They walked back to the forge in twilight, Kieran's mind churning with everything that had happened.
"Seventeen delegations," he said numbly. "There are seventeen different factions trying to hire me right now."
"Eighteen, actually," Mira corrected, producing another letter from her pocket. "This one arrived while we were at the mayor's office. It's from Lady Celeste."
Kieran's heart jumped. He took the letter with trembling fingers and broke the seal.
Dear Kieran,
I hope this letter finds you well, though I suspect recent events have made 'well' a relative term. News of my victory has spread faster than I anticipated, and with it, interest in Dawnbreaker's origins.
I've maintained the confidentiality agreement, but I cannot control others' investigations. I'm sorry if this has brought unwanted attention to your doorstep.
House Varnham has been flooded with offers and threats in equal measure. Duke Thorne has made his displeasure known regarding my refusal to surrender Dawnbreaker. Jonas Rift has attempted to buy my family's debts to leverage a sale. The Sanctum has sent three different emissaries to "discuss" the blade's spiritual significance.
I've refused them all. Dawnbreaker is mine, and I will not surrender it or you to their machinations.
However, I wanted to warn you: they will come for you next. If they cannot acquire existing artifacts, they will attempt to secure their source. Please be careful. These people are dangerous when denied.
Also, I promised you dinner. The offer stands, though I understand if current circumstances make that impractical. Whenever you're ready, I'll keep my word.
Stay safe,
Celeste
P.S. - Dawnbreaker says hello. Yes, I'm aware that swords don't talk. Tell that to the blade that hums contentedly every time I draw it.
Despite everything, Kieran smiled. The letter felt like a lifeline—proof that someone out there understood what he was going through.
"She's protecting you," Mira observed, reading over his shoulder. "Even when it costs her."
"She's protecting the sword," Kieran corrected.
"She's protecting you," Mira insisted. "The sword is just an excuse. She cares about you, Kieran."
"Don't be ridiculous. We've barely spoken—"
"You created something that changed her life. You believed in her when no one else did. You gave her the tool she needed to prove herself." Mira's expression turned knowing. "Trust me, that creates bonds."
Kieran didn't know how to respond to that, so he changed the subject. "What are we going to do about all these commissions?"
"We're going to be strategic," Mira said. "Accept a few carefully chosen ones. Nothing too high-profile, nothing that creates artifacts that would draw even more attention. Build your reputation for quality without revealing your full capabilities."
"Hide in plain sight," Kieran said.
"Exactly. Let people think you're very good, not legendary. Create excellent work that doesn't quite reach artifact status. Keep the big factions interested but not obsessed."
"That's a tightrope walk."
"Better than the alternatives."
They reached the forge as full night fell. The familiar space felt different now—smaller somehow, more vulnerable, like a sanctuary that couldn't quite keep the world at bay anymore.
"You know," Mira said quietly, "a week ago, our biggest worry was paying for coal. Now we're trying to navigate competing noble houses and religious orders, all while hiding a legendary class. Life comes at you fast."
Kieran laughed—slightly hysterical, but genuine. "I preferred poverty."
"Liar. You prefer having enough money to buy decent food and fix the chimney."
"Okay, I prefer poverty without actual starvation."
"That's called 'being practical,' not poverty." Mira started lighting lanterns, the warm glow pushing back the darkness. "Get some rest. Tomorrow we start reviewing proposals and making decisions. This is your life now, Kieran. Might as well figure out how to live it."
She was right, as usual.
This was his life now. Wanted by the powerful, valuable to the ambitious, unable to hide but terrified of being seen.
But he also had friends. He had skills. He had the ability to create things that mattered.
Maybe that would be enough to navigate the storm gathering around him.
Maybe.
Kieran climbed to his room and collapsed onto his bed, Celeste's letter still clutched in his hand.
Outside, Millhaven settled into its nightly rhythms—unaware that the quiet blacksmith in the forge on Iron Street had just become a piece on a game board that involved dukes, merchants, archbishops, and forces that could reshape the region.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new pressures, new dangers.
But tonight, Kieran allowed himself a moment of quiet pride:
He'd helped Celeste achieve her dream. He'd created a masterpiece. And despite everything, he was still free.
That was worth fighting for.
That was worth the risk.
As he drifted off to sleep, his last conscious thought was of Dawnbreaker catching the sunset light, beautiful and deadly and perfect.
I did good work, he thought.
And for once, his perfectionist brain didn't immediately argue.
The representatives arrived at dawn, before Kieran had finished his first cup of coffee.
Marcus Stone came first—because of course the military man would value punctuality above courtesy. He was exactly as Kieran remembered from the tournament: mid-forties, built like a siege engine, with the kind of weathered face that came from decades of actual combat rather than ceremonial duties. His Valorian uniform was immaculate, medals arranged in precise rows that told a story of violence and survival.
He didn't knock. He simply opened the forge door and walked in like he owned the place.
"Master Ashford," Stone said, his voice carrying the bark of command. "We need to talk."
Kieran, still half-asleep and definitely not prepared for confrontation, made a sound that might have been words. Mira appeared from the back room like a guardian spirit, already dressed and alert despite the ungodly hour.
"Quartermaster Stone," she said coolly. "This is a private residence and business. Courtesy suggests you wait to be invited inside."
Stone's expression didn't change. "Courtesy is a luxury during wartime, Miss Thornfield. And make no mistake—we are at war. The eastern front has intensified, and the Empire requires resources to maintain our defensive positions."
"How patriotic," Mira said, her tone suggesting it was anything but. "Master Ashford will be happy to hear your proposal. During proper business hours. Which begin at nine o'clock."
"The Empire doesn't operate on blacksmith's hours—"
"Then the Empire can take its business elsewhere." Mira's voice could have frozen water. "You have two choices, Quartermaster: leave now and return at a civilized hour with a proper appointment, or leave permanently and explain to your superiors why you alienated a valuable resource through sheer rudeness."
Stone's jaw tightened, but something in Mira's unwavering stare made him reconsider. He'd probably bullied countless suppliers into compliance through intimidation, but Mira wasn't budging an inch.
"Nine o'clock," he finally said. "I'll return."
He left, and Kieran exhaled shakily. "That was—"
"Just the beginning," Mira interrupted, moving to the window. "Look."
Two more figures were approaching the forge. One was a woman in expensive merchant silks that somehow managed to look both professional and subtly seductive—all strategic necklines and calculated charm. The other was a man in the simple gray robes of the Sanctum, but with the silver cord that marked him as an inquisitor.
"The other two," Kieran breathed. "They're all coming today."
"Of course they are. Stone's visit was observed by their people. None of them want to give the others a head start." Mira's expression turned calculating. "This is actually perfect. We can play them off each other in real time."
"I don't want to play them off each other. I want them to go away."
"Not an option, I'm afraid." Mira checked her appearance in the small mirror by the door, adjusting her hair with practiced efficiency. "Follow my lead. Try to look mysterious and valuable. And for the love of all that's holy, don't apologize for anything."
"Not an option, I'm afraid." Mira checked her appearance in the small mirror by the door, adjusting her hair with practiced efficiency. "Follow my lead. Try to look mysterious and valuable. And for the love of all that's holy, don't apologize for anything."
The merchant woman reached the door first, her smile bright enough to blind. She knocked with perfect politeness—three precise taps that somehow conveyed both respect and expectation.
Mira answered.
"Miss Thornfield, I presume?" The woman's voice was honey and silk, warm and inviting. "I'm Sylvie Merchant, senior negotiator for the Asterlin Trade Consortium. I apologize for the early hour, but I was hoping to discuss a business proposition with Master Ashford."
"How considerate of you to actually knock," Mira said, opening the door wider. "Please, come in. Though I should warn you—we're expecting another visitor shortly."
"Oh, I know." Sylvie's smile didn't waver as she entered, her eyes immediately cataloging every detail of the forge with professional assessment. "Brother Cassian and I walked over together. He's just completing his morning devotions outside. Such a pious man."
As if summoned, the inquisitor appeared in the doorway. Brother Cassian Gray was younger than Kieran expected—maybe early thirties—with the kind of intense eyes that suggested he saw sin everywhere and took personal responsibility for correcting it. His hands were clasped in prayer, but Kieran noticed the calluses that suggested more martial activities than simple devotion.
"Blessings of the dawn upon this house," Cassian intoned. "Miss Thornfield. Master Ashford. I trust we're not intruding?"
"You absolutely are," Mira said cheerfully, "but since you're here, you might as well come in. Though we'll need to wait for Quartermaster Stone to return before any serious discussions begin."
"Stone?" Sylvie's expression flickered with annoyance before the professional mask reasserted itself. "The Empire sent their attack dog? How... predictable."
"The servants of darkness always arrive first," Cassian said solemnly. "Eager to corrupt before the light can illuminate."
"Oh, spare me the theological melodrama," Sylvie said, her charm evaporating. "Your Sanctum wants the same thing the Empire does—to control valuable resources. You just dress it up in prayers."
"The Sanctum seeks only to protect divine blessings from secular greed—"
"GENTLEMEN. LADY." Mira's voice cut through the brewing argument. "You're guests in Master Ashford's establishment. You'll be civil, or you'll leave. Understood?"
Both visitors subsided, though Cassian looked like he'd tasted something bitter, and Sylvie's smile had acquired sharp edges.
Kieran stood by his workbench, trying to be invisible and largely succeeding. This was his worst nightmare—powerful people with opposing agendas, all focused on him, all wanting things he didn't want to give.
Just let Mira handle it, he told himself. She knows what she's doing.
Nine o'clock arrived with mechanical precision, and so did Marcus Stone. He entered to find his competitors already present, and his expression suggested he'd just stepped in something unpleasant.
"Miss Merchant. Brother Cassian." He nodded curtly. "I see we all had the same idea."
"Great minds think alike," Sylvie purred. "Or in this case, great powers think transparently."
"Shall we begin?" Mira gestured to the three rickety stools that served as client seating. "I'm sure you all have very compelling pitches prepared."