Kieran didn't sleep that night.
He lay in his small room above the forge, staring at the ceiling beams and running through scenarios. Each one ended badly. In some, Baron Thaddeus somehow learned about the commission and came to drag him back to Greyhaven. In others, the sword attracted attention from imperial recruiters, merchant guilds, criminal syndicates—all the predators who circled around legendary-class Awakeners like sharks scenting blood.
By the time dawn broke, he'd convinced himself to refuse the commission at least seven times.
By the time Mira knocked on his door with breakfast, he'd accepted it twice.
"You look terrible," she announced, setting down a plate of actual eggs and bacon—purchased with yesterday's bonus, apparently. "Please tell me you at least considered sleeping."
"I considered it extensively," Kieran said, dragging himself to sitting. "The execution was lacking."
Mira perched on the edge of his workbench, studying him with that unnervingly perceptive gaze she'd developed over their months working together. "You're going to accept, aren't you?"
"I don't know."
"Kieran."
"I really don't know, Mira." He ran his hands through his hair, which probably made it stand up at odd angles. "Two hundred gold is life-changing money. But—"
"But you're terrified of success," Mira finished. "I know. I've been watching you self-sabotage for months now. But here's the thing—we need this. Not want. Need. Winter's coming, the forge needs repairs, and we're one bad week away from shutting down entirely."
She wasn't wrong. Kieran picked at the eggs, which were cooked perfectly and tasted like ash in his mouth.
"What if something goes wrong?" he asked quietly.
"Then we handle it. Together." Mira's expression softened. "Look, I don't know what happened to you before you came to Millhaven. You don't talk about it, and I respect that. But whatever it was, it's making you scared of your own talent. And that's just... it's sad, Kieran. You're amazing at what you do. You deserve to succeed."
I deserve to survive, Kieran thought. Success is what gets people like me killed or caged.
But he didn't say it. Instead, he ate his breakfast in silence while Mira tactfully changed the subject to inventory management and supply orders. Normal things. Safe things.
By the time Lady Celeste arrived at noon—punctual to the minute—Kieran had made his decision.
He was going to accept.
He hated himself for it, but he was going to accept.
The sound of hoofbeats announced her arrival. Through the window, Kieran watched her dismount with the same practiced grace as yesterday. Today she wore slightly more formal attire—still practical, but with subtle touches that marked her nobility. A house crest on her shoulder. A signet ring on her right hand.
She entered the forge with an expression that tried for confidence but couldn't quite hide the anxiety underneath. This mattered to her. This commission, this tournament, this chance to prove herself—it all mattered desperately.
Kieran recognized that desperation. He wore a different version of it every day.
"Lady Varnham," Mira greeted her warmly. "Welcome back. Please, have a seat."
She gestured to one of the two stools they kept for clients—rickety things, but clean. Celeste sat with the kind of careful posture that suggested noble training, but her fingers drummed against her knee. Nervous energy.
"I've given your proposal considerable thought," Mira continued, slipping into her business voice. Kieran had learned to stay quiet during these negotiations—Mira was infinitely better at them. "Master Kieran is willing to accept your commission."
Relief washed across Celeste's face. "Truly? That's wonderful! I was worried—"
"However," Mira interrupted smoothly, "we need to discuss the scope and pricing."
Celeste's relief flickered to wariness. "I offered two hundred gold. That's more than fair market rate for—"
"For a standard commission, absolutely." Mira leaned forward, her expression earnest. "But my lady, what you're asking for isn't standard. You're asking Master Kieran to create a weapon capable of winning the Grand Melee. A tournament where you'll face opponents equipped with enchanted artifacts, family heirlooms, weapons commissioned from master smiths with decades of experience."
"I'm aware of the competition," Celeste said stiffly.
"Then you're also aware that a 'good enough' sword won't suffice." Mira's tone was gentle but firm. "You need something exceptional. Something that will give you an edge against opponents who have every other advantage—bloodline, training, resources, political backing. Your skill can only carry you so far. The weapon needs to carry you the rest of the way."
Kieran watched this exchange with a mixture of admiration and horror. Mira was doing exactly what she always did—seeing the opportunity, pressing the advantage, maximizing their return. It was good business sense.
It was also making Kieran want to crawl under his workbench and hide.
"What are you proposing?" Celeste asked carefully.
Mira didn't hesitate. "Three hundred and fifty gold."
The number hung in the air like a thrown gauntlet. Kieran nearly choked on his own spit. That was insane. That was nearly double the original offer. That was—
"That's outrageous," Celeste said, but her tone was more thoughtful than angry. "I could commission work from the enchanter's guild for that price."
"Could you?" Mira challenged. "Because yesterday you said they wanted payment up front that would bankrupt your house three times over. And their waiting list is measured in years, not weeks. You have six weeks, my lady. Six weeks to prepare for the most important tournament of your life."
Celeste's jaw tightened. "So you're taking advantage of my desperation."
"No." Mira's voice softened. "I'm pricing the work honestly. Master Kieran will spend the next six weeks doing nothing but your commission. No other clients. No other projects. Every waking hour dedicated to creating something worthy of your ambition. That level of focus, that guarantee of priority—that's what you're paying for."
"Three hundred and fifty is still—"
"Let me ask you something," Mira interrupted. "What happens if you lose the Grand Melee because your weapon wasn't good enough? What does that cost House Varnham? Another year of being overlooked? Another year of watching other minor houses rise while yours stagnates? What's the price of missed opportunity?"
Kieran had to admit—Mira was good. Ruthless, but good.
Celeste was silent for a long moment, clearly running calculations. Her fingers had stopped drumming. She was thinking seriously about this.
"If I pay three hundred and fifty gold," she said slowly, "I need guarantees. I need to know the weapon will be exceptional. Not just good—exceptional."
"You'll get exceptional," Mira promised. "Master Kieran's work speaks for itself. The sword that imperial quartermaster confiscated last week? That was made in three days as a casual commission. Imagine what he can create with six weeks of dedicated focus."
Please stop talking about that sword, Kieran thought desperately. Please stop drawing attention to—
"Three hundred gold," Celeste countered. "Two hundred now, one hundred on delivery. And I want periodic updates on the progress."
"Three twenty-five," Mira shot back without missing a beat. "Two hundred now, one twenty-five on delivery. Updates weekly. And you provide all materials—we'll send you a list of what we need."
Celeste's eyes narrowed. "You drive a hard bargain for someone working out of a forge the size of a storage closet."
"Size doesn't determine quality, my lady. You know that, or you wouldn't be here."
Another silence. Celeste looked past Mira to where Kieran stood by his workbench, trying to be invisible. Their eyes met, and Kieran saw the question there: Are you worth this price?
He wanted to say no. Wanted to tell her to find someone else, anyone else, someone who wouldn't bring the weight of terrible history and paranoid fear to her commission.
But Mira believed in him. And Celeste needed this, needed it with a desperation that Kieran understood in his bones.
"I'll do it," he heard himself say. "For three twenty-five. But—"
Both women looked at him. Kieran forced himself to continue despite every instinct screaming at him to shut up and hide.
"This commission stays between the three of us," he said quietly. "No one else can know. Not your house. Not your training partners. No one."
Celeste's brow furrowed. "Why? Surely having a commissioned weapon isn't—"
"That's my condition." Kieran's voice was firmer than he felt. "Tell them whatever you want. No one but us will ever know who made your sword. No one will ever know where you commissioned it from. As far as anyone else is concerned, it's a family heirloom or something you found in a dungeon or whatever story you want to tell."
"That's... unusual," Celeste said slowly.
"Master Kieran values his privacy," Mira interjected, shooting Kieran a confused look. They'd need to have a conversation about this later, her expression said clearly. "Surely that's not unreasonable?"
"I suppose not." Celeste studied Kieran with renewed interest. "Though it makes me curious why a smith of your caliber would want to stay anonymous."
"Personal reasons," Kieran said, which was both true and completely inadequate.
"Fair enough. We all have our secrets." Celeste stood, offering her hand in the formal gesture of contract agreement. "Three hundred twenty-five gold. Complete discretion until after the Melee. Weekly progress updates. I'll provide materials as requested. Do we have an accord?"
Kieran looked at her outstretched hand. This was the moment. He could still back out, could claim he'd changed his mind, could run away from this disaster waiting to happen.
Three hundred twenty-five gold. Enough to survive winter. Enough to give Mira a real salary. Enough to stop scraping by day to day.
He took her hand. Her grip was firm, callused from sword work, steady.
"We have an accord," he said.
The System chimed in his mind—a notification that a formal contract had been established. The terms appeared in blue text:
[CONTRACT ESTABLISHED]
[Commission: Tournament-Grade Longsword]
[Payment: 325 Gold (200 upfront, 125 on delivery)]
[Timeline: 6 Weeks]
[Confidentiality Clause: Active]
[Breach Penalty: Full Refund + 100 Gold Penalty]
Kieran dismissed the window quickly. The breach penalty stung—if he failed to deliver, he'd owe money they didn't have. But that was the System's way of enforcing contracts. Fair, if terrifying.
"Excellent." Celeste pulled a heavy coin purse from her belt and counted out two hundred gold pieces onto the counter. The coins gleamed in the forge light—more money than Kieran had seen in one place since... since before. Since Greyhaven.
He tried not to think about it.
"I'll need that materials list as soon as possible," Celeste continued. "My house has connections to several specialty suppliers. Whatever you need, I can likely acquire it within a week."
Kieran's mind was already racing. A tournament-grade weapon. Six weeks. Complete creative freedom and access to premium materials.
Despite his fear, despite his anxiety, a small part of him—the part that lived for the craft—felt a spark of excitement.
"Mithril-alloy steel," he said, his voice distant as he started cataloguing requirements. "Triple-forged, if possible. Not the commercial grade—I need material rated for artifact-class work. A focusing crystal, preferably attuned to your dominant element. What's your combat style?"
"Aggressive," Celeste answered immediately, seeming pleased by the technical question. "I favor speed and precision over raw power. Light-based abilities, primarily—my class has several radiant damage skills."
"Then solar quartz for the pommel. Dragonbone for the grip would be ideal, but monster-core leather could substitute if dragonbone isn't available. Silver wire for the binding. And—" he hesitated, then committed, "—if you can get moonstone dust, about half an ounce, that would help with the balance between power and control."
Celeste was writing this down in a small notebook she'd produced from somewhere. "Moonstone dust. That's rare."
"It's optional. I can work without it. But it would make the final product better."
"I'll find it." She looked up from her notes. "Anything else?"
Kieran glanced at Mira, who was watching this exchange with barely concealed glee. She loved seeing him like this—focused, professional, all his anxiety channeled into technical problem-solving.
"Send word when you have the materials," he said. "The sooner I can start, the better. And I'll need to see you fight."
That surprised her. "Why?"
"Because I need to understand your style, your rhythm, how you move. A sword should be an extension of the wielder. I can't make it that way without understanding who's wielding it." He paused, then added, "If that's acceptable."
"More than acceptable. That's... thorough." Celeste smiled—the first genuine smile Kieran had seen from her. "I train most mornings at the public practice grounds. You're welcome to observe whenever convenient."
"I'll come by tomorrow," Kieran said, already dreading the social interaction but knowing it was necessary.
"Perfect." Celeste tucked away her notebook and headed for the door, then paused on the threshold. "Thank you. Both of you. This means more than you know."
"You're paying us well for it," Mira said with a grin. "Thank us after you've won the tournament."
"I will." Celeste's expression turned serious. "I promise you both—I will make this investment worth your while. When I stand in that arena with your sword, I'll fight like my life depends on it. Because in many ways, it does."
She left on that dramatic note, mounting her horse and riding off with the kind of determined energy that suggested she was already mentally cataloguing where to find moonstone dust.
The forge felt very quiet after she left.
Mira turned to Kieran with an expression of triumph mixed with concern. "Three hundred twenty-five gold. We did it. We actually—Kieran, are you okay?"
He wasn't. Not really. He'd just committed himself to creating something exceptional, something that would be seen by hundreds of people at a high-profile tournament, something that could potentially attract exactly the kind of attention he'd been desperately avoiding for two years.
But he'd also just secured enough money to survive winter and then some. He'd given Celeste a real chance at her dreams. And maybe, just maybe, he could pull this off without anyone discovering what he really was.
"I need to make a list," he said instead of answering. "Materials, timeline, design specifications. I need to—"
"Kieran." Mira caught his arm, forcing him to look at her. "Talk to me. What was that about keeping it secret? Why does she have to hide who made the sword?"
This was the conversation Kieran had been dreading. How much could he tell her? How much should he tell her?
"I just... I have my reasons," he said weakly.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I can give right now." He met her eyes, pleading for understanding. "Please, Mira. Trust me on this. The less attention I attract, the better."
She studied his face for a long moment, then sighed. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But Kieran? If those secrets are going to affect our business, I need to know eventually."
"Eventually," he agreed, knowing it was a non-answer but unable to offer anything better.
Mira let it go, though her expression said this conversation wasn't over—just postponed. "Alright. Well, congratulations. You just landed the biggest commission of your career. Try to look at least a little bit happy about it."
Kieran attempted a smile. It probably looked as forced as it felt.
"There's that nervous horse expression I was talking about," Mira said, but she was grinning now. "Come on. Let's count this money properly and start planning. You have six weeks to create something amazing."
Six weeks to create something amazing.
Six weeks to walk the tightrope between good enough and too good.
Six weeks to give Celeste what she needed while protecting himself from what success might bring.
As Kieran helped Mira organize the gold coins—more wealth than they'd ever had, gleaming in neat stacks on their battered counter—he tried to focus on the practical concerns. Materials. Timeline. Design.
He tried not to think about what would happen if someone at the Grand Melee looked at Celeste's sword and saw past the mundane exterior to the artifact-class work underneath.
He tried not to think about Baron Thaddeus, about Greyhaven, about guards and cages and the cold certainty that legendary classes belonged to the powerful, not to people like him.
He tried. But the fear sat in his chest like a stone, heavy and cold and permanent.
"Hey," Mira said softly, pulling him from his spiral. "We're going to be okay. You know that, right?"
Kieran wanted to believe her.
He really, really did.
"Yeah," he lied. "We're going to be okay."
And maybe if he said it enough times, it would become true.