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At that, I feel my discomfort lightening. “I know what you mean. Except, I prefer metal.”

Ashper grunts in response. He dabs his paintbrush into a few different colors before continuing his brushstrokes. It appears he’s starting the outline of each of the three remaining royals.

“Don’t you need to travel to the other territories to paint the portraits there, too?” I ask, now curious about his own magic.

“No, the portraits in Skiro’s castle were the only ones destroyed. The portraits in Verak, Lisady, and Orena are already there. I just have to duplicate them here, and the portals will work.”

“And they have to be completely identical?” I ask.

“Completely.”

“How do you remember all the details?”

“I have a mind that never forgets a single detail.”

“It’s really quite annoying,” Serutha supplies.

An involuntary shudder goes through me. I can’t imagine a mind that never forgets anything combined with the way I fixate.

“When I save our lives by getting us the help we need through these portals,” Ashper says, “we’ll see how annoying you find me then.”

Serutha smiles. “Your portals have already saved me twice, friend. I have no doubt they will do so again.”

Ashper grunts again.

“I have a feeling it will take all three of you to pull this off,” Petrik says.

“Pull what off?” I ask, wondering if there was an alternative motive for bringing me here. Did Petrik orchestrate this whole thing for a reason?

“Winning the war, of course.”

Ashper nods. “I can get us the aid we need with my portals.”

“And I can heal our wounded soldiers,” Serutha says.

They turn to me expectantly.

I look down, my fingers already twisting together. Though I’ve been doing my job as a perfectly normal smithy to aid the war efforts, I have a feeling that’s not what they want from me now. “I can’t give what you ask of me.”

“You make magical weapons, Ziva,” Serutha says. “Can’t you make our soldiers unbeatable in battle?”

But at what cost?I want to ask. What happens when one of those soldiers decides he wants to rule the world himself? What happens if those weapons land in the hands of the wrong person? A too-powerful person?

I fancifully think through the idea of weapons that would self-destruct after the battle is over. But it would be impossible to time such a thing.

“People get hurt by the things I make. My abilities aren’t like yours. Painting and healing don’t lead to world domination,” I try to explain.

I glare at Petrik. He knows this. Is he trying to bully me by making me a spectacle in front of other people? He wouldn’t, would he?

“Ziva,” Petrik says. “I’m not trying to pressure you, I promise! I’m only looking to find a way around your reservations. I’ve been thinking about this a lot and then talking with Ashper and Serutha. Ashper can paint anything to make a portal. Serutha can heal anything broken in the body. You can magic anything made out of iron. Why should that be limited to weapons?”

“Because—” I blink. Weapons are what I’ve always made. Except that’s not strictly true. Before weapons, I was making farming equipment, when I apprenticed under Mister Deseroy, the man who adopted me and Temra from the Lirasu Orphanage.

But weapons have been my life’s work. They’re what I’ve always been drawn to.

I’ve never magicked anything else except out of necessity.

But I could.