Mira Threadwell's Arc

Chapter 3 of 13

Mira stood at the bottom of the steps and stared back at the pillar through the open doors. The new restriction sat carved in stone, final and official. But stone could be read more than one way. She climbed the steps again and walked straight to the pillar. Her eyes moved over the text slowly. Patchwork construction prohibited. Composite armor must meet guild certification standards. The words didn't say what counted as armor. They didn't list categories. She pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders and read it again. A cloak wasn't armor in the guild's language. It was a garment. Protective, yes, but not plated, not jointed, not something that needed certification. The restriction targeted chest plates and helms and greaves. It didn't name cloaks at all. She could wear it into the trial. Legally. But if she did, she'd have to explain what it was made of. She'd have to show the stitching, the layered scraps, the whole method she'd been guarding since the merchants dismissed her work without touching it. The guild would see exactly how she built it. They could copy it, reject it officially, or write another rule to close the gap. She stood there with her hand on the fabric. The trial was three days out. If she registered now, she'd be in. But everyone would know how she did it. She looked at the clerk's table, then back at the carving. Her chest felt tight. She needed to see the exact language again before she committed. Mira left the lodge and walked around the side of the building. The study shed sat tucked behind a low wall, its wooden boards worn smooth from years of fighters passing through. She pushed open the door. Two benches lined the narrow space, and bulletin boards covered three walls. Guild notices overlapped in layers. She found what she needed on the center board: a full copy of the restriction, written out in formal script with definitions underneath. She read through them twice. The text defined composite armor as joined protective plating. Cloaks were listed under garments, not armor. The gap was real. She could register wearing the cloak and stay within the rules. But the board next to it stopped her cold. Someone had pinned up a full display on cloak construction, fabric pieces labeled and laid flat, seams marked in ink. It wasn't hers, but it showed the same method she used. If she went through inspection, the guild would ask her to do exactly this. They'd want every layer explained, every stitch accounted for. She'd have to lay her work bare in front of them. Her throat tightened. Once they saw it, they'd own it. They could declare it flawed, ban it outright, or let someone else take credit. She'd lose control of the one thing she'd built without their approval. Mira sat down on the bench and set her hands flat on her knees. The trial was her chance to prove the gear worked under real conditions. That was the whole point. But walking in meant showing them everything first, before the cloak ever took a hit. She'd be asking for their judgment before her work had a chance to speak for itself. The gap in the restriction let her in legally, but the cost was exposure. She looked at the bulletin board again. The labeled diagram stared back at her, every piece broken down and explained. That's what they'd demand from her. She thought about the chest plate the merchant had rejected without touching. He'd never tested it. He'd just looked and decided it wasn't worth his time. The guild might do the same. Or worse, they might take her method and call it theirs. She stood up. Her legs felt steady. She'd take the gap. She'd register with the cloak and go through inspection. If they wanted to see how she built it, fine. At least this time they'd have to look at it with their hands, not just their eyes. And after inspection, the trial would prove what words couldn't. She pushed open the shed door and walked back toward the lodge. The clerk was still at the table when she reached it. She kept her voice level. "I'm here to register. For the trial. I'm wearing a cloak, not composite armor." He glanced at the fabric, then at the pillar, then back at his ledger. He didn't smile. He pulled out a form and slid it across the table. "Name?" She gave it. He wrote it down and stamped the page. No red ink this time. He handed her a numbered slip. "You're in. Inspection is mandatory before the match. Bring everything you plan to wear." She took the slip and folded it once. Her hand didn't shake. She'd gotten in. But now the guild would see her work up close, and she couldn't take it back.