“You were too young to remember what things were like before Arund split the realm. You have no idea how that ruined everything.”

“I don’t care. I’m still asking. Let them go. Let this go. You have enough men and power to take everything even without the bladesmith. Let her live her life.”

“We’re done talking now.”

There’s a silence. I don’t know if Petrik is staring his mother down or something else. I can’t hear anything more that may be happening outside.

Until, “Ziva, come out. You’ve had a chance to say your goodbyes. I’ve been more than patient with you. It’s time to go.”

Temra, Kellyn, and I hold our newly magicked weapons. My sister and my—and Kellyn both nod their readiness.

And we exit, weapons held at the ready.

Kymora’s eyes narrow at the metal in our hands. Temra wields the pitchfork, using it like a staff while she walks. Kellyn has his longsword unsheathed, both hands wrapped around the hilt. And I have my hammers, one magicked in my left, and a regular forging hammer in my right.

Petrik steps into line with us. Temra wordlessly hands him the axle, her jaw clenched tightly. She didn’t think he would side with us. I told her he would.

But she’s still pissed.

Kymora looks at our line, says nothing, and backs up to her horse. She saddles herself once more. Thankfully, no one else appears to have a spear or other throwables.

“Bring me the girls. Kill the boys.”

She looks at Petrik as she says it.

Her private army all drop down from their horses one by one, unsheathing their bastard swords. And then they advance.

We keep the forge at our backs so no one can get behind us. But we spread out, give ourselves plenty of room to swing.

And then we swing hard.

Petrik doesn’t need to ask what the long stick of metal does before using it. He throws, watches as the tool turns end over end, striking soldiers as it goes. The axle is entirely made of metal, not so breakable as the staff was, and it spins impossibly fast. Once he catches it, he casts again. And again. And again.

The first soldier reaches me, where I stand wielding my twin hammers. He swings at my right hand, hoping to dislodge the weapon there, all the more easily to capture me. But I raise my left hand, point the hammer there right at him. His sword bounces off the invisible shield my magicked hammer creates, rebounding with the same amount of force with which it struck. He staggers backward, and I use the distraction to swing my dominant arm at him.

I may not be a fighter, but I know how to swing a hammer hard, and I do. The soldier is shorter than I am, so it’s no hardship to bring the tool down on his head.

The sound my hammer makes as it connects with the skull is something I’ll never forget. But I swallow the bile in my throat and prepare to do it again.