He smiled—a rare, crooked thing. “Then I shall return.”
“No. But it will stop the hand that pours it.” He smiled—a rare, crooked thing
The air in the royal forge was thick with heat and the scent of scorched iron. Ember, a girl of seventeen with smudges on her cheeks and calloused hands, swung her hammer in a steady rhythm. She was known only as gadis —girl—to the royal smiths who tolerated her presence because her father had been the best among them before he vanished. He smiled—a rare