“Oh, good,” Petrik says. “Now we might not freeze tonight.”

“Hold it against this bar,” I command, ignoring the scholar. “No, the tip. Press the fire to it. I need the metal to heat.”

“Ziva,” Temra says, realizing what I’m doing. “Is it enough?”

“I have no idea, but it’s worth a try.”

Temra and Petrik rise, standing just behind the mercenary and me. I can feel their stares over my shoulder as I concentrate on the metal the flame flickers against. The hairs on my neck prickle, and discomfort seizes my limbs.

“Will you two give me some space?” I ask. Petrik and Temra dutifully take a step back.

When the flame has licked the iron for some minutes, I stare at the red-gray metal. Red from rust, not heat. A torch’s light is not nearly enough heat to change the color, but is it enough to magic it?

“Break,” I say quietly, my gaze boring into the cell bar.

Absolutely nothing happens.

“Break,” I say again a little louder.

“Break!” I command.

“I thought you said the metal only responds when you whisper to it. Doesn’t it need gentle encouragement?” Petrik asks in his scholarly, know-it-all voice.

“You try being gentle when you know four lives rest in your hands!” I shriek back at him.

A hand settles against my shoulder, and since Kellyn still holds the torch to the bars, I know it belongs to my sister.

“You can do this,” she says. “I know you can. You’re my big sister, and you always save the day. Just try again.”

“I can’t do this with an audience. I forge alone. I’m uncomfortable. I’m stressed. It’s not going to work.”

“Some of your best work has happened when you least expected it,” she says. “You forged an air-sucking mace during one of your attacks. This little bar right here, it has nothing on you.”

Kellyn lowers his head so we’re eye to eye. “I believe in you. Your work is so powerful, people all over the world know who you are. If anyone can get us out of this mess, it’s you.”

“You’re a smithy. The master of iron,” Petrik says, not to be outdone. “You have to do this.”

I don’t know if their encouragement is helping or making my anxiety worse, but I take a deep breath and shut my eyes, thinking of the times I’ve magicked metal in the past. I remember the mace Temra mentioned. How I had an attack after an angry customer barged into my forge when he cut himself on his own blade. My hyperventilating gave it power.

I remember the time I broke one of my fingers. It was stupid. I agreed to a walk through town with Temra, and while I was worrying over all the people around me, I tripped and snapped the finger while trying to catch myself on the ground. The next day, when I went back to work, my less dominant hand throbbing, all I could think of was my carelessness the day before, the sound of my finger snapping. That was the day I magicked the daggers that shatter anything they come into contact with.