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Jumping into the crater, I hold the tools aloft, pounding at the stone with all my might. Not a crack, not a chip. Nothing I do will crumble it.

And though perhaps it’s silly, I wrap my hands around the hilt of the sword and pull straight up. Of course it doesn’t move.

I hold out a hand to Kellyn and Petrik and Temra. They each take a turn trying to pull out the blade. It doesn’t so much as bend from its position.

“You did it,” Kellyn says. He laughs and grabs me under the arms, hoisting me in the air and twirling me around.

“Of course she did,” Temra says. She hugs me next.

Petrik pats me on the back. “I’m thinking of writing a second book. Secret Eater’s story. Our story. It’ll be filled with adventure. And romance.” This causes me to blush, but Petrik can’t help the glance he gives Temra out of the corner of his eye. “Generations will know what you did with this sword. They will know it is here, waiting for its intended master. Safe until the time is right.”

“I wish I knew what the broadsword was meant to do,” I say. “But I hope I’m long, long dead when it’s pulled from the iron.”

“I’m certain it will do great things for a time far ahead of us,” Petrik says.

I approach my creation once more, place one booted foot against the rock and try to shift it. It’s far too heavy to budge, of course. “If I’d known a crater would open up in the earth, I wouldn’t have done this here.” I send an apologetic look the smithy’s way.

“Leave it,” he says. “I think it’s fine ornamentation for my business.” A pause. “You that magical smithy I’ve heard rumors about?”

“That’s me,” I say.

“I’d sure be honored if you’d show me—”

The smithy—I never even asked him his name—grabs his navel, his fingers touching the spear shaft now imbedded there. He falls to the ground, his breathing shallow. I’m staring far too long at him before I make sense of what happened.

When I raise my eyes, I see the horses barreling toward us. Scarlet tunics on their riders. And at the front of the charge—

Warlord Kymora.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO

Temra rushes over to where the smithy landed on the ground. She holds the man’s hand but looks to me helplessly. “He needs a healer.”

He needs to not have a spear in his chest. Why is there a spear in his chest? Why would Kymora hurt him? He did nothing. He was innocent. He helped me protect the sword.

She assumed he was harboring you.

You did this.

My fault. Just like everything else.

Kellyn steps in front of me, putting himself between Kymora and me. He and Temra have both taken action, and I’m still standing there. I don’t know what to do.

I watch as the warlord’s horse comes to a stop about thirty feet away, her men halting just behind her. How many of themeven are there? Far too many to count. Kymora dismounts, takes a few steps toward Kellyn.

She says nothing. Her face shows nothing. And somehow, the nothing is more terrifying than if she were screaming and raging. She’s unpredictable, and unpredictable people are the most dangerous.

Her eyes find the sword that bears her sigil at the hilt, the falcon wings at the guard.

“What have you done with my weapon?” she asks.

And though this is a confrontation of the worst kind, I find my voice. Because I did something right. The consequence has caught up with me, but what I did wasright. “I’ve protected it from you. Only someone worthy can pull the sword out of its iron casing.”

She eyes my creation, her face growing thoughtful. Then, “Could you explain to me why I’ve had to chase you through half of Ghadra? I offered you protection and freedom. Why in the hells would you run and dothat”—she points—“to my weapon?”

“Because you were going to use it to enslave all of Ghadra. You would have forced me to make weapons for your soldiers so you could take over the world.”