The demonstration was scheduled for ten o'clock in the town square. Marcus Stone had accepted the alternative proposal with suspicious ease, which made everyone nervous.
Kieran spent the morning preparing—selecting tools, organizing materials for a basic forging demonstration, trying not to vomit from anxiety. Mira handled the logistics while Celeste coordinated with Mayor Fletcher on security arrangements.
By nine-thirty, Kieran was as ready as he'd ever be.
That's when someone broke into his forge.
Kieran had stepped out to the well behind the building to splash cold water on his face, trying to calm his racing heart before the demonstration. Mira was in the front room finalizing paperwork. Celeste had gone to the square to oversee setup.
The Consortium's security detail was positioned outside, watching the street.
Which meant no one was watching the back entrance.
The crash of breaking glass sent Kieran running back inside, water still dripping from his face. He burst through the rear door to find his forge in chaos—tools scattered, workbench overturned, and a figure in dark clothing rifling through his materials storage.
"Hey!" Kieran shouted, more from shock than courage.
The intruder spun, and Kieran caught a glimpse of a scarred face beneath a hood before the man lunged at him. Kieran stumbled backward, his combat instincts nonexistent, his mind blanking with panic.
A fist caught him in the ribs, driving the air from his lungs. He went down hard, his head cracking against the doorframe.
Through blurred vision, Kieran saw the intruder grab something from his workbench—a partially completed commission, a longsword he'd been working on for a local merchant. Not an artifact, just good quality work, but still weeks of effort.
"Stop—" Kieran tried to stand, his ribs screaming protest.
The intruder kicked him casually in the chest, sending him sprawling again, then bolted for the back door with the sword.
"KIERAN!" Mira's voice, followed by running footsteps.
She appeared in the doorway, took in the scene—Kieran on the floor, blood trickling from a cut on his temple, the ransacked forge—and her expression transformed into cold fury.
"The back door! He went through the back!"
Mira was already moving, but the intruder had a head start. By the time she reached the alley, he was gone, vanished into Millhaven's maze of back streets.
She returned to find Kieran sitting up, probing his ribs gingerly and trying to assess the damage to his forge.
"Are you okay?" She knelt beside him, checking the head wound.
"He took the Merchant's commission. Three weeks of work, just—gone." Kieran's voice came out hollow. "Where was the Consortium's security? They were supposed to be watching—"
"They were watching the front," Mira said bitterly. "Because that's where they expected trouble to come from. Professional security, they said. Protected investment, they said."
The Consortium's guards arrived moments later, having heard the commotion. They surveyed the damage with expressions that managed to be both concerned and detached.
"We'll file a report," the lead guard said. "Description of the perpetrator, inventory of stolen items—"
"A report?" Kieran laughed, the sound edged with hysteria. "Someone just broke into my forge, assaulted me, and stole weeks of work, and you're going to file a report?"
"We're contracted to monitor external threats and deter violence," the guard said stiffly. "We can't be held responsible for someone exploiting an unsecured rear entrance—"
"Get out," Mira said quietly.
"Miss Thornfield—"
"Get. Out." Her voice could have frozen fire. "Your 'protection' is worthless. Tell Sylvie Merchant that if this is the Consortium's idea of security, she can shove her partnership agreement where the sun doesn't shine."
The guards left, and Mira helped Kieran to his feet. The forge was a disaster—not destroyed exactly, but violated. Someone had torn through his private space, his sanctuary, and taken something he'd created.
"We need to get you to a healer," Mira said, eyeing the head wound. "And we should cancel the demonstration. You're in no condition—"
"No." Kieran's voice was flat. "We're doing the demonstration. If we cancel now, Stone wins. He gets to claim I was never serious about transparency, that I'm hiding something."
"Kieran, you're injured—"
"I'm furious," he corrected. "And I'm done being pushed around."
The town square was crowded by the time Kieran arrived, Mira supporting him with one arm while trying to look like she wasn't. Someone had set up a temporary forge—portable but functional, with all the basic tools Kieran would need for a demonstration.
Marcus Stone stood near the front, flanked by his assessors, watching Kieran's approach with calculating eyes that immediately fixed on the visible injuries.
"Master Ashford," Stone said, his tone falsely concerned. "You look unwell. Perhaps we should reschedule—"
"I'm fine," Kieran interrupted. "Let's get this over with."
Celeste materialized at his other side, her expression thunderous. "What happened?"
"Someone broke into the forge. Took a commission I was working on." Kieran kept his voice low. "The Consortium's security was useless."
"When this is over, we're having words with Sylvie Merchant," Celeste said darkly. "But first—can you actually do this? You look like you can barely stand."
"I can stand long enough to prove I've got nothing to hide." Kieran pulled away from both women and approached the temporary forge, facing the crowd of spectators—townspeople, merchants, nobles, soldiers, all come to witness the mysterious Artifact Smith's methods.
Mayor Fletcher stepped forward to address the assembly. "We're gathered today for a public demonstration of blacksmithing techniques by Master Kieran Ashford. This demonstration serves as alternative to the inspection request submitted by the Valorian Empire, providing transparent verification that Master Ashford's work poses no security concerns while respecting his rights as a private citizen."
Stone's jaw tightened, but he nodded acknowledgment.
"Master Ashford will demonstrate basic forging methods," Fletcher continued. "Questions may be submitted in writing and will be reviewed for appropriateness. This is a craft demonstration, not an interrogation. Everyone clear?"
Murmurs of assent from the crowd.
Kieran approached the forge on unsteady legs, his ribs aching with each breath. The tools were unfamiliar, the setup strange, the audience overwhelming. Every instinct screamed at him to run.
Instead, he lit the forge.
"I'm going to demonstrate basic blade forging," he said, his voice barely carrying over the crowd noise. "Starting with stock steel, working through to a rough blade profile. This is standard technique, nothing secret or specialized."
He selected an ingot—common steel, nothing fancy—and placed it in the forge to heat. While waiting, he addressed the crowd with mechanical precision, explaining temperature control, metal properties, the basic physics of forging.
It was like being back in Greyhaven, performing for Baron Thaddeus, demonstrating his skills while feeling his freedom slip away.
The ingot reached working temperature. Kieran pulled it from the forge and placed it on the anvil. His first hammer strike was weak, his injured ribs protesting. The second was better. By the third, he'd found a rhythm despite the pain.
Heat. Hammer. Observe. Adjust. Repeat.
The crowd watched in silence, and Kieran lost himself in the work—the only place he'd ever felt truly safe, where everything made sense, where skill and patience produced predictable results.
He shaped the steel, drew it out, began establishing a blade profile. His movements were economical, practiced, the result of ten thousand hours of repetition. This wasn't artifact creation—this was basic smithing, the foundation that everything else built upon.
But even basic work, when performed with genuine skill, was compelling.
An hour passed. The rough blade took shape—nothing special, just a functional longsword blank that would require weeks more work to complete.
Kieran quenched it, the steel hissing in the water, then held it up for inspection.
"That's the basic process," he said, exhaustion creeping into his voice. "Heat, shape, refine. Artifacts require additional steps—enchantment integration, material bonding, System alignment—but the foundation is the same. It's craft, not magic. Skill, not secret knowledge."
Stone stepped forward. "And the artifact creation? You claim that's merely 'additional steps,' but S-rank weapons don't emerge from simple technique."
"No," Kieran agreed. "They emerge from exceptional materials, perfect execution, and an Artifact Smith class that provides knowledge of enchantment integration. The class is rare. The materials are expensive. But the process itself isn't mysterious—it's just difficult."
"Difficult enough that only seven people worldwide can do it," Stone pressed. "That level of capability represents significant strategic value—"
"It represents a skilled craftsman," Celeste interrupted, moving to stand beside Kieran. "Nothing more. Master Ashford has demonstrated his methods publicly. He's answered your questions. The inspection request is satisfied."
"The demonstration shows basic technique," Stone countered. "It doesn't address artifact creation or ongoing production capacity—"
"Because those are proprietary methods protected under craftsman's guild law," a new voice interjected.
Sylvie Merchant had arrived, flanked by her lawyers, looking furious.
"Master Ashford has fulfilled the terms of the alternative proposal," she continued. "Public demonstration of methods, transparent verification of no security concerns, questions answered in good faith. The Empire has no legal standing to demand more."
Stone's expression darkened. "The Consortium has an interesting definition of 'protection.' I heard about the break-in this morning. Seems your security arrangements are... inadequate."
"That's being addressed," Sylvie said tightly.
"Is it? Because from where I stand, it looks like Master Ashford is in danger. Valuable assets require proper protection—the kind that merchant security clearly can't provide." Stone turned to address the crowd. "The Empire offers Master Ashford official protection. Imperial custody, for his own safety, until proper security arrangements can be—"
"No." Kieran's voice cut through Stone's speech.