Ember finally looked up. Her eyes were the color of cooling embers. “What kind of enemy?”

“Three days,” she said.

“I need a blade,” he said, his voice cutting through the clang of metal.

The fire crackled between them, and in its glow, a new kind of forging began—not of metal, but of trust. And that, Ember knew, was the rarest blade of all.

Arin was silent for a long moment. Then he drew a small pouch from his cloak. “Payment.”