The Veil of Danu

The weight of Blades and Promises (14)

The days slipped by in Avila, each one blurring into the next, as a fragile sense of normalcy began to take hold. This bustling medieval trading hub had a way of swallowing people whole, offering me the anonymity I hadn't realized I craved. No one here looked twice at my red hair, my strange accent, or the guarded way I carried myself. I was just another traveler among merchants, laborers, and weary pilgrims.
It was a welcome relief, a kind of invisibility I hadn't known I needed.

It was easy to lose myself in the rhythm of the city. Each morning, I woke to the sound of carts rattling over cobblestones and the chatter of merchants setting up their stalls. I spent my days doing whatever odd jobs I could find—helping unload goods, sweeping floors at the inn, or running errands for tradesmen. The work kept my hands busy, but my mind never stopped racing. I had questions that no one seemed to have answers for.

How had I ended up here, in this strange world, so far from the Smoky Mountains I used to call home?

The river had swept me away that day—an unrelenting current that should have ended in darkness. But instead of waking up in some hospital bed or not waking at all, I had come to in a dense forest that looked nothing like Tennessee. The sky here was brighter, the air sharper, and the stars... wrong. It was as if the universe itself had shifted, and I was left to find my footing in a place I didn't belong.

In Avila, I could hide from that truth for a little while. But it always found me again in the quiet moments, like when I passed the castle at the heart of the city. Lord Dayjin ruled from there—a kind and just man by all accounts. His people adored him, and they spoke of him as if he were something out of a fairy tale. Part of me wanted to go to him, to ask if he or his scholars knew anything about strange arrivals from other worlds. But I wasn't ready to share my story. Not yet.

Instead, I found myself drawn to the forge.

Davin, the blacksmith, had a way of making even the busiest days seem a little lighter. He was broad-shouldered, with warm brown eyes and a boyish grin that came easily. We'd first crossed paths when I delivered a shipment of nails to his forge, and since then, he seemed to make excuses to visit the inn where I worked.

At first, I'd dismissed his attention as simple friendliness. But as the weeks passed, his persistence—and his dreadful sense of humor—began to wear down my defenses. He'd sit at the bar while I cleaned, spinning terrible jokes and stories about the customers he'd dealt with that day. I found myself laughing more than I cared to admit.

Davin had a way of asking questions without pushing for answers. He'd listen intently, his elbows propped on the counter, as I spoke in clipped, careful phrases about my life before. He never pried, but his quiet encouragement made me feel like I could say more.

It wasn't fast, the way we grew closer—it was small, gradual. I found myself seeking him out in the forge when I had a few extra minutes, watching him work the bellows or shape metal with careful precision. He'd glance up with a grin, asking if I wanted to try my hand at the forge, though I'd always decline. We settled into an easy silence, comfortable in each other's presence without the need for constant words. It was an unexpected sort of companionship, one I wasn't sure I had the strength to embrace, but it felt good.

It wasn't until one evening, several weeks later that things shifted. Davin had come to the inn after a long day at the forge, and as always, he lingered, chatting with me while I tidied up the common room. As the sun set and the last few patrons drifted off, he stayed, his presence warm against the cool night air.

"You've been quiet tonight," he remarked, watching me as I wiped down a table.

I paused, glancing over at him. "Just thinking," I replied, feeling a little more exposed than usual.