They made it back to Millhaven two days after the Grand Melee, riding in a cramped merchant wagon that smelled of cabbage and regret. Kieran spent the entire journey in alternating states of anxiety and exhaustion, while Mira maintained a knowing silence that somehow felt louder than conversation.
The forge looked exactly as they'd left it—small, unremarkable, desperately ordinary. Kieran had never been so happy to see its crooked chimney and weathered sign.
"Home sweet home," Mira said, unlocking the door. "I'll get us some food. You should rest. You look like death."
"I need to check the—"
"Kieran." She turned to face him fully. "Rest. The forge isn't going anywhere. Whatever happens next, you need to be ready for it."
She was right, of course. She was annoyingly often right.
Kieran collapsed onto his bed above the forge, still wearing his travel clothes, and fell into unconsciousness before his head fully hit the pillow.
He woke sixteen hours later to the sound of knocking.
Not gentle knocking. Not polite knocking. Aggressive, persistent, important knocking.
Kieran stumbled downstairs, his body protesting every movement, to find Mira already at the door, her expression a mixture of excitement and concern.
"You might want to see this," she said.
Kieran looked outside.
There were seven people waiting. Well-dressed people. Expensive people. Their clothes screamed wealth and status—fine silks, enchanted accessories, the kind of tailoring that cost more than Kieran's entire forge.
And they were all staring at his tiny, unimpressive blacksmith shop with expressions of barely concealed skepticism.
"Is this the establishment of Master Kieran Ashford?" one of them asked—a woman in merchant's robes that probably cost more than Kieran made in a year.
"It is," Mira said cautiously. "Though Master Ashford isn't taking commissions at the moment—"
"I represent House Valmont," the woman interrupted, producing a sealed letter. "We wish to commission twelve ceremonial swords for the family's honor guard. Budget is negotiable, but we're prepared to offer five hundred gold for the commission."
Before Mira could respond, a man in noble's attire stepped forward. "House Blackthorne requires a full set of armor for our heir's coming-of-age ceremony. We can pay seven hundred gold—"
"The Merchant Guild of Asterlin has authorized me to offer one thousand gold for a set of daggers—"
"The Knights of the Radiant Order need new weapons blessed with—"
"STOP."
Mira's voice cut through the competing offers. She looked at Kieran, who was standing frozen in the doorway, his mind refusing to process what was happening.
"Master Ashford will consider all proposals," Mira said with impressive composure, "but he requires written submissions. Please leave your letters and proposed terms. We'll review them and respond within the week."
"We need an answer today—"
"Written submissions," Mira repeated firmly. "Or no consideration at all."
Grumbling, the representatives began producing letters, contracts, proposals. They piled them on Kieran's counter until the stack was a foot high, each one sealed with expensive wax bearing noble crests or guild marks.
When they finally left—reluctantly, shooting suspicious glances at the modest forge—Kieran and Mira stood in silence, staring at the mountain of correspondence.
"That was just the first wave," Mira said quietly.
She was right.
Over the next three days, the flood didn't stop—it intensified.
Nobles arrived in gilded carriages, offering fortunes for commissions. Merchant representatives appeared with contracts and cashier's notes. Even a few adventuring guilds sent scouts, hoping to secure exclusive deals for equipment.
The offers grew increasingly absurd:
Two thousand gold for a single longsword.
Three thousand for a matched set of daggers.
Five thousand for full plate armor.
One particularly desperate noble offered ten thousand gold plus a small estate for "whatever Master Ashford deems appropriate to craft."
Kieran stopped reading the letters after the first twenty. His hands shook too much to hold the papers steady.
"This is insane," he said for the hundredth time, pacing his forge like a caged animal. "This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. How did they even find me?"
"Process of elimination," Mira said, sorting through proposals with calculating efficiency. She'd taken to the role of business manager with unsettling enthusiasm. "After the Grand Melee, every major faction sent investigators to identify Dawnbreaker's creator. They probably questioned every master blacksmith within five hundred miles."
"But none of them would have—"
"None of them could claim credit," Mira interrupted. "Because they didn't make it. An A-rank artifact isn't something you can fake or lie about—the work speaks for itself. When none of the established masters could prove they created Dawnbreaker, the search expanded. Someone remembered Celeste spent time in Millhaven before the tournament. Someone else recalled rumors about a talented blacksmith working out of a modest forge. It wouldn't have taken much investigation from there."
Kieran felt his chest tightening. The walls were closing in. "I need to refuse them. All of them. Close the forge, leave Millhaven, start over somewhere—"
"Kieran." Mira set down the letters and gripped his shoulders, forcing him to look at her. "Running won't work this time. You've been marked as capable of creating artifacts. That information doesn't disappear just because you change locations. If anything, fleeing would make you look suspicious and invite more aggressive pursuit."
"So what am I supposed to do? Accept commissions from nobles and merchant guilds and have them all watching me, pressuring me, waiting for me to produce more artifacts they can—"
He stopped, his breathing ragged. The panic was taking over, that familiar spiral of worst-case scenarios and historical trauma.
Mira's expression softened. "Hey. Look at me. Right here, right now—are you safe?"
"For the moment."
"Is anyone threatening you with conscription or imprisonment?"
"Not yet."
"Then we have time to think. To plan." She guided him to sit down, then took the chair opposite. "But Kieran, you need to tell me the truth now. All of it. We made a System-binding promise, and Celeste won the tournament. You have—" she checked the small clock, "—about six hours left before the System enforces penalties."
Kieran's stomach lurched. He'd been so focused on the immediate crisis that he'd almost forgotten about that particular sword of Damocles.
"And more importantly," Mira continued gently, "I can't help you navigate this if I don't understand what you're really afraid of. What happened in Greyhaven? What are you running from?"
For a long moment, Kieran sat in silence, the weight of two years of secrets pressing down on him. Part of him still wanted to run, to hide, to protect Mira from the truth by keeping her ignorant.
But she deserved better than that. And the System would force his hand anyway.
"My class," he said quietly, "isn't just rare. It's legendary. Artifact Smith—one of seven in the entire world. I evolved into it after my father died, and I was stupid enough to reveal it to the wrong people."
Mira's eyes widened, but she stayed silent, letting him continue.
"In Greyhaven, a local baron discovered what I was. He conscripted me—threatened me with prison if I didn't comply—and forced me to create weapons for the empire's war efforts. Kept me in a facility under guard, with production quotas and threats and—" His hand unconsciously went to the scar on his collarbone. "I tried to escape. Got this for my trouble. Nearly died. When I finally got away, I ran until I reached Millhaven."
"And you've been hiding ever since," Mira finished softly. "Deliberately underperforming, refusing success, terrified that someone would discover your class and put you in a cage again."
"Yes." The word came out as barely a whisper.
"Kieran." Mira leaned forward. "Do you trust me?"
"Of course."
"Then trust me when I say this: you're not in Greyhaven anymore. The situation is different. Yes, powerful people want your services, but they're offering payment, not threats. They're asking, not demanding. That's leverage you didn't have before."
"Until I refuse them and they decide asking isn't working."
"Which is why we don't refuse them all." Mira's expression turned calculating. "We use them against each other. Play the factions off one another. Make it clear that you're valuable enough that mistreating you would be counterproductive."
"I don't know how to do that. I can barely talk to one noble without having a panic attack, let alone manipulate competing factions—"
"That's why you have me," Mira interrupted. "I'll handle the politics and negotiations. You just focus on what you do best—creating impossible things out of metal and obsessive perfectionism."
Despite his anxiety, Kieran felt a small smile tugging at his lips. "When did you get so ruthless?"
"I've always been ruthless. You just thought I was charming." She grinned. "Besides, I've been managing your anxiety-driven business decisions for months. This is just scaling up."
A knock at the door interrupted them. Not aggressive this time, but firm and official-sounding.
Mira answered it to reveal a woman in formal military dress—not imperial colors, but the neutral gray of Millhaven's town guard. She carried a sealed letter bearing the mayor's seal.
"Master Ashford? Mayor Fletcher requests your immediate presence at the municipal hall. A matter of some urgency has arisen."
Kieran and Mira exchanged glances.
"Define 'urgency,'" Mira said casually.
"There are currently seventeen official delegations in Millhaven, all claiming business with Master Ashford. The mayor feels it prudent to establish some... organizational structure before conflicts arise."
"Conflicts," Kieran repeated weakly.
"Three nobles nearly came to blows this morning arguing over whose messenger should approach your forge first," the guard said dryly. "The mayor would prefer to avoid actual violence if possible."
The municipal hall was chaos.
Mayor Gordon Fletcher—a pragmatic man in his fifties who'd navigated Millhaven through five years of System-induced madness—looked like he was reconsidering all his life choices.
His office was packed with representatives from different factions, all talking over each other, all demanding priority access to Kieran's services.
"ORDER!" Fletcher slammed his hand on his desk. "Everyone shut up or I'm throwing you all out and banning delegations from Millhaven entirely!"
The room fell into grudging silence.
Fletcher rubbed his temples. "Master Ashford. Miss Thornfield. Thank you for coming. As you can see, your recent... notoriety has created a situation."
"I didn't ask for this," Kieran said quietly.
"No, I imagine you didn't. But it's here nonetheless." Fletcher gestured to the crowd. "I've got noble houses, merchant guilds, religious orders, and military organizations all demanding access to your forge. Some are offering incentives to Millhaven for priority treatment. Others are making thinly veiled threats about trade sanctions if their requests aren't honored."
"Mayor Fletcher can't show favoritism," said a woman in expensive merchant silks. "I represent the Asterlin Trade Consortium—"
"And I represent House Crimsonvale," interrupted a nobleman. "A bloodline that predates your upstart merchant guild by three centuries—"
"The Sanctum's needs are spiritual, not materialistic," said a priest in white robes. "Our priority should be acknowledged—"
"ENOUGH." Fletcher's voice cracked like a whip. "Here's what's going to happen. Master Ashford has the right to accept or refuse any commission he chooses. He will not be pressured, threatened, or coerced. Any faction attempting to do so will be banned from Millhaven and reported to the regional authorities. Is that clear?"
Grudging nods all around.
"Furthermore," Fletcher continued, "to prevent this from descending into chaos, I'm establishing a formal process. Any faction wishing to commission work must submit a formal proposal. Master Ashford and his business manager will review all proposals and select which, if any, to accept. All further negotiations will be conducted through official channels with my office serving as neutral mediator."
"That's outrageous," protested the nobleman. "The waiting time alone—"
"Is the price you pay for civilized society," Fletcher cut him off. "Master Ashford is not your property or your servant. He's a citizen of Millhaven under my protection. You'll treat him with respect or you'll leave empty-handed."
Kieran felt a surge of gratitude toward the mayor. Fletcher might be pragmatic, but he clearly didn't appreciate outsiders bullying his citizens.
"Now," Fletcher said, turning to Kieran, "do you have anything you'd like to say to these... eager potential clients?"
Every eye in the room fixed on Kieran. He felt his throat closing up, his hands starting to shake. Too many people, too much pressure, too much attention—
Mira's hand found his under the table and squeezed.
"I..." Kieran swallowed hard. "I appreciate the interest in my work. But I need time to consider any proposals carefully. Quality takes time. I won't rush commissions just to satisfy demand."
"How much time?" asked the merchant representative.
"As much as I need," Kieran said, finding a small thread of steel in his voice. "I'm a craftsman, not a factory. If that's unacceptable to you, there are other blacksmiths available."
"But none who can create artifacts," someone muttered.
"Then I guess you'll have to decide if waiting for quality is worth it," Mira interjected smoothly. "Master Ashford's schedule is limited. He can only take a few commissions at a time. Competition for those slots will be fierce."
She was playing them, Kieran realized. Making his limited availability seem like a feature rather than a bug, turning his anxiety-driven work pace into exclusive scarcity.
"We'll pay premium rates for priority—" the merchant began.
"All proposals will be considered equally," Mira interrupted. "Price is only one factor. Master Ashford also considers the purpose of the commission, the client's reputation, and whether the work aligns with his artistic vision."
"Artistic vision?" The nobleman sounded incredulous. "He's a blacksmith, not a—"
"He's a Master," Mira said coldly. "Show some respect for the craft."
The room fell silent. Several representatives looked genuinely chastened.
Fletcher cleared his throat. "I believe that concludes this meeting. Submit your proposals through proper channels. Master Ashford will review them at his leisure. Dismissed."
The delegations filed out, some looking thoughtful, others frustrated, all clearly reassessing their approach.
When the room was finally empty except for Kieran, Mira, and Fletcher, the mayor let out a long breath.
"That's going to get worse before it gets better," he said. "You've made yourself valuable, boy. Very valuable. That brings opportunity, but also danger."
"I know," Kieran said quietly.
"Do you?" Fletcher fixed him with a hard stare. "Because in my experience, people who can create what you create don't stay independent for long. Either they get recruited into the big organizations, or they get crushed by them. There's not much middle ground."
"What would you suggest?" Mira asked.
"Play them off each other, like you're already doing. Keep multiple factions interested so no single one can monopolize you. And for god's sake, don't show favoritism to any of the big three—Empire, Consortium, or Sanctum. The moment you align with one, the others become enemies."
"Encouraging," Kieran muttered.
Fletcher's expression softened slightly. "Look, I've known you since you stumbled into Millhaven looking like death warmed over. You're a good kid. Talented as hell, anxious as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, but good. I don't want to see you crushed by forces bigger than yourself."
"I'm just trying to survive," Kieran admitted.
"Then be smart about it. Use that girl there—" he nodded at Mira, "—she's got a good head for politics. And remember: you have something they want. That's power, even if it doesn't feel like it."