Juniper set her chisel down and frowned at the ragged cut in the beam. The cabin behind her stood half-finished, its shingles patchy, its scaffolding still bracing the walls. She wanted this one to be her finest yet. She wanted the blacksmith at the edge of town to see the joinery and know who shaped it. She ran her thumb along the dull edge. The bevel was rounded, the tip chipped. No careful cut would come from this. A small striped creature with bramble-tipped paws watched her from the woodpile, ears twitching at her sigh. Juniper wrapped the worn chisels in a scrap of linen and walked the path to his forge. Smoke curled from the brick chimney. Tongs swayed on the wooden posts. He stood at the anvil, hammer paused, and looked up before she spoke. "I need them sharper," she said. He nodded once and took the bundle. "Three days," he answered. Then, quieter: "What are you building?" Her breath caught. He had asked her something. For three years, she had waited for exactly that.