The Copper Sovereign Named A Lantern Polisher Queen, Then Learned Why His Dying Wyrmling Feared The Dawn

Chapter 2: The Forge Heir

Keithan walked down the basalt stairs.

His boots clicked on slate.

Nobody dared breathe.

Talia held the tiny wyrmling against her ribs.

Its heartbeat fluttered like a trapped swallow.

Heat seeped into her skin.

It was fierce heat.

It smelled like scorched cedar.

The creature burrowed under her patched wool scarf.

It made a low, bubbling purr.

“Step back from the dais,” Keithan ordered.

His voice was like grinding stone.

Talia did not move.

“He was starving,” she said.

“He belongs to the throne.”

“He was freezing to death.”

Keithan reached out a copper-gauntleted hand.

The wyrmling hissed sharply.

A tiny puff of blue smoke escaped its nostrils.

Keithan pulled his hand back.

His grey eyes locked onto the metal at her throat.

“Where did you get that rivet?”

“My grandfather gave it to me.”

“Your grandfather was an apprentice?”

“He was a lamplighter.”

“A lamplighter does not carry sovereign ore.”

“He carried what he had.”

Keithan studied her face.

He looked for deceit.

He found only chapped lips and stubborn eyes.

The High Priest remained on his knees.

His velvet robes were dusted with chimney ash.

“Sovereign Keithan,” the priest rasped.

“Quiet, Brother Corin,” the sovereign said.

“The prophecy of the Foundry—”

“I said quiet.”

Keithan looked down at the wyrmling.

The creature’s scales were turning bright bronze again.

One by one, the dull spots flared.

The child was drinking her warmth.

Or she was drinking his.

“You will come to the high solar,” Keithan said.

“I have work in the lower ward,” Talia answered.

“The lamps are unpolished.”

“The lamps can stay dark.”

“The city watch fines us for dark glass.”

“I own the city watch.”

He turned his back on the court.

“Bring her,” he told the guard captains.

“Touch her, and the beast bites,” she warned.

Keithan paused on the second step.

He looked back over his shoulder.

The wyrmling had curled tight against her collar.

It watched the guards with burning amber eyes.

“Then walk beside me,” Keithan said.

“Do not drop him.”

“I do not drop living things.”

They climbed the spiral staircase of the High Foundry.

The stone walls radiated deep, ancient heat.

This fortress sat above the Great Vent.

Beneath the flagstones, magma turned the great gears of the city.

Yet the royal nursery had been ice.

Talia noticed that immediately.

“Why was his chamber cold?” she asked.

“The flue was open,” Keithan said.

“A dragon does not fear wind.”

“A wyrmling fears drafts before its third molt.”

Keithan stopped on the landing.

“How do you know that?”

“My grandfather kept forge-drakes in the under-tunnels.”

“Those are vermin.”

“They have the same lungs.”

She tightened her arm around the small bundle.

“Someone packed damp turf into the nursery chimney,” she said.

Keithan’s expression hardened.

“You smell turf?”

“I clean oil lanterns every midnight.”

“I know every soot in the seven wards.”

“That was marsh peat.”

“The castle burns only mountain anthracite.”

Keithan stared at the dark slit of the stairwell.

“Marsh peat comes from the low delta.”

“From Lord Malcor’s estates,” she said simply.

Keithan did not reply at once.

His fingers tightened on his leather belt.

“My uncle sent provisions two days ago,” he murmured.

“He sent grain sacks,” Talia said.

“And dried fish.”

“And fuel blocks wrapped in rough canvas.”

“You saw the carts?” Keithan asked.

“I helped unload them at the North Gate.”

“Why would a lantern polisher unload grain carts?”

“Because three coppers buy a loaf of bread,” she said.

“And pride buys nothing.”

Keithan turned back toward the stone stairs.

“The delta men were laughing while they stacked the turf,” she added.

“They said mountain hearths choke easily.”

“They said it in front of you?”

“They did not look at me,” Talia said.

“Nobody looks at the girl carrying a grease bucket.”

Keithan’s jaw set hard as iron.

He took the steps two at a time.

Talia kept pace, her boots scuffing the riser edges.

The wyrmling tucked its snout deeper into her coat.

Its ribcage expanded against her chest.

A warm, wet nose pressed against her throat.

“His breath is clearing,” she said softly.

“He sounded like rattling dry leaves an hour ago.”

“The healers poured crushed mica down his throat,” Keithan said.

“They are idiots,” Talia said.

Keithan glanced sideways at her.

“They are scholars of the High Guild.”

“They are still idiots,” she repeated.

“Mica cuts a young throat.”

“You feed a wyrmling warm cream and yellow grease.”

“Where did Old Thomas learn such things?”

“He lived eighty years,” she said.

“A man sees things if he keeps his eyes open.”

They reached the heavy arch of the upper landing.

Two sentries stood rigid before the brass-studded door.

Their pikes dipped in salute.

Keithan did not acknowledge them.

He struck the oak panel with his open palm.

The heavy door swung back on oiled bronze hinges.

* * *

The solar was lined with heavy vellum rolls.

Maps of the molten canals covered the broad table.

A single brass basin sat near the window.

Inside the basin lay dried ash.

Keithan pointed to a leather chair.

“Sit.”

Talia sat on the very edge.

The wyrmling poked its blunt snout out of her scarf.

It licked her chin with a rough, warm tongue.

Talia stroked the crest between its tiny horns.

“He needs goats’ milk mixed with sulfur dust,” she said.

“The royal recipe calls for crushed pearls,” Keithan replied.

“Pearls rot a young stomach.”

“The archives say—”

“The archives were written by scribes who never held an egg.”

Keithan walked to the arched window.

He looked out over the copper spires of the city.

Steam rose in pale plumes from every rooftop.

“Six months ago, my sister died in the delta,” Keithan said.

“Lady Alyssa,” Talia murmured.

“You knew her name?”

“Every apprentice in the lower ward wept for her.”

“Why?”

“She lowered the chimney tax.”

“She made sure the grease-boys had boots.”

Keithan turned around slowly.

“My uncle Malcor told me she died of river fever.”

“There is no river fever in midwinter,” Talia said.

“The water is frozen solid.”

Keithan walked toward the table.

He picked up a heavy iron seal.

“The rivet at your neck.”

“Take it off.”

Talia did not flinch.

“My grandfather told me never to take it off.”

“He is dead.”

“His words are not.”

“I can cut the cord.”

“You can try.”

The wyrmling growled.

It was a small sound, like bacon sizzling in a pan.

Keithan let out a harsh breath.

He reached into his tunic.

He pulled out an iron key.

He opened a small mahogany chest on the shelf.

Inside lay a broken copper rod.

The fracture was jagged and dark.

“This is the Sovereign Pin,” Keithan said.

“It locked the Foundry Gate three hundred years ago.”

“When the first line broke, the pin snapped.”

“One half remained with the throne.”

“The other half vanished with the third princess.”

Talia looked down at the dull metal cylinder around her neck.

It was three inches long.

It had five notched grooves along its barrel.

“My grandfather used it to clear lamp wicks,” she said.

“Show me,” Keithan said.

Talia hesitated.

The wyrmling nudged her hand, purring louder.

She lifted the braided cord over her head.

The air around her neck turned instantly cold.

She placed the rivet on the table.

Keithan picked up the broken rod from the mahogany box.

His hands were scarred from forge-fires.

They trembled slightly.

He brought the two pieces together.

The jagged edges aligned without a hair’s breadth of space.

A deep thrum vibrated through the floorboards.

The Great Vent beneath the city seemed to answer.

The copper pieces did not just fit.

They fused.

A line of blue fire ran along the seam.

The metal became whole, smooth, and warm.

Keithan dropped his hands.

He looked at her hands.

Her fingers were stained with lamp soot.

Her nails were trimmed short and scrubbed raw.

“Who was your grandfather?” he whispered.

“Old Thomas,” she said.

“Just Old Thomas.”

“Thomas was the name of the exiled prince.”

“He never told me that.”

“He told me to mind the lanterns and never steal tallow.”

Keithan rubbed his eyes.

He looked suddenly older than his twenty-six years.

“My uncle has governed the Lower Foundry for ten years,” he said.

“He told me the line was dead.”

“He told me Alyssa’s hatchling would not survive the winter.”

“He brought me the egg himself.”

“Where did he find the egg?” Talia asked.

Keithan swallowed hard.

“In Alyssa’s tomb.”

The word hung between them like a blade.

Talia reached out and touched the fused rod.

The metal hummed against her fingertip.

“My grandfather kept a journal,” she said quietly.

“A ledger?”

“A leather book with wax-sealed leaves.”

“Where is it?” Keithan asked.

“Hidden in the false bottom of our lantern cart.”

“What does it say?”

“Names,” she said.

“Dates of canal closures.”

“Bribes paid to the sluice masters.”

“My grandfather wrote down every barge that slipped past the tollgates at midnight.”

Keithan leaned over the table, his knuckles pressing into the wood.

“Barges carrying what?”

“Black powder from the delta,” Talia said.

“And barrels of unrefined naphtha.”

“Naphtha is forbidden inside the mountain walls,” Keithan said.

“It has been stored under the Lower Foundry since the autumn frost,” she replied.

Keithan closed his eyes for three long seconds.

“Malcor told me the Lower Foundry was empty.”

“He said the damp had rotted the foundations.”

“He told you lies,” Talia said.

“He wanted you up here in the smoke.”

“He wanted you watching the sky while he undermined the bedrock.”

The wyrmling climbed out of her lap.

Its claws made clicking sounds on the polished oak tabletop.

It reached the fused Sovereign Pin.

It rubbed its scaly cheek against the copper cylinder.

A faint ring of blue light flickered along its throat.

“He knows the metal,” Keithan whispered.

“He knows his own forge,” Talia said.

She picked up the small saucer on the side table.

She dipped her finger into a drop of spilled water.

She wiped the grease from the beast’s left eye.

“You have been sovereign for four years,” she said.

“Have you ever set foot in the oil tunnels?”

“The council advises against it,” Keithan murmured.

“The council takes silver from your uncle,” Talia said.

Keithan did not argue.

He stared at the maps of the canals spread before him.

Red lines marked the sovereign channels.

Black lines marked the forgotten overflow flues.

Talia reached across the table.

Her soot-darkened finger tapped a blank space near the river mouth.

“There is an intake here,” she said.

“That channel was bricked up during the Great Plague,” Keithan said.

“The bricks fell into the silt thirty years ago,” she countered.

“My grandfather built a skiff there.”

“We used it to dredge driftwood when the winter rations ran low.”

“And what sits there now?”

“Four delta pinnaces,” Talia said.

“Loaded to the gunwales with iron shot.”

Keithan’s face went white under his forge tan.

“An invasion fleet inside the lower gates.”

“Not an invasion,” Talia said.

“An execution.”

“If the Sovereign Pin stayed broken, the Great Vent could never be sealed.”

“If the vent stays open, the city burns from the inside out.”

Keithan picked up the fused pin.

The metal felt heavier now, charged with impossible heat.

“My sister was trying to tell me,” he whispered.

“She sent three couriers from the delta.”

“All three drowned in the marsh.”

“Malcor told me the river ice broke under their horses.”

“There was no ice that week,” Talia said.

“The warm winds came early from the south.”

“I remember because the lanterns flickered with swamp damp for ten nights.”

Keithan walked back to the window.

The sun had sunk behind the jagged mountain rim.

Long purple shadows stretched across the slate roofs.

Below, in the winding alleys, tiny points of light began to appear.

The lamplighters were beginning their rounds.

“They do not know,” Keithan said.

“They know enough,” Talia replied.

“They know bread costs twelve coppers a loaf.”

“They know the guard takes half their tallow for court torches.”

“And they know the sovereign sits on basalt while their children cough black spit.”

Keithan turned around.

“Is that what they say of me?”

“That is what they say.”

“Do you believe it?”

Talia looked down at the wyrmling.

The beast had curled itself into a tight bronze knot around the fused pin.

“I believed it until an hour ago,” she admitted.

“And now?”

“Now I think you are blind.”

“Not cruel.”

“Just blind.”

Keithan let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh.

“A blind sovereign atop an iron mountain.”

“You have eyes now,” Talia said.

“If you choose to use them.”

* * *

By evening, the castle was whispering.

Servants lingered in the corridors with empty trays.

Guards tightened their grips on their halberds.

The news had crawled down the chimney flues:

A girl from the gutter was holding the royal whelp.

Brother Corin entered the solar without knocking.

He carried a leather ledger bound with brass wire.

His face was grey as river mud.

“Lord Malcor has arrived from the river docks,” Corin whispered.

Keithan did not look up from the fused pin.

“Where is he?”

“In the Great Hall.”

“He has thirty men-at-arms with him.”

“Delta men?”

“Yes, Sire.”

Keithan turned to Talia.

She was feeding the wyrmling warm milk from a shallow cup.

She had stirred two pinches of yellow sulfur into the cream.

The creature drank eagerly, its tail thumping her knee.

“You stay here,” Keithan said.

“No,” Talia replied.

“He wants this child dead.”

“He does not know the child lives.”

“He knows,” she said.

“The nursery flue was blocked from the outside.”

“Only someone with the master keys could reach the high roof.”

“My uncle does not climb roofs,” Keithan said coldly.

“His huntsman does,” Talia countered.

“The man with the split thumb.”

“I saw him on the gutter ledge three mornings ago.”

“I thought he was shooting pigeons.”

“He was dropping wet turf into the flue.”

Keithan’s jaw worked.

He strapped a broad iron sword to his hip.

“Brother Corin,” Keithan commanded.

“Sire?”

“Lock the solar doors from the outside.”

“If anyone approaches without my seal, trigger the iron portcullis.”

“Understood, Sovereign.”

“Wait,” Talia called out.

She stood up.

The wyrmling clung to her apron with sharp claws.

“Take this with you,” she said.

She held out the Sovereign Pin.

The copper gleamed in the firelight.

Keithan stared at it.

“That belongs to your branch of the house.”

“It belongs to the lock,” she said.

“If he has thirty men, you need the city guard.”

“The guard answers to the Foundry Pin, not to your sword.”

Keithan took the rod.

His fingers brushed hers.

The contact sparked—a tiny snap of static electricity.

He nodded once.

“Do not open this door for anyone else.”

“I won’t,” she said.

The heavy oak doors clicked shut.

The iron bolts slid into place.

Talia sat back down before the hearth.

She watched the shadows lengthen across the carpet.

The wyrmling yawned, showing two rows of needle-sharp teeth.

It rested its chin upon her wrist.

A minute passed.

Then ten.

The silence grew thick and greasy.

Outside, the mountain wind howled against the leaded glass panes.

Down in the city, the bells of the Sixth Watch began to toll.

Six slow, bronze strikes.

The sound resonated through the stone floor.

Talia counted each stroke under her breath.

One.

Two.

Three.

Between the third and fourth toll, a vibration passed through the chimney breast.

It was not the wind.

The wind made the flues howl like dying dogs.

This was a dull, rhythmic scrape.

The sound of iron studs against soot-encrusted granite.

The wyrmling felt it first.

Its ears twitched forward, the thin bronze frills flaring wide.

It rose onto its front talons, its belly flattening against Talia’s chest.

A low, vibrating growl started in its throat.

“Hush, little spark,” Talia whispered, pressing her hand over its nostrils.

“Hush now.”

The scratching stopped.

Then came the soft, sliding thump of heavy leather against stone.

Soot sifted down onto the cold logs.

A fine, black powder settled over the brass dogs of the grate.

Talia rose from the chair without making a sound.

Her wool shoes made no whisper against the carpet.

She moved sideways, putting the heavy oak table between herself and the fireplace.

She did not reach for the sword on the wall; its blade was five feet of ceremonial iron, too heavy for her arms.

She looked at the brass basin.

The dry lye inside it was fine as wheat flour, saved from three seasons of chimney scrubbing.

Her grandfather had taught her: lye blinds a dog faster than a dagger.

Above the hearth, a pair of black boots appeared in the dark flue.

The legs dropped down, dangling six inches above the grate.

A hook of blackened iron gripped the outer stone lip.

The boots dropped lightly onto the flagstones.

A man straightened up, shaking the grey soot from his shoulders.

He wore a dark leather jerkin reinforced with delta horn.

His face was gaunt, his nose broken and healed crooked.

His right thumb was split to the knuckle, the nail missing entirely.

He looked at Talia.

He smiled, showing yellow teeth.

“You should have stayed in the oil gutters, little bird,” the huntsman said.

* * *

Talia did not scream.

In the lower wards, screaming brought only thieves.

She stood up slowly, stepping behind the heavy oak chair.

The wyrmling hissed, its throat glowing like a cherry coal.

“Lord Malcor wants the beast cold,” the huntsman said.

He drew a short, serrated skewer from his boot.

“And you?” she asked, keeping her voice even.

“What do you get?”

“Ten silver sovereigns.”

“And the lamplighter’s quarter.”

“That is very cheap,” she said.

“Cheap enough for gutter blood.”

He took a step forward.

His leather boots ground the fallen soot into the wool carpet.

“The lord told me you were just a stray cat,” he whispered.

“A stray cat with sovereign metal at her throat.”

“He wants the metal too.”

“The sovereign took the metal,” Talia said.

The huntsman sneered.

“Then I take your skin instead.”

He lunged forward, low and quick like a delta otter.

Talia did not run.

She grabbed the brass basin from the side table with both hands.

It was half-full of dry, caustic lye from the hearth cleaning.

She flung it directly into his face.

The white cloud exploded between them.

The man howled.

He dropped the skewer and clawed wildly at his eyes.

“Bitch!” he screamed.

The caustic powder bit deep into his wet corneas.

He staggered sideways, slamming his hip against the corner of the table.

The wyrmling leaped from her shoulder.

It was no larger than a suckling pig, but its claws were iron-hard.

It landed squarely on the huntsman’s chest.

It clamped its jaws onto his ear.

The man thrashed, crashing against the parchment table.

Vellum rolls scattered across the floor like dry autumn leaves.

He shrieked as copper teeth met through cartilage.

“Get it off!” he wailed, flailing his arms.

“Get it off me!”

Talia did not wait.

She grabbed the heavy fire poker from the iron stand beside the hearth.

It was three feet of solid wrought iron, square-tipped and cold.

She swung it with both hands, putting the weight of her hips behind the stroke.

The iron struck the huntsman across the ribs with a dull thud.

The crack of breaking bone echoed in the small room.

He went down on his knees, gasping.

The wyrmling tumbled off him, skittering across the floor.

It shook its scaled head, spitting blood and tearing a scrap of gristle from its teeth.

The huntsman lay on the carpet, clutching his shattered side, choking on lye and blood.

Outside, the corridor exploded with the sound of clashing steel.

Shouts rang out—rough, panicked shouts in the flat accent of the river delta.

The heavy oak doors rattled violently.

The iron bolts shuddered in their sockets.

“Talia!” Keithan’s voice bellowed through the wood.

“Stand clear of the threshold!”

Talia stepped back toward the window, pulling the wyrmling into her skirts.

A terrifying crack echoed through the stone.

The lock gave way.

The double doors burst inward.

Keithan stood in the doorway.

His tunic was torn at the shoulder, revealing mail beneath.

His blade was bare and dark with delta mud.

Behind him stood Lord Malcor, flanked by four palace guards.

Malcor’s hands were pinned behind his back by iron chains.

The lord’s fine green mantle was soaked with rain and sweat.

He stared into the solar.

He saw his huntsman writhing on the carpet, blinded by lye.

He saw the copper wyrmling standing over him, smoke billowing from its snout.

And he saw Talia holding the fire poker, her face smudged with soot.

“What is this madness?” Malcor demanded.

His voice shook, but he tried to maintain his noble sneer.

“Keithan, you listen to gutter-born lies!”

“This woman is an impostor!”

“She snuck into the nursery to poison the royal line!”

Keithan walked into the room without looking at his uncle.

He stepped directly to Talia.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” she said.

“The creature bit his ear.”

The wyrmling bounded across the rug and climbed Talia’s skirt.

It settled into the crook of her arm, breathing hard.

Keithan turned slowly toward Lord Malcor.

“Your huntsman climbed down the flue,” Keithan said.

“I have never seen that man before,” Malcor lied smoothly.

“He is a poacher from the hills.”

“He carries your delta livery on his belt buckle,” Talia said.

She pointed the poker at the fallen man’s waist.

A brass fish was stamped into the leather.

Malcor’s face tightened.

“A common crest,” Malcor spat.

“Any thief could steal it.”

“He also carried this,” Brother Corin said, stepping forward.

The priest carried a small glass vial.

He had gathered it from the huntsman’s fallen satchel.

“Nightshade tincture,” Corin said.

“Distilled in marsh water.”

“The same poison found in Lady Alyssa’s medicine chest.”

The room went dead silent.

The guards shifted their weight.

Malcor looked at the doorway.

Six more palace halberdiers filled the corridor.

Every one of them wore the copper armband of the city guard.

In Keithan’s left hand, the Sovereign Pin pulsed with steady heat.

“The Foundry Gate responded to her metal,” Keithan told the guards.

“The ancient gears turned.”

“The water levels in the lower wards rose six feet within an hour.”

“The city knows its master.”

He looked at Malcor.

“And it knows its traitor.”

Malcor straightened his spine.

“I am your blood, Keithan!”

“I governed this city while you were still learning to strike an anvil!”

“You cannot condemn me on the word of a chimney sweep!”

“She is not a sweep,” Keithan said.

“She is the granddaughter of Thomas the Iron-Heart.”

“And the rightful mistress of the Lower Works.”

“Strip him of his mantle,” Keithan commanded.

“Take him to the deep cells beneath the Great Vent.”

“Let him feel how cold the stone is without a fire.”

The guards dragged Malcor backward into the dark corridor.

His curses faded down the winding stair.

The huntsman was hauled out next, groaning as the iron chains bit his wrists.

Two servants entered with damp rags to scrub the blood and lye from the flagstones.

Keithan watched them in silence.

His hand remained on the hilt of his broadsword.

“The thirty delta men in the Great Hall?” Talia asked quietly.

“Disarmed,” Keithan said.

“They had no heart for a fight once the Foundry Gate slammed shut.”

“They thought the mountain was caving in.”

“The sound of the ancient locks is terrifying to strangers,” Talia agreed.

“My grandfather used to say the locks sound like God clearing his throat.”

Keithan looked down at the wyrmling.

The beast had buried its head back into Talia’s collar.

“He fought for you,” Keithan said.

“He fought for his breakfast,” she replied dryly.

“He knows who carries the warm milk.”

Keithan stepped closer to her.

He reached out and gently brushed a smudge of soot from her cheekbone.

His thumb was warm, calloused, and rough.

Talia did not pull away.

“You have soot in your hair,” he said.

“I always have soot in my hair,” she answered.

“It is the uniform of the lower ward.”

“Not anymore,” Keithan said.

“We have much to rebuild, Talia.”

“Then find more shovels,” she said.

“Words never cleared a blocked canal.”

* * *

Two weeks passed before the soot settled.

The lower wards did not celebrate with banners.

Working people did not trust banners.

They celebrated with hot soup and dry wood.

Keithan opened the royal coal cellars to every family in the six districts.

The chimney tax was formally abolished by sovereign decree.

In the Great Hall, a council table replaced the high dais.

Keithan sat at one end.

Talia sat at the other.

Between them, the copper wyrmling—now named Brin—slept on a sheepskin pelt.

His scales were the bright, burnished color of a new kettle.

He had gained three pounds.

His wings, once webbed like dry parchment, stretched wide and supple.

Keithan pushed a parchment scroll across the timber table.

“This is the deed to the Foundry Quarter,” he said.

“It includes the lower mills, the oil warehouses, and the river docks.”

Talia looked at the black ink and the red wax seal.

“I do not know how to govern warehouses,” she said.

“You managed forty apprentices on two sacks of flour a week,” he said.

“That is more governance than my uncle showed in twenty years.”

“I am an artisan, Keithan.”

“Not a ruler.”

“You are both,” he said gently.

He looked at her hands.

The lye stains were fading, but the small scars of hot oil remained.

“The council wants a coronation,” Keithan said.

“A wedding?” she asked, her voice dry.

“They want the lines joined permanently.”

“They fear another war between the high and low.”

Talia leaned back in her chair.

Brin opened one golden eye and yawned.

“What do you want?” she asked.

Keithan looked down at the fused Sovereign Pin resting beside his elbow.

“I want the city to stop freezing,” he said.

“I want to walk into the lower wards without guards.”

“And I want this child to have a mother who does not fear him.”

Talia looked out the tall arched windows.

The lanterns of the city were being lit one by one.

They were clean.

Their light was clear and sharp against the coming dusk.

“I will not live in this cold stone box,” she said.

“Then where?”

“The old house by the Water Gate.”

“It has a forge in the courtyard and a garden for the goats.”

Keithan’s lips curved into a rare, quiet smile.

“The walk to the council hall is three miles,” he noted.

“The exercise will do you good,” she said.

“Your belly is getting soft from sitting on that basalt chair.”

Brother Corin, standing by the pillar, coughed discreetly into his sleeve.

Keithan laughed.

It was a rough, unpracticed sound, like an iron grate sliding back.

“Very well,” Keithan said.

“The Water Gate it is.”

He picked up the Sovereign Pin and held it out to her.

“Take it back.”

“Keep it here,” she said, pushing his hand gently away.

“A lock only needs a key when it is shut.”

“Leave the gate open.”

Keithan watched her fingers retreat.

“The masters of the Guild will complain,” he noted.

“Let them complain,” she said.

“They complained when my grandfather lowered the price of lamp oil.”

“They complained when Alyssa opened the washhouses.”

“They complain whenever anyone does anything useful.”

“You sound like her,” Keithan murmured.

“Like Alyssa?”

“Like my sister.”

“She had sharp edges.”

“A dull knife cuts nothing,” Talia said.

She stood up and lifted the sleeping dragon into her arms.

Brin grumbled softly, his tail wrapping around her forearm.

“I have work to finish before midnight,” she said.

“The lamps along the north canal are full of tallow rind.”

“You are sovereign consort now,” Keithan said, rising with her.

“You do not polish lamps.”

“If I do not polish them, who will?”

“The apprentices.”

“The apprentices do not know how to clean the reflectors without scratching the silver,” she said.

“I will show them myself.”

Keithan shook his head, but his eyes were bright.

“I will walk with you to the gate,” he said.

“The Sovereign carrying a grease pot?”

“The Sovereign carrying his sister’s child,” he corrected.

He took the wyrmling from her arms.

Brin did not hiss.

The creature rested its copper head against Keithan’s broad chest, purring contentedly.

They walked together down the grand gallery.

The portraits of ancient kings stared down from the stone walls.

Every king held an iron rod.

Every king had a cold, unsmiling mouth.

At the foot of the stairs, Talia paused before the great carved doors.

“They look miserable,” she said, pointing up at the painted ancestors.

“They were miserable,” Keithan agreed.

“They spent their lives worrying someone would steal their fire.”

“Fire cannot be stolen,” Talia said, stepping out into the crisp night air.

“Only shared.”

* * *

Five years later.

The midwinter frost lay heavy on the copper roofs of the High Foundry.

Smoke rose straight into a pale, cloudless sky.

In the courtyard of the Water Gate, an anvil rang with rhythmic clarity.

Talia struck the glowing edge of a plowshare.

Her sleeves were rolled to the elbows.

Her brow was beaded with clean sweat.

Beside the forge, a great copper beast lay curled around three sheep.

Brin was twelve feet from nose to tail now.

His horns curled back like mountain rams’.

His breath smelled of dry cedar and molten rock.

A small boy, barely three years old, sat on the dragon’s broad tail.

He was laughing, slapping the thick scales with a wooden spoon.

Brin’s tail twitched gently, keeping the boy from sliding onto the cobbles.

Keithan walked through the gatehouse.

He wore no armor.

Just a heavy wool cloak of delta green and boots crusted with forge-sand.

He carried a basket of dried plums and fresh mountain bread.

The boy saw him and shouted.

“Papa!”

Keithan set the basket down and caught the child as he leaped.

“Thomas,” Keithan said, lifting him high.

“Did you help your mother mend the coulter?”

“I held the hammer!” the boy lied proudly.

Talia quenched the iron in the water barrel.

Steam hissed into the crisp winter air.

She wiped her face with the back of her wrist.

“He tried to feed the dragon a shoe,” she said.

“Brin has good taste,” Keithan said.

“He spat it out.”

The dragon lifted his heavy head and nudged Keithan’s shoulder.

Keithan stroked the warm scales beneath the jaw.

“The lower council approved the new aqueduct,” Keithan said.

“The water will reach the smiths’ quarter by spring.”

“Without a fee?” she asked.

“Without a fee.”

She smiled, untying her leather apron.

She walked over to the bench and sat beside the bread basket.

Around her neck, on a new cord of braided leather, hung the small copper rivet.

It was no longer dull.

It caught the setting sun and gleamed like fire.

“The lamplighters are ready for the festival tonight,” she said.

“Every street will be lit.”

“Even the river docks?”

“Every single one,” she said.

Keithan sat beside her, setting the boy upon his knee.

The dragon exhaled a soft ring of white smoke that drifted toward the stars.

The city hummed below them.

Not with the roar of fire or the clang of war.

Just the steady, warm breath of people who were no longer cold.

THE END