Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125083 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125083 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Ahead of it all sat the Keep. Unlike the curtain wall, it was constructed of black, medieval stone. Tall and intimidating, it loomed above all. Stained-glass windows—some small and square, some narrow and rectangular—dotted the stone edifice. It might have looked grim and gothic if each stone didn’t shimmer with power.
The sight was as impressive as the dude who called it his home.
She wasn’t gonna think about him, though. Getting her mind back on track, she crossed to the blacksmith’s shop. It was small and hot, and the air was thick with the scents of molten iron and coal. Workbenches, forges, and other large equipment were scattered around. There were tools just … everywhere.
One side of the shop was wall-to-wall with weaponry—small, big, modern, medieval. Her mouth fell open. There was everything she could think of. Cutlasses, brass knuckles, claymores, long-swords, pickaxes, hatchets, crossbows, sledgehammers, javelins—it was all there.
God, she thought she might come.
Rafe would love the collection. He’d made her learn how to dodge and even snatch weapons before he’d ever allowed her to use one. As a child, she’d had to seize a dagger from him over and over and over in the space of an hour.
Studying the weapons in front of her, she didn’t notice any runes or flecks of power ground into the blades. None were enchanted, then. Something she could easily change.
“Who are you?” a gruff voice demanded.
She turned to see a stout male glaring at her like she’d pissed in his shoes. Well, this was off to a good start.
The monster inside her raised its head slightly and eyed him carefully. Like her, it sensed that he was a berserker—an elite preternatural warrior whose race was all but extinct. Still, her monster wasn’t intimidated; it settled back down, intending to merely observe.
“Wynter,” she finally replied. “I’m guessing you’re Grouch.” She held out her hand. He only sneered at it.
“What do you want, witch?”
She lowered her arm. “A job. Here.”
“Here?” He burst out laughing, scratching his belly. “If you tell me you’re a smithy, you’re nothing but a liar. You ain’t got the muscle for it.”
“I’m not a smithy, but I can improve your weapons. Make them … unique.”
A broad-shouldered female who bore a slight resemblance to him strolled into the shop. “Pop, Dina says she ain’t got … Who the fuck is this bitch?”
Oh, these two were simply charming.
He laughed again. “You won’t believe this, Annette. Winifred over here wants to work for us. Says she can improve our weaponry.”
The female let out a derisive snort. “We don’t need no witch working for us. There’s a strip club up on the surface. Why don’t you go see if they’re hiring?” With that, they both turned away, dismissing her. Annette headed to one of the workbenches while Grouch crossed to the forge.
Wynter sighed long and loud. “Hmm. Such a shame you want to lose custom. But hey, I get it if you’re overworked. It happens.”
Grouch’s head snapped up. “Lose custom? You threatening to hex my shop?”
She frowned. “Who said anything about hexing?”
He grabbed a sword hanging from a peg and advanced on her fast, pointing it at her chin. “Witch, you fucking dare—” He jerked back as she conjured her own sword and blocked his move. His face went slack as his eyes landed on her weapon. “What in the love of God?”
Annette sidled up to him, staring at the sword. “Is that … ?”
“Black glass? Yes.” Wynter angled it so that the light danced along its length. “There’s nothing delicate about it, though. It’s more durable than iron and sharper than any blade.”
Grouch licked his lips. “I’ll buy it from ya.”
“It’s not for sale,” said Wynter.
“What are those runes on it?” asked Annette.
Wynter gave her a hard smile. “Don’t you worry about those.” She ‘sent’ her sword back to its sheath in the cottage. “You two have a good day now.” She strode off. Fuck them. There were other blacksmith shops. She could try those. She would.
She did.
And each time, it went almost as badly as it did with Grouch. There was laughing and sneering and an outright refusal to hear what she meant by ‘improving’ their weapons.
Figuring any job would do, she sought out others and talked to several shop managers. All turned her away. And she concluded that there really were too many assholes in this world.
It wasn’t merely that they’d been rude. It was that they’d once been in her position. They’d once been newcomers here, looking for work. People had obviously taken a chance on them, and yet they wouldn’t give another newcomer that same chance.
Wynter headed to the surface of the town and searched for work there. She found none. She did, however, realize that someone was following her. The feeling hit her mere milliseconds before a very familiar breeze fluttered over her in warning.