Page 19

Chapter 18

W e 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 feel the 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 about this ,” 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 in Tynsera Wildclaw's hand.

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 very fine spoon 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.”

She glanced up at me with a spark of interest, her lips twisting into an amused smile. “Fascinating.”

At that, Tom looked as though he might actually choke on his own tongue. His face flushed, but before he could stammer an excuse, Tynsera reached for the spoon. This time, she handled it with the awe and consideration it deserved.

“And you—” she paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as they drifted from me to Vorgath and then back again. “You learned this technique from...?”

“Soraya is my apprentice, and a quick learner,” Vorgath rumbled, his deep voice resonating through the now-silent forge. “She combines her skills from embroidery with metalwork in ways I've never seen before.”

Tynsera's eyebrows arched elegantly. “An orc teaching such delicate work? That's unexpected.”

I felt a flare of protectiveness. “Vorgath is an incredible mentor.”

A small smile played at the corners of Tynsera's mouth. “I'm sure he is,” she purred, her gaze flicking between us.

Thorne, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, suddenly found his voice again. “Mistress Wildclaw,” he began, his tone oily and placating, “surely you can't believe—”

“What I believe,” Tynsera cut him off smoothly, “is that I've found exactly what I was looking for.” She turned to face me fully. “My mother's birthday is in three months. I want a full set—dinner spoons, dessert spoons, serving utensils, the works. All with this level of detail and craftsmanship.”

My heart leaped into my throat. “You mean...?”

“I'm commissioning you, of course,” Tynsera said with a smile that was equal parts charming and predatory. “Under your mentor's supervision, naturally.”

Thorne sputtered, his face turning an alarming shade of red. “But... but she's not even a full member of the guild! She can't take commissions!”

Tynsera's gaze snapped to him, suddenly cold and sharp as steel. “Then I suggest you remedy that situation immediately, Master Ironsmith. Unless you'd prefer I take this issue to the council.”

Thorne's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, but no sound came out.

“Well?” Tynsera prompted, her tone deceptively light.

The guildmaster’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, ornate key. “Fine,” he growled, stomping over to a locked cabinet near his workbench. “But don't come crying to me when she can't deliver.”

He yanked open the cabinet door and rifled through some papers before pulling out an official-looking document. With obvious reluctance, he scrawled his signature across the bottom, then thrust it at me. “There. You're registered. Now get out of my forge.”

I took the paper, my hands trembling slightly as I read the words that officially declared me a member of the Blacksmith's Guild of Everwood. It felt surreal, like I might wake up at any moment to find it was all a dream.

Tynsera clapped her hands together. “Excellent! I'll have my steward draw up the contract and bring it by your forge tomorrow. I look forward to seeing what you create, Soraya.”

As she turned to leave, her gaze lingered on Vorgath for a moment. “And you, Master Orc. I trust you'll continue to guide your apprentice well. Who knows? Perhaps we'll find use for your particular skills as well.”

With that, she swept out of the forge, leaving behind a stunned silence and the faint scent of jasmine.

I stood there, clutching my guild registration paper, hardly daring to believe what had just happened. Vorgath's hand came to rest on my shoulder, solid and reassuring.

“You did it,” he murmured, his deep voice filled with pride.

I looked up at him, a grin spreading across my face. “I did it.”