Oryn Lark hammered a horseshoe no horse would ever wear. He worked in the royal stable, a tribute slave to the fae lord, sent here to shoe court mounts and bow to his betters. He refused to bow. Instead he forged a blade so fine its edge split a falling hair. He knew he outclassed every smith in the realm. That skill was his only road out. Win a public contest against the court smiths, and the fae lord would owe him his freedom. But no one had ever seen his work. Locked in a stable, his talent stayed invisible. The copper-haired healer came at dusk for burn salve. A torn ribbon hung knotted at her wrist. Oryn had seen her cross the court alone, avoided by fae who whispered about her rejected bond. She limped from a horse's kick and needed her ankle wrapped, so she traded gossip for the stable's cold water. "You waste iron on ghosts," she said, nodding at the perfect blade. "No one lets me show it," Oryn said. "The court smiths keep the forge doors shut. The lord never hears my name." Rose bell studied the blade. She turned it under the lantern. "The lord judges the midyear arms display in three days. Only ranked smiths may enter work." "I'm not ranked. I'm a slave." "You're a slave who shoes my mare." She unknotted the ribbon from her wrist for the first time, then knotted it again, thinking. "The head court smith submits three blades every year. He signs each hilt. If a fourth blade appeared, signed by no one, and cut better than his three—" "They'd never let me set it there." "I walk the display hall. I gather herbs from the sills." She met his eyes. "I could set it there." Oryn worked two days without sleep. He folded the steel a hundred times. He ground the edge until it whistled. On the hilt he stamped no name, only the mark of his stable brand, a horseshoe. He gave the blade to Rose bell wrapped in cloth. The display drew the whole court. Oryn stood at the back, sooty, unbowed. The fae lord lifted each ranked blade and tested it against a hanging silk. Three cuts, three clean falls. Then he found the fourth blade, unsigned, marked with a horseshoe. He swung it. The silk fell in two before the lord felt the pass. He swung again through a bundle of three. It parted like water. "Whose is this?" the lord demanded. The head court smith went white and claimed no credit. He could not. Rose bell spoke into the silence. "The stable slave who shoes horses. Oryn Lark." Every head turned. Oryn did not bow. The fae lord's mouth curled. "A tribute with a court smith's hand. This changes things." He set the blade down. "You'll forge for me now. Under guard. Under my eye." Oryn had made himself seen. Now the court would never let him out of sight.