fire met the freezing air of the square.

“Hola Tomás,” she said, her voice small and muffled by her wool rebozo.

Tomás’s features softened completely, the tension draining from his shoulders. He set his tools aside, kneeling down so he was at eye level with Elías’s little sister.

“Hola Lucia, what are you doing out in the cold this morning?”

“I’m with mama, we came to sell some eggs and milk at the market.”

Tomás glanced past her shoulder out toward the square, his mind tracking back to the outskirts lane.

“I see, y Elías? Where is he this morning?”

“He went into the woods.”

Before Tomás could answer—before he could ask how early his friend had left—a cold shadow broke through the gray mist behind the girl.

Carmela Montenegro stepped onto the stone threshold. Her dark wool shawl was wrapped tightly around her thin frame, her posture flawless and completely unyielding. Her sharp gaze swept over the blacksmith’s workshop, landing on Tomás with a freezing glare that immediately reset the distance between them.

She had never liked her son hanging out with a blacksmith's boy—not even before their financial ruin took their estate away. Now, trapped in the same mud of the outskirts, her elite disdain was the only armor she had left.

Carmela ignored Tomás entirely. She didn't offer a nod. She didn't speak a word of greeting.

She simply reached down, her slender, pale hand gripping Lucia’s shoulder with a firm, controlling hold. With a sharp, unyielding jerk, she pulled the eight-year-old girl away from the threshold, steering her across the wet cobblestones directly toward the bakery door.

Tomás stood up slowly, the cold draft rushing back into the empty space where the girl had just been standing. He watched through the grimy window as Carmela forced Lucia through the entrance of the pastelería, the heavy wooden door shutting tightly behind them.

The image of that closed door forced him to turn back to his reality. Back to the sweltering, lonely dark of his own shop.

The iron tools hanging from the rack rattled slightly as a fresh gust hit the building, a low moan vibrating through the chimney stack. Tomás turned back to the workbench, his fingers tightening around the ashwood hilt. He looked at the rare volcanic glass, a new, unyielding focus locking his jaw into place.

With steady, unhurried precision, Tomás began wrapping the fine silver wire around the seam, binding the rare black glass blade immovably to the wood. Every twist of the wire was tight. Flawless. He wouldn't allow a single gap. He pulled the wire taut, his calloused skin digging into the metal until it anchored perfectly. He would keep his work flawless. He would ensure the dagger was perfect.

He tucked the finished dagger deep beneath a pile of cured leather aprons at the back of the shelf, ensuring no random customer or his father would stumble upon it during the day. He smoothed the heavy leather over the bundle until the black glass was completely out of sight.

He walked back to the center of the shop, his boots heavy against the dirt-packed floor. He approached the forge, pumping the bellows until the dying embers roared back to life, painting the entire room in a fierce, amber glare. The heat rolled off the bricks, hitting his chest and face.

The village clock struck the noon hour, its heavy brass tones muffled by the thick November air outside. He picked up a standard piece of ironwork from the coal bunker, his muscles locking into place as he brought his hammer down against the metal with a deafening, rhythmic ring.