“Because those alchemists—outlaws, as you call them—just saved all of you from crowning a fraudulent queen?” Scythe shot back. He looked even larger in the cramped curves of the cellar than he had in Fyrton. His hand was balled into a fist and his face was flushed, as though it was taking every ounce of will not to smack the table. “Stop being so stubborn, Bolt!”

“Scythe, please,” Nadia said, rubbing her temples. Claire’s great-aunt sat at the top of the table. She was a small woman, hardly taller than Claire herself, but Nadia’s white hair fluffed out around her head, giving her a few more inches. Usually, she wore a haphazard wreath of leaves, wire, string, and gems, but tonight her wreath had been set aside in favor of the copper helmet that now rested by her elbow. Her expression seemed pained.

“And Grandmaster Bolt, there’s no need to— Ah, children!” Nadia’s face brightened as Ravel nudged Claire and her friends forward. “They can help explain! Grandmasters, my nieces, Sophia and Claire Martinson, and their friends Nettle Green and Sena Steele.”

If Grandmaster Bolt had seemed angered before, now he looked furious. “We’re supposed to believe the word of Sena Steele? The exile who not only illegally entered Fyrton twice but also stole the Tillers’ Unicorn Harp?” He shook his head as the other Forgers around him murmured their disapproval. “The Grand Council proclaimed her guilty just last month! This is preposterous!”

A cat’s hiss resounded through the room, and a few tea lights snuffed out as Gryphin, previously tucked beneath Sena’s braid, launched himself at the Forger. It was only due to Scythe’s lightning-quick reflexes that Grandmaster Bolt kept both eyes.

“What’s preposterous, Bolt,” Scythe said, trying to hold onto a squirming Gryphin, “is exiling a Forger with so much talent just because her father was a Tiller! It’s just as preposterous as trying to lock up Sylvia Steele, one of the best locksmiths Arden has ever seen.”

Sena snapped her fingers, and Gryphin instantly stilled, though his rounded ears lay flush against his head in a lion’s sulk. He let out one last chirp, and Sena grinned.

“He says he’s hungry, grandmaster,” Sena said, her voice dangerously polite. “And that you look delicious.”

Nett looked positively horrified at what his sister had said, but Claire felt relieved. Though Sena always projected unrelenting confidence, Claire knew that when it came to the Forger guild, she was as sensitive as one of Sophie’s failed attempts at a soufflé. It seemed, however, that her training in Woven Root had soothed the sting of the Forger guild’s rejection.

“Hmph,” Grandmaster Bolt said, far from appeased. But his eyes had landed on something even more offensive than Sena Steele: Thorn Barley, who’d just managed to squeeze through the door and into the crowded room.