"Forty silver total. Plus this."
Kieran placed the gold coin on the counter with a soft clink that seemed to echo in the small forge. Mira's eyes widened as she picked it up, holding it to the light like she couldn't quite believe it was real.
"He gave you a bonus?" She looked up at Kieran with an expression caught between delight and suspicion. "Mr. Hendricks gave you extra money? Voluntarily? Are you sure you didn't accidentally save his daughter from a burning building on the way there?"
"He said it was for exceptional work." Kieran moved to his workbench, ostensibly to organize tools but really to avoid Mira's scrutinizing gaze. His hands found his favorite hammer—his father's hammer—and he ran his thumb along the worn handle in a familiar, soothing gesture.
"Exceptional work," Mira repeated slowly. "Kieran. Do you know what this means?"
It means I'm not holding back enough, Kieran thought, a cold knot forming in his stomach. It means people are noticing. It means I'm being careless again.
"It means we can eat something other than turnip stew?" he offered aloud.
"It means you're better than you think you are!" Mira practically bounced on her heels, her excitement filling the small space. "It means we could actually charge more for your work. Real prices, not the poverty rates you've been accepting because you think you don't deserve—"
"Mira."
Something in his tone made her stop. She studied his face, and her enthusiasm dimmed slightly.
"You're worried," she said. Not a question.
Kieran set down the hammer carefully. "I just... I don't want attention. I've told you that."
"Attention from clients who pay well is good attention."
No attention is good attention, Kieran thought, but he couldn't explain why without explaining everything. And he'd kept the secret from Mira for three months now. Three months of lies by omission, of watching her struggle to understand why he deliberately undersold himself, why he panicked at the thought of success.
She deserved the truth. But the truth was a chain that would drag her down with him if things went wrong. Better she could claim ignorance if Baron Thaddeus or someone like him ever came looking.
"Just trust me," he said quietly. "Please."
Mira opened her mouth to argue, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, she pocketed the gold coin with exaggerated care. "Fine. I'll trust you. But I'm buying us actual meat for dinner tonight, and you're not going to talk me out of it."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"Good. Because you look like you haven't eaten properly in days, and—" She glanced at the small hourglass on the counter, then swore colorfully. "She's going to be here in ten minutes. Are you ready?"
Kieran looked down at himself. Soot-stained shirt, worn leather apron, hands that perpetually smelled like coal and metal no matter how much he washed them. His hair was a mess, and he probably had forge grime on his face.
"No," he admitted.
"Fantastic." Mira grabbed a rag and dampened it in the water barrel. "Come here. You've got soot on your forehead. Again."
Kieran submitted to her ministrations with the resigned patience of someone who'd been through this routine many times. Mira scrubbed at his face with more force than was strictly necessary, muttering about impossible blacksmiths who couldn't stay clean for five minutes.
"There," she declared, stepping back to examine her work. "You look almost respectable. Try to smile when she arrives. And by smile, I mean actually smile, not that thing you do where you bare your teeth like a nervous horse."
"I don't—"
"You absolutely do." Mira turned to survey the forge with a critical eye. "Okay. Front desk is organized. Floor is swept. Your workspace looks artistically messy instead of just messy. I think we're as ready as we're going to be."
Kieran felt his anxiety ratcheting up another notch. A wealthy client. A significant commission. Everything about this felt like a trap waiting to spring closed.
Just say no, he told himself. Whatever she wants, just say you're too busy. Turn her away.
But they needed the money. The gold coin from Hendricks would help, but winter was coming and they barely had enough saved to keep the forge heated through the cold months. One significant commission could be the difference between survival and starvation.
He hated that math. Hated that survival required risk.
"Stop spiraling," Mira said without looking at him. "I can hear you overthinking from here."
Before Kieran could respond, the sound of hoofbeats echoed from the street outside. Through the forge's open door, he caught a glimpse of a horse—a magnificent chestnut destrier that probably cost more than his entire forge—being reined to a stop.
The rider dismounted with practiced grace.
Lady Celeste Varnham was not what Kieran had expected.
He'd been prepared for typical nobility—overdressed, imperious, looking down their nose at his humble forge. Instead, the woman who ducked through his doorway was young, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of practical bearing that came from actual combat experience rather than ceremonial training.
She wore traveling clothes rather than formal dress—well-made but functional, with the kind of subtle wear that suggested frequent use. Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple braid, and her right hand rested casually on the pommel of a longsword that looked both expensive and well-used. The way she moved spoke of someone comfortable in their own body, confident without being aggressive.
A small blue indicator floated above her head, visible only to those with System access:
[Celeste Varnham - Knight - Level 34 - Rank B]
B-rank. That was... significant. Higher than most people in Millhaven. High enough to be genuinely dangerous if she wanted to be.
Kieran's anxiety spiked.
"Good afternoon," Celeste said, her voice carrying a cultured accent that placed her from the eastern territories. "I'm looking for the blacksmith. Master Ashford?"
"Just Kieran," he managed, then immediately wondered if he should have been more formal. "I mean, yes. That's me. Kieran Ashford. The blacksmith. Obviously. Since this is a forge."
Smooth. Very smooth.
Mira stepped forward with the kind of professional charm that Kieran could never manage. "Lady Varnham, welcome to Ashford's Forge. I'm Mira, Master Kieran's assistant. We received your message about a significant commission?"
"I appreciate you making time to see me." Celeste's attention shifted between them, assessing. Kieran tried not to fidget under her gaze. "I was told that despite the... modest appearance of your establishment, the quality of your work is exceptional."
Who told her that? Kieran thought with mounting alarm. How many people are talking about my work?
"We do our best," Mira said smoothly. "What kind of commission did you have in mind?"
Celeste's hand moved from her sword pommel to a small leather satchel at her belt. She withdrew a rolled parchment—an official-looking document with wax seals—and unrolled it on the counter.
"The Grand Melee," she said simply.
Kieran's stomach sank. He'd heard of the Grand Melee—everyone had. It was one of the most prestigious combat tournaments in the region, held annually in the neutral city of Thornhaven. Nobles from a dozen different factions competed for glory, prizes, and most importantly, recognition.
Winners of the Grand Melee often found themselves recruited into elite guilds, offered positions in royal guards, or elevated to higher social standing. It was a chance for ambitious nobles to make their mark.
It was also exactly the kind of high-profile event that Kieran wanted nothing to do with.
"I need a sword," Celeste continued, either not noticing or ignoring Kieran's visible discomfort. "The Melee is in six weeks. I've been training for a year, but my current weapon is... inadequate."
She drew her sword and laid it on the counter. It was a fine blade—probably worth fifty gold, easy. The kind of weapon most people would be proud to own. But Kieran's trained eye immediately caught the subtle signs of strain in the metal, the slightly uneven weight distribution, the blade geometry that was just a fraction off optimal.
It was a good sword. Not a great one.
"I come from House Varnham," Celeste said, and something in her tone suggested this should mean something. When neither Kieran nor Mira reacted with recognition, she continued with visible effort. "We're... a minor noble house. Very minor. Fourth sons and forgotten cousins, barely clinging to our title."
She said it matter-of-factly, but Kieran caught the undercurrent of frustration beneath the words.
"The Grand Melee is my chance to change that," Celeste went on. "To prove House Varnham still matters. To show we can compete with the major houses." Her fingers traced the edge of her current sword. "But I can't do it with this. I've reached the limits of what skill alone can achieve. I need better equipment."
"There are many fine smiths in the region," Mira said carefully. "Surely someone of your standing would have access to master craftsmen in the larger cities?"
"I've tried them." Celeste's jaw tightened. "Master Forge-Wright in Thornhaven told me his waiting list is eight months long. The imperial smiths won't take commissions from 'minor nobility.'" She practically spat the words. "And the enchanter's guild wants payment up front that would bankrupt my house three times over."
She looked directly at Kieran, and he had to fight the urge to look away.
"But then I heard about a blacksmith in Millhaven. Someone who does exceptional work for reasonable prices. Someone who made a B-rank adventurer's sword sing like it was artifact-class." She paused. "That was you, wasn't it? The sword George Stone confiscated last week?"
Kieran's blood ran cold. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't worry—I'm not with the Empire. I think what George did was theft, personally." Celeste leaned forward. "But I also think it means you're capable of making exactly what I need. A sword worthy of winning the Grand Melee."
The silence stretched. Kieran could feel Mira's eyes on him, could sense her practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of a real, well-paying commission from actual nobility.
Say no, his instincts screamed. This is how it starts. This is how people notice. This is how you end up in a cage again.
"How much?" Mira asked, because of course she did.
Celeste named a figure that made Kieran's head spin. Two hundred gold. More money than they'd make in six months of normal commissions.
Enough to secure the forge through winter. Enough to repair the chimney and replace his aging tools. Enough to give Mira a proper salary instead of the pittance he currently managed.
Enough to make refusing feel impossible.
"That's very generous," Mira said, her voice carefully neutral. "We'd need to discuss materials, timeline, specifications—"
"Whatever you need," Celeste interrupted. "I can provide premium materials. Mithril-alloy steel from the eastern mines. Dragon-glass for the crossguard if you want it. Money is not the limiting factor here. Time is."
Six weeks. Kieran's mind was already racing through the calculations. He could do it—technically speaking, he could create something exceptional in that timeframe. But exceptional meant revealing more of his capabilities. Exceptional meant creating something people would talk about.
Exceptional meant risk.
"I need to think about it," Kieran heard himself say.
Celeste's expression flickered with disappointment, quickly masked. "I understand. This is a significant undertaking. When can I expect an answer?"
"Tomorrow," Mira interjected, shooting Kieran a look that clearly said we are discussing this later. "Come by at this time tomorrow. We'll have an answer for you then."
"Fair enough." Celeste rolled up the parchment and tucked it away. She looked around the small forge one more time, her gaze lingering on Kieran's workbench, the tools, the small rack of completed commissions waiting for pickup. "You know, my father always said you could tell the quality of a smith not by the size of their forge, but by how they treat their tools."
She gestured to Kieran's anvil, to the way his hammers were arranged not just functionally but almost reverently.
"Your tools are well-loved," she said quietly. "That tells me everything I need to know about your work."
And with that, she was gone, mounting her expensive horse and riding off down the street with the kind of easy confidence that came from knowing exactly who you were and what you wanted.
The forge felt very quiet after she left.
Mira turned to Kieran with an expression he'd learned to dread—the one that meant she was about to say something he didn't want to hear.
"Two hundred gold, Kieran."
"I know."
"Two. Hundred. Gold."
"I know."
"We could fix everything. The chimney, the tools, the—"
"I know!" The words came out sharper than he'd intended. Kieran took a breath, forced himself to calm down. "I know what it means. I just... I need to think."
"What's there to think about?" Mira's frustration was palpable. "She's offering us more money than we've ever seen for one commission. She seems reasonable. She's not asking for anything impossible. This is exactly the kind of opportunity we've been waiting for!"
You don't understand, Kieran thought. You can't understand. Because I haven't told you what I am. What happens when people notice what I am.
But he couldn't say that. So instead he said: "What if I can't deliver what she wants? What if I fail?"
"Then we give her money back," Mira said, exasperated. "Kieran, you're the most talented smith I've ever met. You obsess over microscopic flaws that don't exist. You agonize over every piece like it's going to be judged by the gods themselves. If anything, your problem is that you care too much, not too little."
She wasn't wrong. But she also wasn't right, not really. Because Kieran wasn't worried about making a good sword. He was worried about making one too good.
He was worried about making something that would win the Grand Melee. Something that would get noticed by the kind of people who had resources and influence. Something that would lead them back to him, to questions about his class, to—
Stop. You're spiraling again.
"Just think about it," Mira said, her tone softening. "Really think about it. Not the fear part, but the practical part. We need this, Kieran. And honestly? I think she needs it too. Did you see her face when she talked about her house? She's desperate to prove something."
Kieran had seen it. That look of determination mixed with fear, the expression of someone who'd been dismissed and overlooked and was willing to do whatever it took to be seen.
He recognized it because he saw a different version of it in the mirror every morning—though his was the determination to stay unseen, to remain overlooked, to survive by being invisible.
"I'll think about it," he promised.
"Good." Mira squeezed his shoulder. "Now I'm going to go buy us something decent for dinner with that bonus money. Try not to stress yourself into unconsciousness while I'm gone."
After she left, Kieran stood alone in his forge, surrounded by the tools of his trade and the weight of an impossible decision.
Two hundred gold to create a sword for the Grand Melee.
Two hundred gold to risk everything he'd built here.
Two hundred gold to potentially throw away his safety, his anonymity, his freedom.
He picked up his father's hammer, feeling its familiar weight in his hand.
What would you do, Dad?
But his father had never had a legendary class. Had never been conscripted. Had never had to choose between survival and success.
His father had been a good man who'd made honest weapons for honest pay and died peacefully in his workshop.
Kieran wanted that. Wanted it so desperately it hurt.
But the world didn't let people like him have peaceful lives.
The world noticed excellence, and excellence attracted predators.
He had until tomorrow to decide.
Somehow, Kieran already knew what his answer would be.
He just hated himself a little bit for it.