Chapter 1: The Bladesmith’s Bargain

I tracked down the best bladesmith in the country and asked him to make me the sharpest knife in America. In return, he wanted me to draw my own blade and collect debts from four people for him.

I touched the knife at my belt, which I hadn’t drawn in a year, and smiled to myself. Drawing a blade is too much trouble; it’s better to win with words. Words are lighter to carry than a blade, and they leave fewer scars. Truth is, I always preferred talking my way out of trouble anyway. Most fights, I figured, you could win with the right joke or a story folks weren’t expecting.

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CHAPTER ONE:

"You think you know my rules, huh? Folks say I never forge knives for anyone else." The number one bladesmith in the country sat across from me, frowning. His workshop smelled of scorched steel and motor oil, with trophies and antique Bowie knives lining the shelf behind him. A battered Steelers cap hung on a rusty nail, and a faded flag draped one wall.

"I know. As long as the price is right, Mr. Foster, you’ll forge any weapon—except for knives."

After a pause, I smiled again. "But I’m hoping you’ll make an exception for me, just this once." My voice was easy, but my eyes didn’t leave his. I could see the calluses on his hands—hands that had shaped legends, hands that could snap a steel rod without blinking.

The bladesmith stared at me for a while and said, "You’re mistaken. I do forge weapons for others, but it’s not just about the money."

"You judge a person’s character, too. If someone is truly a jerk, you won’t forge for them either, right?" I continued. I leaned back in the creaky chair—the old wood groaned under me, and I caught a whiff of sawdust and coffee grounds. A framed photo of a 1950s muscle car hung behind his desk—something about his place screamed stubborn American pride.

He nodded. "I made a weapon for four folks, years back. Turns out, every last one of them stabbed me in the back—one way or another. Such people aren’t worthy of using my weapons anymore."

"So you want to take back those four weapons," I said.

"I’ve forged weapons for people all over the country for years. They call me the ‘number one bladesmith in America.’ Every day, people come here begging me to forge for them. Those with money want a weapon; those without want one even more. If they have money, that’s easy. If not, I have them do something for me in exchange." He said this like it was just the way of things, like the country ran on favors and debts, not just dollars.

"And what you want them to do is take back those four weapons?" I asked.

"Everyone who agreed went—but none ever came back alive. So, I’ve never actually forged a weapon for someone without money," the bladesmith said flatly. The way he said it, you knew he’d watched hope walk out his door more times than he could count.

"Those four are all famous—masters of their craft. Retrieving those weapons from them is no easy task."

I smiled. "If I can bring those four weapons back for you, will you forge a knife for me?"

"At least a hundred people have said that to me. Not one has come back alive. Aren’t you afraid of dying?" He squinted, sizing me up like he was fitting me for a coffin.

I shrugged and smiled. "I’m just going to take back the weapons, not to die." I watched his lips twitch—just a little—like he almost believed I’d come back.