Kyrie Ironhowl's Arc

Chapter 4 of 13

The competition hall stood at the edge of Kettle Fen's market district, its stone walls weathered by decades of salt wind. Kyrie pushed through the heavy oak doors and stepped into the dim entryway. The registry office would be on the second floor, where it had been for the last fifteen years. She climbed the stairs two at a time, the parchment fragment a weight in her vest pocket. The registry clerk barely looked up when she requested access to the entry forms. She spread them across the worn table, comparing handwriting to the torn signature in her hand. Most were familiar names, smiths she'd competed against for years. Then she found it — a perfect match to the careful loops and practiced strokes. The name made her stomach turn cold. The competitor had no workshop in Kettle Fen, no reputation at the forge, no business entering a competition this elite. But pinned to the corner of their entry form was a silver crest, ornate and expensive, bearing a noble house's coat of arms. She photographed both documents and pushed them back across the table. This wasn't about talent anymore. Someone with money and influence wanted her design badly enough to buy their way into the competition, and they'd already proven they'd cheat to get ahead. She couldn't expose them without proof they'd hired the thief, but she could outforge them. The decoy blade would draw their attention while she perfected the real one. Let them think they'd won before she even stepped into the hall.