Only when the last of my castings is on the floor do they turn around and head back the way they came, making the same mess in the shop.

I’ve no choice but to report the incident after they leave. Temra goes with me for support as I relay what happened to a city guard. As I describe each man who entered the forge, Temra supplies his name. She knows them all from school and needs very few descriptors from me before knowing exactly who the vandalizers are.

And then we return home to clean the mess.

Temra sweeps up broken glass from the displays, while I right all our items for sale in the shop. With heavy hearts, we discuss our options.

“I could quit school,” my sister says. “Find work now. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with those idiots, and we could get out of town that much quicker with the two of us working.”

“Not an option I’m willing to consider.”

“The only other option is leaving now. We can’t live like this. Fearful of vandalizers or thieves or maybe even something worse. Who knows how things might escalate?”

“We really should involve the governor, not just the city guard.”

“It won’t help. Asel will only make our lives worse. The governor isn’t about to imprison his only child and his friends, and I guarantee that incarceration is the only thing that’ll stop—”

The bells at the top of the shop door ring as the hinges swing inward. We both turn in surprise, because we put out the Closed sign while we cleaned.

Two men in scarlet uniforms bearing falcons on their chests enter the shop. They give Temra and me disinterested looks before doing a sweep of the area. One of them goes into the forge. He leaves the door open behind him, and I watch as he opens a few of the larger cupboards—those big enough to hold a person, I realize.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Temra demands before I can. I rack my memory for anyone I know with a falcon as their sigil.

When done, the guard who stayed in the shop knocks on the door twice, and another figure joins them.

The warlord.

I’d completely forgotten about my conversation with Kymora, and I’m embarrassed that she’s arrived to see the place in such a state.

Temra looks the woman over, forgetting the rude guards. “My lord, welcome to the Zivan Smithy.”

“Warlord,” I correct her.

Her eyes widen, and she looks at the woman with blatant fascination. “Warlord. Please do forgive the mess. We had trouble with some vandals today.”

Kymora doesn’t comment on the state of the shop. She says, “Ziva, good to see you again.”

“And you,” I say.

Kymora walks around the shop, taking in what remains of all the displays. She pauses at a row of daggers behind a now broken glass case.

“Everything in the shop is imbued with magic, Warlord,” Temra says, ever the perfect saleswoman. “Those daggers never dull.”