The Blacksmith Shadows chase across the faces of my children. The forge is lit, flames spit to the bellows breath. Buried in the fire, metal melts, soon I shall fashion another sword for Urien. My wife cradles our youngest life, she is troubled but hides it well. Like her mother, she has the gift of far-sight, claims to see visions being played out in the dancing flames. I have no time for such notions! I have a King to arm, children to feed! My hammer falls, pounds at my growing fear. Yesterday, she looked into the forge and saw only fire!