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PROLOGUE
SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO
Insects buzzed—the true minstrels of night.
A cloaked female hid in a shadowed alleyway, wearing a body that did not belong to her. Rain beat down, drenching her and the baby bundled in her arms.
She peered around the corner, narrowing her focus on the two soldiers pacing before sky-high gates. In her own tongue, she whispered,“Vashi nolathi tavini moofinith.”
One thump sounded … and soon another.
Swiftly, she approached the sleeping guards to place the newborn between them. Piercing cries hummed through her borrowed ears. Strange instincts begged her to coddle the child—feelings she had to ignore.
Dashing back down the dark alley, she glanced over her shoulder, reciting her spell in reverse. When the soldiers wake, they wouldn’t recall how they fell. There’d be nothing but a wailing witchling consuming their thoughts.
A poor abandoned thing,they’ll think.
The cloaked female ran until her unfamiliar limbs collapsed, then she crawled.
As the sun rose,a midwife named Genevieve yawned awake.
She shuddered at the insect skittering down her arm and flicked it away. Tucked between rubbish bins, she wrinkled her nose, unsure why she’d slept in the alley behind a smelly fish market.
Rubbing her eyes did nothing to retrieve her memories. Had she stopped for mead after work?
Perhaps one too many again, Genevieve.
Rising on uncertain legs, she inspected her soaked cloak for clues.
Nothing.
After peering beneath it, her breath hitched. There was blood splattered on her white apron—demon blood.
1
LECTURE NOTES FROM THE ART OF BLACKSMITHING III:
Bladesmithing is an entirely different craft.
Daggers are complicated. Thessa set the scalding blade atop her anvil and gripped the hickory handle of her hammer. Swinging in an arc motion, she beat the edges flat. Iron striking iron reverberated around the workshop, filling her ears with a familiar, steady drum.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
The incessant noise had a way of drowning out every miserable thought she had—until it stopped.
She sifted beneath her tool-ridden workbench for some gritty parchment. Sanding was just as brutal as hammering, but not as loud. Swiping away, she filled her mind with lecture notes to pass the time.
If a blade is not smooth, consider it unfinished. The correct angle will remedy anyimperfection.
Professor Shovak, with a belly and beard as oversized as his heart, eventually checked in. “Another dagger, Thessa?”
She kept sanding. “You say this like it’s a bad thing. Would you prefer a spiked collar like Sebastian’s making?” she asked, her voice tart.
Professor Shovak laughed. “I suppose that’s the nature of an assessment which lacks specificities, but no, it’s not abad thing.In fact, quite the opposite. A smith can make several different things fairlyorfocus on one and make it well. Let it be well then.” He tapped her workbench with a soot-stained finger before meandering over to the next student.