General Scorcha nodded and gestured to Claire’s Forger. He pulled out a bright-green flag and waved it in the direction of Fyrton’s gates. A moment later, an answering green flag waved back. Scorcha stepped aside, holding back the tall yellow grass to clear a path for Thorn and Claire—or, more accurately, Anvil and Aquila.

“Welcome back,” the general said. “Welcome home.”

Fyrton was different than Claire remembered.

Last time, the city had been alive with the cheerful chink of hammers and the singsong of school bells. Now it echoed with the sound of marching boots. She watched wide-eyed as a squadron of men and women stalked by, shields on their forearms and swords gleaming at their hips. But not only swords. There were hammers, and maces, and spears, and strange curved knives.

The Forgers were preparing for war.

“Stop that,” Thorn murmured to Claire, his voice a deep rumble.

“Stop what?” Claire asked. All she was doing was walking.

“Your eyes are all big,” he said. “From what you told me about Aquila, there’s nothing that would surprise her—especially in Fyrton.”

Thorn led the way, easily guiding them past the great walls of Phlogiston Academy, its hundred bell towers looming above them like judgmental lords. The great doors to the school were left open as apprentices hurried in and out, carrying bundles of kindling and buckets of water. Claire assumed that with war imminent, classes had been canceled. All hands would need to be free to keep the battle forges burning.

War. Battle. They were such short words, but the enormity of meaning behind them began to weigh on Claire: sorrow, sacrifice, and pain. Death. She just had to convince the Forgers to give Nadia their tine.

“Let’s go faster,” Claire whispered, and Thorn picked up the pace.

Steam billowed out from the hundreds of smithies and forges, making all the streets misty, even in the midmorning light. Figures carrying armloads of metal rods and pulling carts full of jangling helmets would appear from the haze and then vanish just as quickly. Suddenly, a shout came from somewhere down the hazy street: “Help!” A moment later, Claire could make out the drumbeat of hooves against cobblestones.

“Help!” the voice called again. “I need healers!”

Pedestrians scattered to the edges as the rider finally became visible. She galloped her horse down the middle of the street, all while balancing a large sack of flour slung across the saddle in front of her. Yanking on the reins, the woman flung herself off the horse’s back before it had even come to a complete stop. The door of a nearby building slammed open, and Claire had just enough time to move out of the way as three healers rushed toward the horse and carefully pulled down the bag of flour.

Except …

It wasn’t a bag of flour.

It was a man.