Tony is a talker. The king of rapid-fire conversation, he is often wry, occasionally self-deprecating, but never not confident, not as long as I've known him, even when he's quite literally bleeding out. And that is why, right now, immediately, I know something's profoundly wrong even though my brain hasn't caught up to why.

One syllable, my name. Vulnerable enough it's almost childlike. My gaze bounces from the ring to Tony's face and then back again, my features pinching with confusion and then going slack as the pieces slot into place.

"Shit," I exhale. The ring wobbles where I'm holding it up; my hand — My steady as a rock surgeon's hand — has started shaking.

"Tony," I softly begin again, lifting my free hand his way. The forge's fire crackles as some logs settle, golden sparks spinning into the air and then fading. "You should sit down. Let's sit down."