I look up briefly to gauge Kellyn’s mood, but he seems perfectly interested in the conversation.

“Go on,” he says. “Then what happened?”

“The forge was outdoors. I could see the smithy working on a scythe for a farmer. I remember seeing the shape of the tool and the heated metal just lying on the anvil. And I felt drawn to it inexplicably. I parted from the rest of the orphans, walked into the forge, and blew on the blade.”

“And?”

“And then the blacksmith, Mister Deseroy, yelled at me because I might have hurt myself. He sent me on my way, and the priestesses rushed me onward. But the next day, the smithy came to the orphanage. It was well-known in the city who my mother was and that she had left two daughters behind when she died. When the scythe showed magical properties—the ability to use the wind to separate the seed from the chaff—the smithy set out to find me, thinking perhaps I was Samika’s daughter.

“And then he and his wife offered to take me in. I said I wouldn’t go anywhere without my sister, so they brought her along, too. I spent my days in the forge, learning how to make steel and bend it to my will. Mister Deseroy had me start magicking his farming equipment, and he brought in quite the profit. It didn’t take long for me to outgrow him. Once I learned the basics, my gift filled in the rest of the gaps on its own. I was creative, and I immediately learned I loved weaponry. By the time I was twelve, Mister Deseroy was ready to retire on all the money I’d made him, and then Temra and I had outlived our usefulness.

“He was kind, though. He gave me some money and all the tools I’d need to get started. I bought back our parents’ land, and I started working.”

Kellyn is a patient listener. He takes it all in quietly. “That’s incredible. What you can do is incredible.”

I shrug. “It’s not really me. It’s the magic that makes me what I am. I can’t really take credit for that, can I?”

“Of course you can,” he says. “You observed and learned all the necessary tricks of your trade. You’re a prodigy. That doesn’t make you less talented. It makes you even more impressive, magic or no.”

I feel light at his words, like I could drift away if I’m not too careful, and a thrill buzzes beneath my skin.

And then the panic comes, because I have no idea what to say next, and the silence stretches on.

“I always knew I wanted to be a mercenary,” Kellyn says. “When I was little, one came through the village. He was so big, arms wider than a tree trunk. He let me hold his sword, before my mother saw, and though it was heavy, too much for my six-year-old hands, I remember how right it felt.”

“How did you learn to fight?” I find myself asking.