The king sends me to a forge first. The small shop sits along a cobblestone street close enough to the river to smell the silt. The low-ceilinged stone building has a giant coal fire in the center, smoke rolling up through a chimney above. The blacksmith is a tall man with arms like tree trunks and a beard that seems stained with soot. He never bothers to tell me his name; he only snarls orders at me, accompanied by “slave girl” or “Ibim bitch.”

The heat of the place leaves me dripping in sweat. My hands tremble as I hammer the glowing orange end of a sword. I want to cringe away from it, despite the thick gloves shielding my hands from the heat. My hair is braided away from my face, tucked behind my ears to reveal the cut tip of the right one, and smoothed back from my forehead. I feel cooked. The ill-fitting dress they’ve given me is itchy and traps the heat against my skin.

“Slave girl!” the smith barks. I turn, pausing in my hammering. He stands by the entrance to the shop, wiping the grime from his hands and face hurriedly. “Fetch wine for the prince.” He points to the back room of the shop, where he sits drinking when he isn’t giving me orders. A jug of wine and a cracked mug sit on a table along the far wall.

I yank off the heavy gloves, leaving the sword to melt in the coals. I fill the mug with wine and bring it to the front. The smith grabs the mug from me, sloshing the red liquid on the floor.

The fair prince has come to visit the forge. His golden antler circlet shines in the sunlight, his blond hair smoothed back and his tunic pressed like it was in the throne room days before, when he looked on while my ear was cut. Behind him, a big black stallion stands pawing at the cobblestones, his reins held by a waiting guard.

The prince wears a soft smirk as he takes the wine from the smith and takes a sip. “I see you’re making use of the provided labor,” he says. “Good.” He eyes me as he sips his wine.

Bastard, I think. Bleeding prick.

“My prince,” the smith says, trying hard not to slur his words. “What brings you here, if I may ask?”

The prince takes his time emptying the mug of its contents. He turns back to his horse, pulling a fat scroll sealed with wax from his saddlebag. “My father sent me with plans for you; he says you’re one of the best blacksmiths in the city,” he says. He hands the smith the scroll. “He wants these completed before the Tajan ambassadors arrive next month. He’ll send a servant with your payment later on.”

“Oh, Your Highness, thank you, sir,” the smith blubbers. “I will not disappoint.” He bows low to the prince. The prince smiles warmly, urging the smith to rise. The blacksmith turns and hurries past me to the forge, clattering as he gets to work.

The prince stares at me for a long moment. His green eyes are bright like gemstones as he cocks his head to one side. He feels like a predator. I stay very still.

“You’re the Ibim girl from the other day, aren’t you?” he asks.

I resist the urge to bare my teeth at him, and fail. My lip curls, exposing teeth. “You’re the prince whose bastard of a father enslaved me.”

He shrugs his broad shoulders. “You’re a thief. It’s our law,” he says. I cross my arms over my chest. The smith hammers behind me, the clanging sharp in my ears.

“It’s barbaric.”

He raises his brows in incredulity. “That’s awfully bold coming from a wild mountain woman,” he says. “I hear your people are witches.”

I open my mouth to respond, realize I look like a carp, close it. His amused smirk makes my face heat with rage. I settle for glaring daggers at the prick.

“Slave!” the smith snarls. “Leave His Highness to his business!” I glance back at him for a moment, and turn back to the prince. I give him a mockingly saccharine smile.

“Pardon me, Your Majesty,” I say. I curtsy in my shabby dress.

“Madam,” he says, sketching a bow with a smirk.