The proclamation had arrived in Oakhaven on a scroll of thick, pretentious parchment, sealed with the wax of the House of Valerius.
It announced the "Festival of the Anvil," a grand tournament held in the bustling city of Cresthaven, three days' ride to the east.
It was a call to all master smiths and aspiring warriors to prove their worth before the eyes of the High Lord.
The prize was not merely a purse of five hundred gold sovereigns—a fortune that could sustain Oakhaven for a decade—but a prestigious royal contract to provide arms for the border legions.
For Ethan, it was a chance to finally fix the village's aging waterwheel and buy the specialized bellows he needed.
For Ava, it was a "nuisance" that required her to spend seventy-two hours in a cramped wooden cart, pretending to be a common blacksmith's apprentice.
"Why must we participate in this primitive display of vanity?" Ava grumbled, adjusting her traveling cloak as the cart jolted over a particularly deep rut in the road. The iron hair-pin Ethan had made her sat firmly in her hair, the only "jewelry" she wore.
Ethan, who was holding the reins of their sturdy workhorse, chuckled. "It's not vanity, Ava. It's business. Besides, Cresthaven has the best roasted honey-nuts in the kingdom. I thought you liked 'sugar-clouds'?"
Ava crossed her arms, her purple eyes flickering toward the horizon. "I like efficiency, Ethan. This journey is the opposite of efficient."
But as they rolled through the gates of Cresthaven, even the Queen of Inferna found her curiosity piqued.
The city was a kaleidoscope of color and noise. Banners of crimson and gold fluttered from the battlements, and the air was thick with the scent of sawdust, roasting meat, and the metallic tang of a hundred portable forges.
The Grounds of the Anvil
The tournament was held in the Great Plaza, a massive open square surrounded by tiered stone seating.
At the center stood twelve massive anvils, each manned by a smith and their assistant.
To the side, a raised dais held the High Lord Valerius and his son, Julian—a young man with golden hair and a smile that didn't quite reach his cold, calculating eyes.
"Look at them," Ethan whispered to Ava as they set up their station. "The finest smiths in the Three Provinces. That's Master Horgun over there—they say he can forge a blade so sharp it can cut a falling leaf."
Ava glanced at Horgun, a burly man with a beard braided with iron rings. Then her gaze shifted to Julian Valerius. The young noble was whispering to a hooded figure standing behind his chair—a man who radiated a faint, oily residue of magic.
Corruption, Ava thought, her nostrils flaring. Low-tier sorcery. They are cheating before the first strike has even landed.
"Welcome, artisans!" Julian's voice rang out, amplified by a megaphone. "The first trial is the Test of Temper. You have two hours to forge a standard broadsword. The blades will be tested against a granite block. If it chips, you are out. If it shatters, you leave in shame."
Ethan took a deep breath, his hands steady as he gripped his hammer. "Alright, Ava. You handle the bellows and the coal. Keep the heat steady—don't let it flare. We need a slow, even soak."
The Trial of Temper
The plaza erupted into a symphony of destruction. The sound of twelve hammers hitting metal at different intervals created a chaotic, thunderous rhythm. The heat became oppressive, a shimmering veil that distorted the air.
Ava took her place at the bellows. She didn't need to work hard; she simply leaned into the rhythm Ethan established. But as she watched the other stations, she saw the hooded figure behind Julian move his fingers in a subtle, weaving pattern.
Suddenly, the fire in Horgun's forge turned a sickly, pale green. The metal on his anvil, which had been glowing a perfect cherry-red, abruptly turned brittle and grey. Horgun let out a roar of frustration as his hammer strike caused the blade to snap like a dry twig.
"Disqualified!" Julian shouted, a smirk playing on his lips.
Ethan didn't see the magic.
He was too focused on his work. He was in the "zone"—a state of pure connection between his mind and the iron.
Sweat poured down his face, soaking his tunic, his muscles bulging as he folded the metal again and again.
Ava felt a surge of protectiveness. She reached out with her senses, weaving a thin, invisible veil of demonic mana around Ethan's forge.
It wasn't enough to change the metal, but it was enough to act as a shield. When the hooded figure tried to send a "Chill-Hex" toward Ethan's anvil, the spell hit Ava's barrier and vanished like a pebble in an ocean.
"The heat is shifting," Ava whispered, her voice low so only Ethan could hear. "Adjust the strike to the left. The iron is stubborn today."
Ethan didn't question her. He shifted his stance, his hammer descending with the precision of a clockmaker.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The sound of Ethan's anvil was different from the others. It wasn't a dull thud; it was a resonant, musical ring.
It was the sound of "Pure Intent." The villagers of Oakhaven would have recognized it—it was the sound of the man who fixed their gates for free.
The Final Test: The Breaking Point
By the end of the second hour, only three smiths remained: Ethan, a master from the capital, and a smith named Silas, who was clearly under the protection of the House of Valerius.
The testing began. The capital smith's blade hit the granite block and survived, but a visible notch was left in the edge. Silas went next. His blade sliced into the granite as if it were butter.
The crowd gasped, but Ava narrowed her eyes. She could see the faint glow of an "Edge-Sharpening" enchantment on the metal. It was a fraud.
Then came Ethan.
He stepped forward, holding his broadsword.
It wasn't flashy. It didn't glow. It was a simple, honest piece of steel, polished to a dull mirror finish.
"A common village smith," Julian sneered from the dais. "Tell me, peasant, do you truly believe that Oakhaven iron can stand against the granite of Cresthaven?"
Ethan didn't look at the noble.
He looked at Ava. She gave him a short, sharp nod.
Ethan raised the sword.
He didn't just use his arms; he used his entire body, channeling the weight of his "trade lives" philosophy into the swing.
The blade hit the granite block.
The sound was like a thunderclap. The granite block didn't just chip; it split down the center, the two halves falling away with a heavy thud.
Ethan's sword remained perfectly straight, the edge as smooth as the moment it left the quench-tank.
The silence in the plaza was deafening. Even Julian stood up, his face pale with shock.
"Impossible," Julian muttered. "Check the blade! He must be using illegal enchantments!"
Two royal inspectors rushed forward, scanning Ethan's sword with detection crystals. The crystals remained clear. No magic. No hexes. Just perfect, balanced smithing.
"The blade is pure," the lead inspector announced, his voice filled with awe.
The Shadow in the Crowd
As the crowd erupted into cheers for the "Underdog of Oakhaven," Ava felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the wind.
She looked toward the back of the tiered seating. Standing in the shadows of a stone archway was a man.
He didn't wear the armor of a soldier or the robes of a merchant. He wore a simple, dark traveling cloak, his face obscured by a hood.
For a heartbeat, their eyes met.
It wasn't Asher. It was someone else. Someone who smelled of ancient rot and the void. A servant of Malakor.
The stranger didn't move, but Ava felt a message vibrate in her mind—a jagged, painful intrusion.
"The Queen plays at being a peasant. How charming. The Master will be pleased to know his prize is so close to the surface."
Ava's fingers curled into a fist, the air around her hand beginning to shimmer with a violent purple light. She was ready to tear the city apart to reach him.
But then, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
Ethan was standing there, beaming with pride, the heavy purse of gold hanging from his belt. "We did it, Ava! Did you see that? The block actually split!"
The warmth of his touch acted like an anchor, pulling her back from the edge of her demonic rage.
The purple light in her eyes faded, replaced by the disguised brown.
"I saw," Ava said, her voice shaking slightly. "It was... a passable performance, Ethan."
"Passable?" Ethan laughed, pulling her into a one-armed hug. "I'm buying you the biggest bag of honey-nuts in the city. Come on, apprentice. Let's get out of this heat."
As they walked away from the cheering crowd, Ava glanced back at the archway. The stranger was gone.
She looked at Ethan, who was already talking about how many new tools he could buy for the village.
He was so happy. So fragile. He had no idea that he had just put a target on his back.
He had no idea that the "Master" was watching.
I will kill them all, Ava thought, her hand instinctively touching the iron pin in her hair. Every last one of them. If they try to take this peace away from him, I will turn the 9 Realms into a graveyard.
Back in Inferna: The Gathering Storm
The Bone-Throne was still empty, but the Great Hall was no longer quiet.
Asher stood before a map of the 9 Realms, his massive sword Eclipsis leaning against the table. Beside him stood General Vorath, whose three yellow eyes were fixed on the human territories.
"The scouts report a surge in necrotic activity near Cresthaven," Vorath barked.
"Malakor's shadows are moving. If they find the Queen before we do—"
"They won't," Asher interrupted, his voice like grinding stone.
He picked up a small, iron hair-pin he had found in the Blood-Forest—a replica he had forged himself after seeing Ava's through his spatial vision. He crushed it in his hand, the metal groaning.
"Malakor thinks he's hunting a queen,"
Asher said, looking toward the portal. "But he's forgotten what happens when you corner a tiger in a sheepfold. And he has no idea that the sheep... has teeth of his own."
Asher turned to his generals. "Prepare the Vanguard. We march to the border. Not to invade, but to wait. When the scream comes—and it will come—I want to be the first one through the gate."
The darkness in the room deepened as the torches flickered out. The tournament in Cresthaven was over, but the true battle for the "Sugar-Clouds" had only just begun.