But the magic has a different idea.

There’s a cracking sound and a rumble in the ground beneath my feet.

I jump backward; Kellyn catches me before I hit the ground, and we run.

A crater opens up in the earth, a circle perhaps ten feet in diameter. The mold snaps, breaking off in chunks that rain down, revealing the iron rock, perfectly cooled in place, and the sword held firmly in its grasp.

I turn to the smithy, who has an expression of shock on his face. “May I borrow a hammer and chisel?”

He flees, and I think I might have scared him off completely, but he returns with what I requested.

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.”