He holds out a lily grown from copper and silver. Veins trace through the leaves, waiting for time to turn them green; along the moonlight grain of the petals run drops of chipped-glass dew. Quartz pollen clings to the stamens at its heart.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Rowena says, turning it back and forth to catch the light. “What’s it for, like?”

He shrugs. “Lot of things. String a few of ‘em around a good stone — something uncut, I’m thinkin’ — and we’d have a cane any conjurer’d be proud to carry. If you want us goin’ into exotic goods, I’ll scale it up a bit and it’ll make a heart for one of those things the Sharlayan star-blokes use. Print a flower to match on the back of the cards, maybe. Or it’d be a fine cap on the pommel for any weight of sword, if someone wants to carry something more elegant-like. Anything that doesn’t need to bear up under too much pressure.”

“Aye, you’re right.” She cups the petals in her hands, half expecting them to give. “What’d you have in mind in making it?”

“Ah, well.” He rubs the back of his head. “You’re the business genius, not me.” She raises her eyebrows. With a sheepish laugh, he tucks the flower from her hand and tucks it just behind her ear.

Seventh Astral Era

“Gerolt, what did you — ugh. What was I even expectin’?”

The forge stinks of stale sweat and staler booze as much as it does smoke and metal. Gerolt is face-down on one of the workbenches, smearing ash into his face. A wine bottle is tucked into the curve of his arm, bleeding a purple stain onto the stain-rich wood. Drool gathers at the corner of his mouth, but the light is dim enough to hide the years on his face. He’s peaceful in sleep.

Rowena looks at him for a too-long time.

“Useless tosspot,” she says at last, and pulls the door closed.