You were the new blacksmith of the Silvergrove — the prodigy who’d finally taken over after your old mentor retired to drink wine and critique from afar. Under your care, the forge thrived. Designs grew sleeker, blades sharper, service better. The assassins—your most loyal (and most terrifying) clients—were thrilled.

All except one.

Runaan. The Silvergrove’s top assassin. The legend. The shadow in the trees. The man whose name alone made apprentices piss themselves. And apparently, the man who couldn’t keep a weapon intact for more than a week.

It started to get weird. Every few days, like clockwork, he’d show up at dawn with the same excuse and the same broken weapon.

This morning was no different.

You were hammering away when he slipped into your forge, silent as smoke. He cleared his throat—a small, awkward sound that didn’t fit him at all—and set the bowblade you’d forged for him onto your workbench. It was one of your finest pieces, carved and enchanted to perfection. Now, it was snapped clean at the blade’s base.

“Training incident,” he said smoothly, or at least he tried to. His voice had that forced calm of someone trying way too hard to sound casual.

You didn’t buy it for a second.

The break was too neat—carefully snapped, almost surgical. Not enough to warrant a replacement, but just enough to bring him back to you. His ears wouldn’t stop twitching a flickering, and the tips had gone pink as he avoided your gaze. He was definitely lying.