Kyrie Ironhowl's Arc

Chapter 7 of 13

The official told her to wait in the hall while he made the call. Kyrie stood outside the records room, back against the stone wall, and listened to the muffled conversation through the door. She couldn't make out words, only tone. Clipped. Formal. Final. When he emerged, he held a folded piece of paper. "You're out," he said quietly. "Effective immediately. I'm sorry." Kyrie nodded. She'd known it was coming, but hearing it still felt like a blade between her ribs. He handed her the paper—official letterhead, her name crossed off the registry. "For your records," he said. Then he hesitated. "Your rival was in the hall earlier. He overheard part of the conversation before I closed the door." Kyrie's stomach dropped. Of course he'd been there. Of course he'd heard. She imagined him smiling that warm, infuriating smile, already composing his sympathetic condolences. She left through the side exit to avoid him. But when she reached her workshop an hour later, she found a stack of weathered letters wedged into the doorframe. The parchment was old, water-damaged, edges torn and curling. She unfolded the top one. The handwriting was sharp and precise. "Ironhowl—I heard. You shouldn't have done that. Now I have to win without you, and it won't mean anything." No signature. No mockery. Just frustration, raw and honest. Kyrie stared at the letters, at the careful script that didn't match the arrogant rival she'd built in her head. She'd wanted to beat him. She'd never considered that he might have wanted her to.