“Séverin!” she called out.

But he didn’t hear her.

Zofia pounded at the glass with her fist. Nothing happened. Frantically, she reached for her throat, only for her hand to meet skin.

Her necklace of pendants and folded weapons was gone. Bile stung the back of her throat. She patted down the front of her jackets and pockets. She had nothing on her person except Hela’s letter and—

Zofia stopped just as her fingers closed around familiar edges. Her matchbox. She drew it out, flipping back the silver cover: three matches. That was all she had. She looked at Séverin and Enrique, now trying to run to the ice grotto entrance, which was netted over with a Forged heat protectant. Her breath came quick. In Forging, her affinity had always been metallurgy. She had not been trained in the art of detecting and manipulating the presence of minerals in ice. The probability of success was low. But the probability of dying was higher.

Zofia lit one of the three matches against her tooth, then held it to the ice wall. If she could detect the minerals and ignite it with the presence of fire, she could create a hole within the wall. She pressed her hand to the ice, straining to feel the pulse of her Forging affinity … the thrum of ore within an object that responded to her touch. She pushed with everything inside her, but then the flame guttered out. Zofia scrambled to catch it only for her feet to slip out beneath her, throwing her to the ground. Her chin smacked into the ice floor, and she tasted blood. Wearily, Zofia forced herself to a stand.

Only two matches left.

Fingers trembling, she wiped the blood off her lips, then reached for another match. The sound of fire ripped through the air only for the match to slip out from between her wet, bloody fingers. A sob caught in her throat as the flame spluttered and died on the ice.

Zofia felt the rush of a thousand failures. She saw the blank expression on Laila’s face; the pity in Enrique’s eyes; Hela’s worry tugging down the corners of her mouth. A thousand expressions she had easily deciphered. All of it dragged out something deep within her. Her skin felt like it was burning. A low buzz gathered at the base of her skull. It wasn’t irritation. It wasn’t annoyance.

It was fury.

Zofia remembered one of the last evenings in the kitchens of L’Eden, when Tristan had still lived. He had been making a chain of daisies, letting them grow into bizarre vines that snatched Enrique’s book straight out of his hands. Laila had scolded them for making a mess, and threatened: “If you make a mess of my kitchen, I’ll unleash the fury of a Zofia who has not had her daily sugar cookie.” Zofia had frowned at that because she didn’t know that she was capable of fury. Fury belonged to those with fiery temperaments, but the longer she sat there, the more she felt as if she was seeing a new part of herself.

When she looked through the northern glass, she saw Enrique stumbling … an ice wolverine gaining on him, and she remembered the last thing he had said to her:

You’re a lot braver than most of the people outside. None of them could build a bomb with their eyes closed and wander into a metal monster and still want to name it “David.” Trust in yourself, Phoenix.

She would not make him a liar.

Zofia turned to the crystal stag, inert and glittering. Beneath its hooves, she noticed a spider-like fracture spreading out from the ice. She could not burn through the ice. But the stag was a Forged instrument, powerful enough that its hooves, if moving, could shatter through the barrier.

Her last match in hand, Zofia knelt beside the stag. Days ago, House Dazbog had dismissed the machine for its broken internal metal mechanisms, its failure to respond. She could not manipulate ice. But she could work with metal. And she could work with fire.

Zofia let her hands run over its smooth artistry. In the gaping mess of its chest, she felt the slim, hollow wires … their tangled shape. She felt where the machine had gone silent. She struck her last match. At her touch, the once dormant metal sang. It was a low, thready song. Slowly, the gears began to grind together, the fire working its way through the flammable metal oxides.

The ice stag shuddered to life, its hooves pawing at the air. Zofia bent her will to the creature, just as she would with any of her other inventions. The stag kicked out, shattering the glass wall. It scrabbled to a stand, righting itself and arching the frosted line of its throat. When it shook its antlers, small icicles shattered on the ground. It lowered its head to Zofia, its huge antlers sharp as weapons. At the center of its chest now bubbled a small inferno. A heart of fire.

For a moment, Zofia was awed. All the tools and objects she had Forged were not like this. This was the art of Forging that felt like she had granted life. This was the part of the art form that others called a sliver of God’s power.

It filled her with a sense of capability … as if she might go anywhere and not count the trees; as if she might talk to anyone and never know panic. It was power, she realized, and she quite liked it.

Zofia reached for one of its antlers and then hauled herself onto its freezing back.

“Go,” she commanded.

The stag reared up onto its front legs and then shattered the glass wall. In one smooth leap, it jumped over the heads of the frozen members of the Order of Babel. Ahead of her, Zofia could see the line of animals had converged into a knot at the entrance to the hall that housed the ice grotto. The Forged heat net flickered dimly. Soon, it would die. At the mouth of the hall, she watched as Séverin flung out his hand, his other hand pushing Enrique behind him.

The animals poised to strike.

Zofia urged the stag faster, her hand moving once more to her neck. Frustration gathered inside her. She needed a weapon, something that would push back the creatures. She cast about and saw an ornamental sword lying across the lap of a frozen member of the Italian faction. The stag halted to a stop in front of him, and she reached down, plucking the sword.

“Thank you,” she said.

She gripped the blade, finding the pulse of its metal that sang to her Forging affinity and then pressed it against the ice stag’s flaming heart. Fire erupted across the sword.

“Faster,” she whispered.

The stag galloped down the line of ice creatures, then skidded to a halt at the front of the Forging net. The net itself was made of metal, and when she reached out … letting her fingers skim across it, the thread felt cold to the touch. It needed fire. She looked behind her to make sure that Séverin and Enrique were safe. Séverin held a mirror shard in his hand and stared at her. Enrique yelped, hiding his face behind his arm. He poked his head up, his arm falling to his side. His jaw dropped, and he looked from her face to the flaming sword.

“Zofia?”

Indignation. Amazement. Confusion. It could be any of those emotions, thought Zofia, so she settled on the only reply that made sense to her: “Hello.”

Then she turned back to the line of ice creatures. She brandished the fire sword. A handful of the creatures skittered back.

“Séverin and Enrique, get behind the net,” she said.

She heard them step backward, and then she brought the tip of her sword to the net. Heat bloomed across it once more, and the ice creatures stepped backwards, hissing and growling. Zofia dropped the sword, then dismounted from her stag. It swung its head to her. Zofia patted its hindquarters once, and it took off down the atrium, far away from the fire net.