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I try to catch her eye, even try speaking to her. But she won’t say a word.

By the sixth time she enters the room, she brings up a set of clothes. And food. She sets the tray on the divan by my feet. The clothing she lays carefully on the bed so as not to wrinkle the outfit.

“I will return for you in one hour.” She leaves before I can respond.

I’m apparently not too proud to refuse the food or the bath or the fresh clothes.

If I’m to escape, I need a full stomach, I reason. A bath will clear my head, rinse the blood from my fingers. I need to be as ready as I can for what’s ahead.

I don’t recognize my breakfast, though I eat it to quell my hunger. There’s some sort of pink fruit that I have to peel first, a citrus with a bitter aftertaste. I like it, by the fourth or fifth bite. The bread is soft and fresh, peppered with spices I’m unused to,but covered with a deliciously salty butter. I wash it all down with a cup of water.

I have to wait another ten minutes before the water is cool enough not to scald. Even then, my skin is blushing pink when I emerge and don the clothes left for me: lightweight trousers, a sleeveless shirt, and thick sandals.

When the servant collects me, no less than twenty guards follow us down through the castle, outdoors, and then to the forges.

Yes, multiple.

A quarter mile from the palace, Ravis has a massive outdoor area with more kilns than I can count. Men and women hammer away at various weapons, others man the bellows, while even more take steel to the grinding stones.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize Ravis has been preparing for war for quite some time.

“Isn’t it marvelous?” a voice to my left says.

The prince has joined us, his own guard trailing behind him.

I lack any tact at the moment. The truth comes out. “Your forges are impressive.”

“I meant the weapons. As someone who makes them for a living, surely you must appreciate the sheer volume we’ve managed to produce in just half a year.”

I swallow. “What are you planning?”

“Don’t be naive.”

“This isn’t right.”

“I didn’t take you for a hypocrite.”

I round on him. “I make weapons for people who want to defend themselves from bandits. I keep people safe while they’re traveling on Ghadra’s dangerous roads. You want to hurt them.”

Ravis is undaunted by my tone. “I do want to keep people safe, smithy. Safe from my father’s mistake. My siblings arerunning their territories into the ground. They should never have been entrusted with such responsibility.

“I’m the eldest,” he continues. “I was the only one trained to rule. Ghadra is my birthright. I’m taking it back. The world will thank me one day.”

This is worse than I feared. I thought Ravis wanted to invade Skiro to retrieve the healer, that perhaps he craved magic in a dangerous way. But he wants what Kymora wanted.

The world.

The irony of the situation is not lost on me. After King Arund sentenced his brother to death for a failed assassination attempt, he wanted to avoid future familial disputes over the land, so he split the realm into six territories, bequeathing one to each of his children.

But Ravis clearly feels cheated.

I gentle my voice into what I hope is a reasoning tone. I’m not gifted with words, but I try anyway. “I’ve been to several of the other territories. They are starting to find their feet after the split. Don’t hurt the people by changing everything again so soon.” Don’t hurt my friends and loved ones by bringing war to them.

Ravis pulls his long dagger out from the sheath at his waist, twirls the point lightly against the pointer finger of his left hand. “You do not command me, smithy. You know nothing of politics. You know steel. Why don’t we focus on what we’re good at, hmm?”

Ravis eyes one of the nearest workers. “You there. Bring that weapon over.”

A burly man takes his foot off the pedal working the grindstone and brings over the sword in his hand. It’s a bastard sword, though bulkier than the weapons the warlord’s men used.