When I wake, light shines through the small corner window. My neck and back ache, stiff from dozing off too much on the thin sleeping mat.

I stretch out a bit, yawning and rubbing my eyes. A need for coffee hits me hard. Too bad on Kerenza, there is none— or at least not in Zhenaria. People here have never heard of it. Maybe I’ll get better luck if I ever leave this kingdom.

Zhenarians have their own special kind of tea— Morning Brew— that is supposed to be a morning shot of energy. I haven’t tried it yet, but from Wrenn’s memories I know it doesn’t suit his taste buds.

Legs wobbly and eyes half-closed, I stagger to the main room of the smithy. The old man is there, sitting at the table with a cup of Morning Brew, and his gaze is locked onto something in front of him.

As I shift my attention to whatever he’s looking at, my eyes widen and my sleepiness dissipates. On the table, in a fine red leather scabbard, lies a sword. The sheath is crafted with skill, though that’s not what c