The Blind Binding

Chapter One: Krogal the Blacksmith

The forge was already hot by the time the sun cleared the eastern ridge, which was exactly how Krogal preferred it. He’d been up since before dawn, coaxing the fire to life with efficiency, and now the workspace hummed with heat and purpose. Cedar smoke curled towards the rafters, mixing with the sharp tang of heated iron. Outside, Stonehollow was beginning to stir—shutters opening, voices calling greetings, the distant clatter of the baker’s cart making its morning rounds—but inside the forge, there was only the steady rhythm of work.

Krogal lifted the tongs, examined the glowing metal, and decided it needed another minute. Patience was half the craft. Rush a piece, and it would crack or warp or simply refuse to hold its shape. He’d learned that lesson young, back when his hands had been smaller and his confidence considerably larger.

His hands weren’t small anymore.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the familiar pull of old scars across his knuckles, and returned his attention to the fire. The commission was straightforward enough—hinges for the Widow Ashton’s garden gate—but straightforward didn’t mean careless. The widow had a habit of testing her gate with considerable force, usually whilst shouting at the neighbourhood cats, and Krogal had no intention of hearing that the hinges had failed within a fortnight.

The metal reached the right colour—a warm orange that seemed to glow from within—and he pulled it free, moving it to the anvil in one smooth motion. The hammer came down in a steady pattern: strike, turn, strike, turn. The sound rang out across the square, a familiar punctuation to Stonehollow’s morning routine. Some people woke to cockerels. Stonehollow woke to Krogal’s hammer.

He was halfway through shaping the second hinge when he heard footsteps on the cobbles outside.

“Krogal! You in there, or have you finally melted into the floor?”

Krogal didn’t look up, but his mouth twitched. “Morning, Petyr.”

Petyr Millerson appeared in the doorway, squinting against the forge’s glow. He was a wiry man in his fifties, with the permanently flour-dusted appearance of someone who’d spent his entire life around grain. “Morning yourself. I’ve got a problem.”

“You usually do.”

“The main axle on the mill wheel’s cracked. Noticed it yesterday evening. I can probably nurse it through today, but if it goes completely—”

“You’ll have half the town without flour by week’s end,” Krogal finished. He set down his hammer and wiped his hands on his apron, already running through the mental calculations. “I can have a replacement ready by tomorrow afternoon if I start on it this evening.”

Petyr’s shoulders dropped with visible relief. “You’re a saint.”

“I’m a blacksmith.”

“Same thing in this town.” Petyr grinned, then his expression shifted into something more mischievous. “Speaking of which, have you given any more thought to the festival?”

Krogal returned to his work, bringing the hammer down with perhaps slightly more force than strictly necessary. “No.”

“It’s only a week away.”

“I’m aware.”

“Plenty of eligible people are participating this year. Marta’s daughter finally agreed. And I heard the cooper’s nephew is coming up from Millbrook specially—”

“Petyr.”

“I’m just saying, it wouldn’t hurt to—”

“Petyr.” Krogal set down the hammer and turned to face his friend fully. “I appreciate the concern. Truly. But we both know how this works. The festival’s for people with prospects. I’m not—” He gestured vaguely at himself, at the forge, at everything. “This isn’t what people are looking for.”

Petyr’s expression softened. “You’re daft, you know that?”

“So you keep telling me.”

“I mean it. You’re the first person anyone calls when there’s trouble. You fixed the Hendersons’ roof in the middle of that storm last month. You built the new playground equipment for the children. You organised the search party when old Gareth wandered off—”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“That’s...” Krogal picked up the tongs again, turning the metal unnecessarily. “That’s being useful. That’s not the same as being wanted.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavier than Krogal had intended. He focused on the hinge, on the clean lines taking shape under his hands, and tried to ignore the uncomfortable weight of Petyr’s gaze.

Finally, Petyr sighed. “You’re still daft. But I’ll leave it alone. For now.” He turned to go, then paused in the doorway. “The axle—you’re sure tomorrow afternoon?”

“I’m sure.”

“Right. Good. I’ll, er, I’ll let you get back to it then.”

After Petyr left, Krogal worked in silence for a while, letting the familiar rhythm settle his thoughts. This was what he was good at: taking raw materials and shaping them into something useful, something that would last. Metal didn’t care what you looked like. It didn’t care if you were too broad, too heavy, too much. It only cared about the strength in your hands and the patience in your heart.

The morning progressed in a steady stream of interruptions—which was to say, it progressed normally. Old Gareth stopped by to ask if Krogal had seen his hat (he hadn’t, but he helped look anyway, eventually finding it in Gareth’s own coat pocket). The Henderson twins appeared with a broken wagon wheel from their toy cart, their faces so earnestly hopeful that Krogal abandoned the hinges entirely to fix it on the spot. Marta herself came by with a basket of bread rolls, still warm, and spent twenty minutes detailing the various eligible participants in the upcoming festival whilst Krogal made increasingly noncommittal noises and tried to focus on his work.

By midday, he’d finished the hinges, started on Petyr’s axle, and fielded no fewer than seven separate conversations about the Blind Binding Festival.

Stonehollow took its traditions seriously.

The festival itself was old—older than anyone could quite remember, though Gareth claimed his great-grandmother had participated and she’d said it was ancient even then. The concept was simple enough: unmarried people who wished to be matched would gather at the festival grounds. They’d be separated by partitions, and the prospective matches would speak to each other without seeing each other first. Voices only. Conversation only. If both parties felt a connection, the festival elders would make the match, and the couple would be married before sunset.

The blindfold came off the next morning.

It was, Krogal had always thought, either remarkably romantic or utterly terrifying, depending on your perspective.

For him, it was simply irrelevant.

He’d attended the festival once, years ago, when he’d still been young enough to harbour hope. He’d sat behind his partition, had a perfectly pleasant conversation with someone whose voice had been light and musical, and then watched as she’d been matched with someone else entirely. Later, he’d overheard her telling a friend that she’d specifically requested not to be matched with “the blacksmith”—she’d wanted someone more refined, apparently. Someone who didn’t smell of smoke and iron.

He hadn’t participated since.

The afternoon brought more visitors: the baker’s wife needed a new poker for her oven, the schoolteacher wanted to commission a set of small bells for the children’s music lessons, and young Timothy Ashton appeared with a bent sword (wooden, thankfully) and a tale of epic battles that Krogal listened to with appropriate seriousness whilst straightening the weapon.

“You’re good with the lad,” observed a voice from the doorway.

Krogal looked up to find Bren, the town’s carpenter, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. Bren was one of the few people in Stonehollow who came close to matching Krogal’s size, though where Krogal was broad and heavy, Bren was tall and rangy.

“He’s a good lad,” Krogal replied, handing the sword back to Timothy, who immediately resumed his battle against invisible foes in the square outside.

Bren stepped into the forge, his expression thoughtful. “You ever think about having some of your own?”

“Children?”

“Aye.”

Krogal returned to the axle, using the tongs to rotate it in the fire. “A bit difficult without a wife.”

“Well, that’s what I’m saying. The festival—”

“Not you as well.”

Bren held up his hands. “I’m just saying, it’s an option. A good option. My parents met at the festival. So did my grandparents. It works, Krogal.”

“For some people.”

“Why not for you?”

Because I’m not what anyone’s looking for, Krogal thought. Because I’m the person you call when your roof leaks, not the person you dream about spending your life with. Because I’m useful, not desirable, and there’s a difference.

Out loud, he said, “I’m content as I am.”

Bren studied him for a long moment, then shook his head. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“The offer stands, anyway. If you change your mind. I’ll even stand up with you at the ceremony, if it comes to that.”

“Appreciated.”

After Bren left, Krogal worked until the light began to fade, finishing the axle and starting on a few smaller projects that had been accumulating. The forge cooled gradually, the fierce heat giving way to a more manageable warmth. Outside, Stonehollow settled into its evening routine: shutters closing, lamps being lit, families gathering for supper.

Krogal banked the fire, cleaned his tools, and locked up the forge. His house was attached to the workshop—a small, practical space that suited his needs perfectly. He washed the day’s soot and sweat away, heated some of the stew he’d made two days ago, and sat at his kitchen table in the gathering darkness.

Through the window, he could see the town square. Lanterns bobbed as people moved between buildings. Voices carried on the evening air, punctuated by laughter. Somewhere, someone was playing a fiddle—practising, probably, for the festival.

The Blind Binding Festival.

One week away.

Krogal ate his stew and tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about sitting alone in his kitchen whilst the rest of Stonehollow celebrated new matches and new beginnings. Tried not to think about the fact that he’d be doing exactly what he always did: working, helping, being useful.

Being alone.

He finished his meal, washed the bowl, and sat back down at the table. The fiddle music continued outside, a cheerful melody that seemed designed specifically to highlight the silence inside his house.

“Content as I am,” he muttered to the empty room. Krogal sighed, scrubbed a hand over his face, and tried to convince himself it was true.