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As we approached the school, I couldn't help but notice the curious glances from other parents and children. It wasn't every day they saw a human woman, her son, and a towering orc walking together like a family. But to my surprise, I found I didn't mind the stares. Let them look. Let them see how happy I was.

We said our goodbyes to Elias, watching him run off to join his friends. When we turned to leave, Vorgath's hand found mine, his large fingers intertwining with my own.

“Ready?” he asked, his deep voice rumbling with reassurance.

I took a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. “As I'll ever be.”

Chapter 18

We made our way through the bustling streets, Thorne's forge looming closer with each step. It was a familiar sight, its stone walls darkened with soot and age, the entrance marked by the guild’s symbol—a hammer crossed with flame. The clang of metal and the low murmur of conversation drifted out from inside, blending with the sounds of the city beyond.

My pulse quickened as we neared. I hadn’t been here since my last run-in with Thorne, and the memory still clung to me—his sharp eyes, his dismissive tone, the way he’d practically laughed me out of the room.

But this time, I wasn’t coming in alone. Vorgath’s quiet strength was a constant presence beside me, and I held onto that as we stepped into the forge.

Inside, the heat hit me first, thick and familiar, along with the smell of molten metal and sweat. Blacksmiths and apprentices moved between anvils, their conversations low, but I could feelthe ripple of attention as we entered. People noticed. They always did.

I squared my shoulders. “Alright, here we go.”

Vorgath squeezed my shoulder slightly. “You belong here as much as any of them.”

Before I could say anything else, Thorne straightened and turned toward us, wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes settled on me, then flicked to Vorgath, and his mouth twisted into a thin, amused smile. “Well, well, look who's returned. Thought you'd have given this up by now.”

My stomach twisted as I glanced around at the other blacksmiths, some of whom paused in their work just long enough to watch the spectacle Thorne was undoubtedly about to make of me. His apprentices, Tom included, already clustered nearby, exchanged snickers and side-eyed glances in my direction.

Vorgath’s hand tightened on my shoulder, meant to be a reminder, maybe, or reassurance, but I could feel the tension humming through him, too.

“I’m here to register,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “I want to join the guild and reopen my forge.”

Thorne's eyebrows rose, and he folded his arms over his chest, leaning back against the workbench. His gaze was sharp, assessing, but there was a glint of condescension behind it. “And what exactly makes you think you’re ready for that?”

“I've been working hard to earn my place here.” I took a deep breath, steeling myself against Thorne's mockery. “I've been training diligently under Vorgath's guidance. My skills have improved significantly, and I believe I'm ready to contribute to the guild as a full member.”

Thorne's mouth twitched, and for a moment, I thought he might actually laugh. He didn’t, but his smile was worse—patronizing and pitying all at once.

“Oh, I'm sure you've been ‘training diligently’ under the orc,” he sneered, his implication clear. “You've swung a hammer a few times, made some nails, maybe a horseshoe or two. But that's not the same thing as running a forge. And it's certainly not enough to earn a place in this guild.”

My ears burned. I opened my mouth to defend myself, but before I could get another word out, the door to the forge creaked open.

In walked a woman.

And not just any woman—her presence commanded immediate attention. She was tall and elegant, with sleek black hair twisted up in an elaborate style. Her sharp, cat-like eyes gleamed with curiosity, scanning the room as if she already owned it. She wore a dark emerald gown that shimmered when she walked, the soft thud of her shoes against the stone floor echoing in the suddenly stunned silence.

Whispers began to ripple through the room.

“Is that…?”

“It’s a…”

Thorne straightened immediately. “Mistress Wildclaw,” he greeted, his tone shifting to one of exaggerated professionalism. “To what do we owe the honor?”

The woman—Tynsera Wildclaw, my brain finally supplied, trying not to panic—raised one slender, manicured eyebrow and let her gaze sweep over the room. She held something in her hand, but I couldn't quite make it out from where I stood behind Thorne.

“I'm here aboutthis,” she said, holding up the object for everyone to see, and my heart nearly stopped.

It was my spoon, the one I had lost at Lady Hargrave's estate.

My spoon was inTynsera Wildclaw'shand.