“Ziva, he’s gone. You’re safe. Look around the room. It’s just us. Here, hold your hammer.” She thrusts the instrument into my hand. “Now listen to my breathing and match it.” She exaggerates the sounds of her own breath, slowly dragging it in and out.

I fall to my knees in front of my anvil, my head level with the unfinished mace, my hammer held loosely in my hand.

You are no longer welcome.

I can’t believe the things I said. I insulted him. He’s going to tell other potential customers about the ordeal. Everyone will know that I said something stupid. They’ll all want to take their business elsewhere. I’ll be ruined. Humiliated.

Everyone will know there’s something wrong with me.

“Breathe. You’re safe. Breathe,” Temra says, cutting through my tangled thoughts.

“What if the sword was defective, and I just—”

Temra says, “The sword was perfect. Don’t think like that. Come on, Ziva. You’re amazing. Just breathe.”

Time falls away as I try to crawl out from under the weight of my own panic.

I’ve no sense of how long it takes before the attack recedes, before my mind can understand that there’s anything else besides impending doom. But it passes, easing out of me like a fruit being juiced.

I’ve always been a naturally anxious person, but being around people makes it so much worse. And sometimes these attacks happen—when it’s a particularly nasty encounter or if I’m simply feeling overwhelmed.

I’m tired and overstimulated, but I still welcome the hug my sister wraps me in. She lets me decide when to pull away.

“Thank you,” I say as I set my hammer back on one of the many worktables in the forge.

“I’m sorry, Ziva. I really did try to keep him from entering.”

“Trust me, I heard. But I hope you know that if anyone is acting dangerous, I insist you show them in. I don’t ever want you in harm’s way.”

She scoffs. “How can a man who injures himself with his own weapon be dangerous?”

We share a laugh, and I turn back to the unfinished mace, trying to decide whether to continue working or to rest for a bit.

Only … the weapon has already been magicked.

There’s no physical change that I can see, but I sense it. A slight pulsing of heat.

I pick up the mace by the metal handle and bring the head toward my face for inspection, careful of the single flange that is still cooling.

“Something happened,” I say.

“Did Garik ruin the weapon?”

“No, it’s already imbued with magic.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. I was welding the first flange on, and then Garik came in. I set it on the anvil, and then…”

“Then?” Temra prompts.

“And then I couldn’t breathe.”

I head outdoors, Temra following. Our city is located in the middle of a conifer forest. It rains every other day of the week, and the sun is constantly battling the clouds for dominance in the sky. Today the sun shines brightly, warming my skin through the light breeze.