The sweat was breaking across Harad’s brow as the forge burned its blistering heat into the air.

The order was nearly done.

Twelve steak knives for the local inn. An unremarkable capstone to another unremarkable day.

Another day and Harad’s petulant apprentice Trund had not turned up again.

Probably drinking away his meager pay, begging for another crown to spend on ale.

He shrugged away the thought.

The last ingot of metal was ready. He drew it out of the fire and placed it against his anvil. He let his rage build up inside as he drew up his hammer, and struck his blows down into the steel, that his anger seemed to drain out of him, until eventually the steel was calling to him, entreating him to let the next blow fall. Each strike became less and less of an ordeal, and more and more a release.

When the steel was done, quenched, polished, and seated in wooden handles, Harad threw the assembled knives into a basket, and took off down the market road to the Ubiquitous Savior, the local Inn.

It was night out, and a fog had kicked up off the marshes to envelop the town. As he passed the lanterns, gently glowing in the gloom, he thought he heard whispers drifting up from the alleys and back-passages. He redoubled his speed, desperate and afraid. Men were robbed occasionally, and it wouldn’t do to lose the goods, he needed the money too badly.

Eventually he made it to the door of the inn, and the laughter within dispelled his paranoia somewhat. The paired wings of the savior sat proudly above the doorway, and as he pushed the oak door open, light spilled out.

As he entered Harad noticed a gang of surly youths sitting in one of the corner booths. Harad spied Trund in the group. The striplings were tearing into hunks of red, steaming meat and forcing mead down their gullets to wash away the bloody dregs.

Trund had been here the whole time, eating a banquet and drinking, while he’d been grinding himself to the bone so he could afford to keep the forge running.

He struggled to force down his rage, and pretended not to notice them, for none of them noticed Harad enter either.

Making his way to the bar, Harad spotted the proprietor and waved a greeting. At the wooden bar he lifted his basket, and fished out one of the elegant steak knives. The proprietor stepped up to the bar and examined the blade.

It was plain, but sturdy. The steel was polished to a mirror finish on the edge, and the sides of the blade displayed a mesmeric pattern of dark and light, as though darkness had been worked into the blade itself.

“Looks good,” was all the proprietor had to say, as he handed over the agreed payment.

Harad took the money and made his way to exit, shooting one last glare at his wayward ward.

After Harad had been gone for a few minutes, the proprietor handed the basket of knives off to a serving girl, Ryn.

“Make sure the tables are stocked.”

She took the basket, and set to her task. Laying a set at each table, she dutifully made her rounds.

As she approached the table of youths, she caught their eyes and stumbled, dropping the basket. Knives spilled across the floor and she quickly knelt to retrieve them, cramming them desperately back into their carrier. There were jeers, and general amusement from the patrons. One of the youths disdainfully kicked the knives along the floor at her, and she was forced to snatch her hands away to avoid being struck.

One of the boys snapped at his friend and knelt to help. The serving girl recognised him immediately. He had a kind face, with soft eyes and a friendly smile. With his long blonde hair he would have been angelic, except for the large bruises covering his face and neck. Trund, the blacksmith's apprentice.

She would have recognised him from the wounds alone. The blacksmith was a hard man, she knew, for the whole village knew. His choler was often untamed, and he could be violent when provoked. The poor boy must have often been at the receiving end of such poor treatment.

He smiled at her, “Let me help.”

Together they picked up the blades and placed them back in the basket. She grabbed the last, which had become wedged under a chair leg. Holding the knife in her left hand she stood, and looked up briefly into Trund's blue eyes.

Then, suddenly, she was falling forward. She had been shoved from behind, she could only reckon, for she would not ever have intended to move away from that moment, not for any reason in the world.

Then she was caught, Trund’s arms cradling her against his chest.

When she looked up sheepishly at Trund’s face, she found there was no longer any kindness in those eyes. Only astonishment and fear.

She stepped back and found that her hands were slick with blood. Left behind, impaled in Trund's chest, the knife seemed somehow smug and satisfied.

Time slowed.

She could feel her mouth open, as if to speak. If she made a sound, she didn't hear it.

She could only hear faintly, somewhere very far away, a soft chuckle.