The Girl Who Carried the Weight - Elara
The clang of the blacksmith’s hammer echoed through the valley of Langshire, long after the sun dipped behind the pines. Sparks lit the shop like fireflies caught in a storm, flaring bright and dying just as quickly. I tightened my grip on the wooden bucket I carried, feeling the strain against my palms, raw from a day’s labor. Water sloshed against the sides, heavy, just like every burden I’d carried since I could remember.
The forge roared, hungry and impatient, flames licking at the metal like wolves nipping at the heels of prey. I had a deadline to complete the upgraded breastplate for the new Beta in the neighboring pack, and there was no way I was tarnishing my perfect record for timeliness on this one plate. The last thing I needed was whispers about Elara the blacksmith growing sloppy. No, I had a reputation to protect—even if it was the only thing in this world I truly owned.
As sweat dripped down my brow, I rubbed the beads on my sleeve, a habit I picked up from my grandmother, careful not to disturb the timing of the kiln. The world outside might not care about timing, but here, in my forge, every second mattered. Steel demanded respect.
It had been a long day, and my body begged me to stop, but I pushed through the weariness. My vision blurred from lack of rest, black spots blooming at the edges of my sight. I blinked furiously, forcing the cloudiness away, and lifted the breastplate onto the anvil one last time. With painstaking care, I etched my signature finish into the underbelly—a small heart with a notch taken out of it. A mark no one else dared to use, but one my clients quietly sought out. My work had soul. My mark told them it had been forged with blood, sweat, and willpower, not just steel.
I nodded in approval at the piece, setting my tools down and wiping my hands across my apron, though all it did was smear the grime. Glancing back at my work of art, I caught my reflection in the polished steel. I laughed dryly at the sight—half my face blackened with soot, hair tangled in sweaty strands, eyes bloodshot and hollow from a week of missed sleep. The breastplate gleamed proudly while I looked like I’d crawled out of the ashes myself.
“Whelp, that is as good as it is going to get,” I muttered, the sound swallowed by the walls of my shop.
With a sigh, I pulling the doors closed. My sign, tilted again in the evening breeze, caught my eye. “Elara’s Creations,” it read in curling script. I straightened it carefully, then tapped the wood and pressed a kiss to it—a ritual for good fortune, or maybe just habit. Either way, it comforted me.
My feet dragged on the dirt road, leaving tired streaks in the sand. The valley had long gone quiet, the market stalls shuttered, smoke rising in lazy tendrils from chimneys. The path home wound past the forest’s edge, and there, nestled half into the hillside, leaned my cottage. If it could even be called that.
My chest tightened at the sight. My little home, already sagging from years of neglect, had been defaced. Bright streaks of paint slashed across the front, scrawled words that burned worse than fire.
My heart sank as I brushed my hand across the first one. FUC—
The paint smeared under my fingers. Still wet. Whoever had done this hadn’t even given me the dignity of waiting for it to dry.
Frustration flared hot in my chest. If I had left work sooner, I might have caught them in the act. But then the breastplate would not be finished, and I couldn’t afford that. I clenched my jaw, letting out a shaky breath. There was nothing I could do tonight. The words would wait for me in the morning, as all burdens did.
I unlocked the front door, jiggling the stubborn lock three times until it gave way with a reluctant creak. A bucket sat by the threshold, waiting to catch the next rainfall and keep the floor from flooding. Inside, the familiar scent of woodsmoke wrapped around me, a small comfort. The hearth still held a flame, and I smiled faintly, knowing I could heat the leftover soup without too much effort.
Kicking off my shoes—worn thin, soles nearly flapping—I lowered myself to the floor. The boards creaked under my weight, as if they too were exhausted. I stared into the fire, shoulders sagging, thankful that no matter how shabby or marked by others’ cruelty, this place was still mine. My sanctuary.
Sleep tugged at me hard, and I didn’t even bother to fetch my blanket from the counter. I curled on the floor, letting the warmth of the fire wash over me, and drifted off with a gnawing feeling that I’d forgotten something important.
Dreams swept me away. In them, I was strong—stronger than the merchant’s daughters in their velvet gowns and silken gloves. Stronger than the alpha’s sons, who had framed me for cheating and cost me my rightful graduation. Stronger than any merchant on the block with their rich parents’ coin. In dreams, I was not scraping by, alone and barehanded. I was a hero.
In dreams, the trials I endured became stepping stones, not chains. My skin glowed with power, my chest lifted with pride. I was everything I wanted to be.
But dreams don’t last.
The whispers started first, curling like smoke at the edges of my mind. I leaned in, trying to make sense of them, but they grew louder—insistent, cutting, cruel. Shouts replaced whispers. Accusations. Mockery. My glow dimmed as shadows pressed closer, and before I could shield myself, a rush of icy water drenched me.
I gasped awake, sputtering.
“Rent’s due!” a voice bellowed from outside. The light through my window was pale, not even dawn yet.
A harsh kick struck my ribs, rolling me halfway onto my side. Pain flared sharp, and my breath caught.
“If you’re not up soon, you’ll stay down for good,” Hector growled, his boot pressing one last threat into my side before stepping back.
I scrambled upright, clutching my ribs. “Hector, I have your payment. I’m meeting my customer at eight. I’ll have the full amount for you then, I swear.” My voice cracked, more pleading than I wanted.
“That’s two hours late,” he sneered, mimicking quotation marks with his fingers. “Better hope your customer actually shows up. Otherwise…” He let the threat hang in the air, followed by a laugh. Then, with a slam of my already-broken door, he left.
The silence after was louder than his shouting. My chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.
I forced myself up, wiped the damp from the floor where I had slept, and steadied my shaking hands. My ribs throbbed, my pride smarted, but there was no time to dwell on either.
I lifted my gaze toward the hearth, toward the faint crescent moon still visible through my window. Closing my eyes, I whispered a prayer to the Moon Goddess, voice raw but steady.
Please. Let this Beta be punctual.