“Those ingots aren’t forgiving. Screw up, and they’re worthless. You sure know what you’re doing?” Mira asked, shielding her eyes from the sun.

  They stood on the crest of a hill overlooking the frontier settlement. Through squinted eyes, Larkin’s pride swelled at the sight. The skyline was marked by chimneys as high as the sun, the smoke blotting out as much as possible its golden influence over the town.

  Without taking his eyes off the forge in the centre of it all, Larkin said, “This town was once a mining hub. Now it survives through its blacksmiths and crafters. Soon, I’ll be the one running it all.”

  “All I’m saying is we could sell these for a right mint,” Mira said.

  “The greatsword will be worth much more than a mere ingot.”

  “You’re talking about Veyrsteel; rare ingots that hold magic. And you want to just use them to craft weapons?”

  Larkin smiled. “No; I want to craft a weapon.”

  “But you’re still not finished with the Worldcarver.”

  “Exactly.”

  By the time they reached the centre of Backwater, the street torches had already been lit. Mira led Larkin through various dimly lit alleyways until they faced a large iron gate. Although she was nervous, her skills as a thief meant the two blended into the shadows seamlessly, narrowly avoiding the encroachment of local militia incessant at this time of night. Larkin could not help but be impressed.

  “How are you not tired carrying that thing around?” Mira asked, referring to the Hammer.

  “You get used to it,” he said with a shrug.

  Mira crouched beside Larkin, drawing a layout of the old forge in the dirt with her finger. Their proximity to each other was so close that Larkin could hear the girl chewing the inside of her cheek.

  “I told you this was a bad idea,” Mira whispered.

  “It’s the best idea I’ve ever had,” Larkin insisted, examining the blueprint. He peered around the corner at the gate. The torches beside it barely illuminated the muddy ground. “Tonight is the best chance – the master smiths and guards will be distracted by a shipment arriving at the southern gate.”

  “This is insane, Larkin. If we get caught-”

  “We won’t. I know where they keep the ingots. We’re in and out before they even notice.”

  “And Haldar? What if he finds out that we stole from the High Council?”

  “You think too much,” said Larkin, smiling.

  Because of the darkness, hearing was the only sense remaining for the thief to rely upon. She waited until her heartbeat slowed before she slipped out of the cover of the shed into the open. It was only by so doing that she could hear the positions of anyone in her vicinity, up to several metres. The complexity of her movements, the stealth to which she hid them to the untrained ear, and the ease which graced her, cleverly disguised the thoughts and feelings that dominated her mind. The look her peer gave, which she sensed in the darkness, confused her greatly. She was not at all remarkable.

  As soon as they had reached the gate, Mira looked at Larkin with an expectant expression. The young boy reluctantly understood the look, and, with a deep sigh, reached for the pouch at his belt. If not for the moon glinting off the iron bars, Mira would not have understood the wait. Her companion’s face was pale and sweaty.

  “What are you waiting for?” whispered Mira quickly.

  “Can’t you pick it?” he asked, his voice trembling.

  For a moment Mira was taken aback. She then knitted her eyebrows angrily, and hissed, “Just use the skeleton key you stole from Haldar.”

  The boy cast a guilty look at the thief, which Mira had never seen before so plainly on the blacksmith, especially ever since he had discovered the Hammer, that she was at once emboldened.

  “It’s not too late to back out,” she said. “Haldar has probably not even checked his safe yet. Let’s return it.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Larkin said, pulling out a rusty key. He inserted it into the warded lock in the centre of the gate.

  “Watch my back,” he whispered, before carefully stepping inside the chamber.

  The forge was eerily silent. And only the walls were illuminated, albeit faintly in a translucent green light. An ink black shadow spread across the wooden floorboard. Larkin frowned; workshops were always built out stone, clay or mud. It was not practical, or safe for a forge’s floorboard to be made from wood. The high temperatures and the stray sparks would inevitably cause it to light on fire. In fact, even though the forge had been out of commission for centuries, the lingering scent of molten metal hung in the air.

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  Mira drew her Soulrend from her belt and held it out at arm’s length. Without so much as a sound, and before they had made it two paces into the dark room, she placed a hand on Larkin’s shoulder. The sudden touch startled him. What came next only solidified this terror.

  She brought her lips to his ear so that they were a hair’s length away from each other, and whispered faintly, “It may be a trap.”

  Goosebumps trickled down the boy’s neck. He gulped, then slowly nodded. His eyes, however, were drawn immediately to the furnace at the far end of the chamber. There, upon its worn, sooty surface, resting in the dim light of its walls, lay the purple ingots. They shimmered faintly, as though alive with a secret, magical power inside their crystal shells. He had never seen Veyrsteel before.

  Larkin ran to the stash of ingots, leaping over the anvil situated in the centre of the room, his fingers twitching with anticipation. Before his hand could touch the Veyrsteel, however, Mira’s voice cut through the silence of the forge like a knife.

  “These are worth a fortune, enough to change everything.”

  “Yes, they are,” Larkin admitted.

  “But you’re going to waste it on a stupid sword,” Mira said, suddenly beside him. She scanned the ingots with the same, wide-eyed stare. “You know the guilds would pay a fortune for just one of these ingots, let alone all of them. Of course I’m talking about the guilds outside Backwater, in one of the neighbouring provinces. Think of what we could do if we sold them.”

  “Typical crafterless,” Larkin said dismissively with the shake of his head, “you can’t see what I and the rest of the crafting world sees. The idea of giving these ingots to the guilds feels like a betrayal to the blacksmithing profession!”

  “What do you see?” Mira asked, frowning. “You’ve already betrayed Haldar, the only blacksmith who gives a damn about you.”

  “Magic,” answered Larkin, picking up an ingot. “With these, I can forge the greatest weapon the world has ever known. A blade that could cut through magic, through anything. It’s the chance I’ve been waiting for. These ingots are the only way out of this dead-end town. We could finally escape. We could finally have everything we ever wanted.”

  “Or we could just sell them,” said Mira, “and become filthy rich.”

  “Rich?” Larkin gawked, “I do not want to be simply rich. I want to be powerful. The only way to do that is through blacksmithing.”

  “We both know you can’t trust the guilds. They’ll just keep crushing people like us under their boots. This could be our way out, Larkin. You can forge weapons for yourself, or we can take something big for once.”

  Larkin fell into silence, studying the glowing purple metal curiously. The image of the perfected greatsword entered his mind, and his pulse quickened with excitement.

  “Come on, Larkin,” Mira sneered; “You can make a name for yourself, or you can spend the rest of eternity as a footnote to a Backwater smith long past his prime.” The Soulrend twitched in her hand, and she continued, “This…this is more money than I’ve ever seen in my life. And you want me to just let you turn it all into scrap?”

  She raised the Soulrend to waist height, the sharp end pointing in Larkin’s direction. Her eyes were locked on the ingots, and she too imagined the generational wealth they possessed. Because it was dark, however, neither of them knew how close the Soulrend really was to penetrating the boy’s side; and to Mira’s credit, she did not want to know.

  Larkin furrowed his brows.

  “Why are the ingots in the forge?” he asked.

  Suddenly, flames shot up from underneath the ingots. The Veyrsteel immediately crackled, and smoke ascended through the chimney. The fire flashed brightly, intensifying the temperature to a degree which not even a blacksmith could withstand for very long. In a couple of seconds, the ingots began to glow white-hot. It was alive. The forge was alive.

  Mira took a step back, her expression tense. She looked at Larkin nervously, who was aglow in the forge’s fire, and saw his face for the first time since the sun had left the village for the night. He was scowling at the girl’s dagger.

  “You’re not ready,” Mira scoffed, her eyes narrowing. “No one ever is. But if you’re going to waste your time crafting swords for a dream, I’ll take these ingots myself.”

  And with that she reached into the blazing fire and pulled out an ingot. At the same time, she saw him raise the Hammer. But in a flash the thief was at the other end of the chamber. Remarkably, however, the boy was faster. Too fast. Before the girl could even touch the door, Larkin was standing in front of her, the golden runes of his eyes blazing with fury.

  Mira was stunned. It was ordinarily impossible for an apprenticed blacksmith to be faster than their roguish equivalent; the gulf between the two classes’ agility stat was simply too wide. Nevertheless, the thief readied the Soulrend.

  “I won’t let you sell them. These aren’t for trade, Mira. They’re for something that matters,” Larkin said frustratedly, his voice lower and deeper than normal.

  “Everything matters when you’re starving,” Mira said, stepping closer, her eyes trained on the Hammer in the boy’s hands; “You’re not the only one who’s been fighting to survive. If you think you can trust the guilds or anyone else to respect your little dream of forging some goddamn sword, you’re fooling yourself.”

  For a moment, there was silence, save the crackling of the fire melting the rest of the treasure. Mira smirked, her eyes glinting with desperate greed. Larkin’s eyes, on the other hand, reflected the fire of the forge, which started to turn purple.

  “I’m only taking one ingot,” she said, scowling.

  “Still, Mira,” said Larkin, “I can’t let you leave.”

  Mira looked at him with an expression of utter bewilderment. “What?” she said, waving the dagger exasperatedly, “Have you gone mad?”

  “I want to craft the best greatsword in the Realm,” he replied, pointing at her, “even if that means I have to use every single Veyrsteel known to man.”

  “Get out of my way,” Mira snapped, slashing the air, “I’ll plunge this dagger right into your spine, so help me gods.”

  “Then so be it,” replied the boy, “But I’ll always be blacksmith.”

  Mira gritted her teeth. “It’s just one, Larkin; let me have it,” she begged, her hand shaking. As though scared of accidentally cutting him, she twisted the dagger so that the flat edge rested against her friend’s neck.

  Larkin pressed forward, his hand springing for the ingot. Mira quickly brought the dagger to the boy’s neck. Her expression flickered between frustration and reluctance as he pried her fingers from the metal. Before she could settle the matter of crippling her friend, the ingot was gone from her hand.

  “I’m not giving these up. Any of them,” Larkin said, grimacing.

  Behind the orphans the crackling of the fire intensified.

  “Fine,” Mira sneered, turning to the fire. It was raging. “But don’t expect me to help you when you get burned.”

  Larkin rushed to the forge and peered into its fire. The Veyrsteel was on the verge of becoming a molten pool. Without thinking, he reached his hand into the purple, dazzling flames, pulled out one of the ingots, and threw it on the anvil. His screams made Mira’s hairs stand up.

  “We’ve got to do it here,” hissed Larkin as he threw the last white-hot ingot on the anvil.