Nila walked slowly through the narrow lanes between the anvils, her gray wool skirt gathered tightly in her fist to keep the hem from dragging through the black scale on the floor. The forge fires had been banked for the night, leaving the long stone chamber dark except for a single charcoal brazier burning at the very back of the room, where the old silversmith sat on a low wooden bench.

Marcus was there, standing by the brick chimney base. He had his sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, his massive arms covered in a fine layer of gray soot as he held a small iron crucible over the heat....