Morning at the front desk of the Vaelthorn Crafting Guild was always the same: parchment orders, constant foot traffic, and the mild chaos that came with managing twenty smiths and three dozen apprentices. But at the center of it all stood us, Mira, Lysa, and Edden—keepers of the books, schedulers of forge space, and the unspoken voice of the guild’s bureaucracy.

  Mira was quick-witted, always with her quill tucked behind her ear, and she could recite the week’s order log from memory. Lysa managed the nobles when they showed up unannounced with impossible deadlines and thicker purses. Edden? He ran numbers like a mage and was too kind for his own good.

  That morning had been peaceful—until the rider arrived.

  A uniformed messenger strode through the doors, straight-backed and tight-jawed, carrying a satchel stamped with the royal crest. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. We all stopped what we were doing.

  He handed over the sealed envelope and turned on his heel, boots echoing against stone.

  Mira broke the wax seal, read the contents, and froze.

  “It’s from the palace,” she whispered.

  “Is it for the Guildmaster?” Edden asked, already rising from his stool.

  “No,” Mira said, eyes scanning lower. “It’s a commission. For a single piece. Requested by the King.”

  Lysa leaned over. “Whose commission?”

  Mira’s lips parted slowly. “Our Master Smith, David Robertson.”

  Edden let out a low breath. “Already?”

  “We better take this up,” Mira said, folding the letter and rising. “He needs to see it.”

  Mira moved swiftly, her light frame weaving through the busy guildhall like a streak of motion. The sealed letter in her hand felt heavier than it looked—royal seal intact, writing unmistakable. Her ponytail bounced with each quick step, swinging in time with her stride.

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  She slipped between apprentices carrying buckets of quenching oil, sidestepped a pile of ingots someone had left in the walkway, and ducked under a swinging timber someone was trying to hoist above the hallway.

  “Coming through—urgent!” she called, flashing the letter as if it were a badge of authority.

  Up the stairwell, two flights quickly, her boots barely scuffing the stone. Her heart was pounding—not from exertion, but from anticipation.

  The upper forge level was quieter, filled with the steady sound of focused work. She saw the Guildmaster near a side table, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed, brow furrowed in disapproval at a warped piece of cast brass cooling in a shallow pan.

  Mira approached, slowing just enough to catch her breath and extend the letter without a word.

  He took it. Read once. Then again, slower.

  “I thought we had another couple of weeks before this sort of thing would happen,” he muttered, eyes narrowing.

  A pause, then a sharp nod. “So much for obscurity. Approved. Bring it to him. Let’s see what he does with a royal request.”

  Mira spun on her heel and took off again, heart thudding. She didn’t know what surprised her more—that they already knew about David, or that this quickly… the entire capital might.

  Just outside the Forge office, Mark stood with his arms crossed, gazing through the open door as if it might start talking to him. He wasn’t inside yet, but he could imagine it—himself at the second workbench, helping with orders and learning the kinds of things other smiths could only dream about.

  He hadn’t said yes yet. But it felt inevitable.

  Then came the rhythmic click of hurried footsteps, and his daydream broke like hot metal hitting water.

  He looked down the corridor and saw her.

  Petite. Bright-eyed. Ponytail bouncing with every confident step. Her tunic fit her perfectly, and the noticeable bounce in her chest was unintentional. She wasn’t trying to stand out, just in a hurry. But damn, she sure made it look good.

  Mark straightened his posture instinctively. She stopped directly in front of him, holding a sealed letter bearing a wax crest.

  “Have you seen Master David?” she asked, looking around the forging areas.

  “Yeah,” he said, voice smooth, or what he hoped passed for smooth. “He stepped out with his wife a few hours ago?"

  “I’ve got a commission,” she said, tilting the letter slightly. “A royal one. For Master David.”

  Mark blinked. “Wait, the king? Already?”

  “That’s what it says,” she replied, completely unfazed. “Where is he?”

  Mark looked toward the office, then shrugged. “Not sure, actually. But they’ll be at the Copper Candle for dinner. If you want, I can deliver that for you.”

  Mira looked at the letter, then back at Mark. Her smile was polite but firm. “Thank you, but I’ll take it myself.”

  She adjusted her grip on the parchment, nodded once, and went toward the exit, her steps just as confident as before.

  Mark watched her leave, struggling to keep his eyes respectful this time, but failing with every step she took. Yup, he thought again, definitely taking this job.