Page 46

Every blacksmith and apprentice craned their necks to get a better look at it.

Thorne’s smile faltered slightly, unsure of where this was going. “A spoon?” he ventured, blinking.

Tynsera's gaze flicked to him, narrowing slightly, and just like that, Thorne visibly shrunk. “A spoon,” she repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “A veryfinespoon that was served at a friend's tea. A spoon with detail that rivals anything I've seen before.”

She held the spoon higher, letting the light catch the delicate floral carvings winding up the handle.

“My mother,” Tynsera continued, her voice silky smooth, “has her sights on this work. She plans to commission a full set for her birthday celebration, possibly more. But...” She let the word hang in the air, curling the spoon around in her fingers, “I need to know who crafted it.”

Thorne looked around at his apprentices, and right on cue, one of them—of course,it had to be Tom—stepped forward with a smug grin.

“That would be mine,” he announced, sauntering up to Tynsera’s side.

Tynsera’s sharp eyes flicked over him, clearly unimpressed, but she handed him the spoon anyway. “Hmm,” she mused, crossing her arms as several other apprentices shuffled eagerly to get a closer look.

They passed it around, muttering in classic blacksmith fashion—using words like balance, grains, and flow like it was some sacred mystery of the universe.

A vein in my temple throbbed, and I opened my mouth, but Tom kept talking, puffed up with fake humility as he continued to bask in the attention. “The detail, the precision—all of it, learned under Master Ironsmith’s expert guidance, of course.”

Thorne beamed, dragging this charade out like they were both auditioning for some district drama performance. The apprentices around him nodded in faux agreement.

I inhaled sharply and stepped forward before I could think better of it. “That’s a lie,” I said.

The forge went silent. Even the clanging hammers in the background seemed to pause—like the entire world held its breath. All eyes turned to me, wide and disbelieving. Thorne’s smug smile faltered, and Tom froze, still clutching my spoon like it was his prized creation.

“I made that spoon,” I said evenly, stepping further into the circle, though my knees felt like jelly.

Tynsera’s cat-like eyes locked onto me, pupils narrowing in on her target. She raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly, intrigued by the disruption.

Thorne made a noise that could only be described as an exaggerated scoff, his features twisting into mock surprise. “You?”

“Yes. Me.”

The apprentices exchanged glances, snorting into their sleeves, clearly not taking me seriously. Tom puffed out his chest again, fingers flexing around the utensil as if he might casually snap it in two just to keep this from me.

Thorne gave his best condescending grin, addressing Tynsera as if I wasn’t even in the room. “Don’t be fooled, Mistress Wildclaw. The woman is the orc’s apprentice. She can barely lift a hammer properly, let alone craft with this level of detail.” He shot me a scathing look. “She’s not capable of such fine work.”

My stomach twisted, and for a moment, I felt the familiar urge to shrink back, to let his words push me into the shadows. But as I glanced at Vorgath, his unwavering presence reminded me of the promise I'd made to myself.

No more hiding behind doubt or fear.

“And yet,” I said, louder now, feeling boldness surge up like fire, “the marks of my craft are evident in the details.”

That earned a surprised pause from Tynsera. Her gaze flicked to the intricate floral designs etched along the spoon’s handle, then back to me. “The marks?” she asked.

I nodded, stepping forward and meeting Tynsera’s eyes directly. The Wildclaw family was known throughout Everwood for their wealth, influence, and unique shifter heritage. They were patrons of the arts and crafts, and their support often made or broke artisans' careers. And here was Tynsera, the matriarch's eldest daughter, her feline eyes watching me with keen interest.

“Every craftsman leaves their mark,” I said, my voice steady despite the blood pounding in my ears. “It’s in the strokes of the chisel, the pressure applied, the angle at which the blade drags along the heated metal.”

Tynsera studied me for a long, tense moment, her cat-like eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Then, with the slow precision of a predator considering its prey, she turned back to the spoon still clutched in Tom's hand.

“Show me,” she commanded, her voice lined with the unmistakable arrogance of nobility. “Show me where you see those marks.”

I stepped forward, unable to ignore the surge of vindication rising in my chest. “Here,” I said, gently but firmly taking the spoon from Tom's fumbling hands. I raised it for her to see. “Look at the base of the handle, near the roots of the flowers. See the overlapping grooves? That’s from the smaller chisel I used to add texture—similar to how I used different stitches when I wanted to add depth to my embroidery.”

Tynsera leaned in, her sharp gaze following my finger as I traced the intricate lines I had carved with painstaking care.

“The way the flowers curl toward the top,” I continued, “that’s the result of how I learned to create motion and flow in patterns—an eye for detail you don’t get from someone who just flattens iron all day.”