The forge door cracked inward upon its hinges, and the night spilled in cold behind the man who broke it. "Smith!" Sir Thomas's voice cracked like a whip across the dim hovel. Mud clung to his armor in dark rivers, and rust-red stained the steel where blood had dried unwashed. "You will mend this, and you will mend it now." Bran did not startle. He had not startled at anything since Crécy took his left hand. He set down his hammer slow, the stump of his wrist catching firelight as he turned. "Forge's cold, m'lord. Comes the dawn—" "Dawn?" The knight slammed the broken blade upon the anvil, the shattered tip skittering into shadow. "I have Frenchmen on my heels and a King's errand undone. You will heat your fire if you must burn this whole rotten village to do it." Behind the barrels stacked near the wall, Alice pressed herself thinner than smoke, her apron clutched white-knuckled in her fists. She had only come to bring the smith his supper. Now she dared not breathe. Bran's eyes, pale as winter water, did not waver. "Steel wants time, m'lord. Rush the iron, and it'll fail you again—belike in your own gut, this time." Thomas's hand fell to his dagger hilt. "Mind your tongue, cripple, or I'll—" "You'll what?" Bran lifted the stump toward the firelight, unashamed. "Already paid my due to the French. What's left of me, you can't frighten." Silence pooled thick as tallow smoke. The knight's jaw worked, fury and fear both gnawing there—for he was young, and the night was full of teeth, and he knew, in some buried honest place, the smith spoke true. At last he exhaled, shoulders dropping like a man setting down armor too heavy to wear. "Then heat your fire," he said, quieter now. "And smith, do not fail me." Bran turned to the bellows. Behind the barrels, Alice finally breathed.