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Shaping a sword requires endless hours of hammering. It starts out as a fire-heated glob of steel. It’s pounded and reheatedagain and again until it flattens out into the right shape. The trick is in keeping the steel the right temperature and pounding with just the right amount of force—enough to shape but not break it. The smithy I apprenticed under told me it takes decades to master this, so either I’m a prodigy or the magic has a hand in helping my instincts.

When the sword finally has its shape, I set my mind to the magic.

It’s tied to my senses. To the sound of my voice. The heat of my breath. The fervor in my eyes. The way I soothingly caress the metal or listen to what it has to say. It’s not something I’m fully conscious of most of the time, but what I have learned is fire-heated steel is not to be shouted at or reprimanded. It is to be coerced with gentle whispers and encouragement.

So far, I have not failed to make it do what I want. And occasionally, it surprises me by doing something wonderful that I hadn’t even anticipated.

I want you to treat my sword as though it is the weapon you’ve been practicing for your entire life. It is to be of immense power. Something that can defeat many opponents at a time. Something that could bring nations to their knees.

Suddenly feeling daunted by the task, I decide to procrastinate the magic and turn my attention instead to the hilt while I wait for inspiration to strike.

I chisel and shape and reheat. Reheat. Reheat.

I pour my strength into my work, knowing that I can’t fail. My sister and I have too much depending on this.

Yet no ideas are forthcoming every time I turn my attention to the magic.

Something that could bring nations to their knees.

I stare at the useless length of sharpened steel before thrusting it deep into the kiln to heat the metal. The magic will only set on heated steel. When it’s most malleable.

The warlord will return in two weeks’ time. I’ve reheated the sword more times than I can count, trying to will magic into the blade.

Nothing is taking, because I have no idea what I want the sword to do.

I have made daggers that shatter anything with which they come into contact, a mace that steals the breath from those surrounding it, a longsword that knocks nearby attackers off their feet when struck against the ground, a halberd that calls forth the power of the wind, blinding any enemies.

Countless weapons with countless magical properties—and then, when the most important client of my career comes to me?

Nothing.

I’m useless.

I pull the sword out with a pair of tongs and set it on the anvil. A breeze from the windows stirs the wisps of hair that have come free from my ponytail, and I close my eyes at the brief relief.

The fire-bright tip of the broadsword grows darker as the metal cools, and I wonder how many more times I’ll have to reheat it before inspiration strikes.

“Get out of the road!”

My eyes lift to the windows, where I see a man swerve around a horse-drawn cart. The shouting owner of the cart turns her voice down low to coo at the horses. Meanwhile the man turns to glare after her.

I don’t recognize him from this angle, but that’s not saying much. I hardly know anyone in the city, because I never leave my forge if I can help it.

The man lifts his head heavenward, as though to ask the Sister Goddesses just what the world has come to.

Then he turns, facing my forge, his eyes meeting something above the line of windows.

And I nearly drop my hammer.

Because the man, whoever he is, is—isbeautiful.

There’s no other word for him.

He’s tall—a whole head over me. Golden-red locks hang down to his shoulders, the top half secured in a band at the back of his head. The shade is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. He wears an impressive longsword on his back. Not one of mine, but the sheer size of it is a testament to his strength.

Though his figure is intimidating, there’s something about his face that belies that. His features are smooth, gentle almost. So inviting.

And very pleasing to the eye.