The arena was even more packed on day two. Word of Celeste's performance had spread, and suddenly everyone wanted to see the mysterious warrior from the unknown noble house. Their seats in the upper galleries were surrounded by excited spectators discussing yesterday's matches.
"Did you see her against Steelhart? Parried a greatsword like it was nothing!"
"That sword she's using—I've never seen anything move that fast."
"My cousin's friend knows a guy who swears it's an ancient artifact from the Radiant Wars..."
Kieran pulled his hood up and tried to become invisible. Mira patted his knee sympathetically.
The tournament master's voice boomed: "Welcome to day two of the Grand Melee! Sixteen competitors remain! Today, we crown our final four!"
Celeste's first match of the day was against a B-rank Berserker—a terrifying woman named Helga who fought with twin axes and had a reputation for leaving her opponents in the infirmary. The betting houses had Helga as a slight favorite.
They were wrong.
The fight lasted less than three minutes. Helga came out swinging with berserker rage, her axes leaving craters in the arena floor. Celeste danced between the strikes like she was performing a ballet, Dawnbreaker leaving precise cuts on Helga's armor with each pass.
When Helga activated her ultimate skill—a berserker frenzy that tripled her speed and strength at the cost of all defense—Celeste simply sidestepped the charge and let the woman's momentum carry her past. Then, almost casually, she tapped Dawnbreaker against the back of Helga's knee.
The enchanted edge sliced through armor that should have been impenetrable.
Helga went down, and the fight was over.
The crowd's roar was deafening.
"Quarter-finals," Mira breathed. "She's in the quarter-finals."
But Kieran's attention had shifted to the VIP box across the arena—the section reserved for noble houses, government officials, and other Important People. Three figures had stood up simultaneously, all staring at the arena floor with identical expressions of intense interest.
A man in Valorian military dress, all sharp angles and harder eyes.
A merchant in expensive silks that practically screamed wealth.
A woman in pure white robes with gold trim, bearing the sunburst symbol of the Sanctum.
The quarter-final match was scheduled for after lunch. Kieran and Mira were making their way to the food vendors when a page in tournament livery intercepted them.
"Excuse me, are you guests of Lady Celeste Varnham?"
Kieran's first instinct was to lie. Mira's elbow in his ribs stopped him.
"We are," she said smoothly. "Is there a problem?"
"Not at all! Lady Varnham has requested your presence in her preparation chamber before her next match. If you'll follow me?"
They were led through the arena's labyrinthine interior—past training rooms where eliminated competitors nursed their wounds, past vendor stalls selling overpriced merchandise, down into the competitor section that smelled of sweat and magic and determination.
Celeste's preparation chamber was small but private. She stood in the center, Dawnbreaker laid carefully on a table, going through stretches with focused intensity. When she saw them, her face lit up.
"You came!" She practically bounced over, pulling them both into a hug that Kieran was still not prepared for. "Did you see the Helga fight? Did you see how perfectly Dawnbreaker cut through her armor? It was like the sword knew exactly where to strike!"
"You're doing amazing," Mira said warmly. "The whole arena is talking about you."
"They're talking about the sword," Celeste corrected, her expression turning slightly troubled. "I've had three people try to corner me already, asking where I got it, if it's for sale, whether I'd consider lending it for 'study'." She made air quotes with visible disdain.
"What did you tell them?" Kieran asked, his anxiety spiking.
"That it's a family heirloom and not up for discussion. But..." She moved to the table and picked up Dawnbreaker, her fingers tracing the moonstone channels in the fuller. "There are some very powerful people taking interest. Duke Aldric Thorne from the Valorian Empire tried to inspect the sword during my break. I had to literally keep my hand on it to prevent his appraisal skill from working."
"Thorne?" Kieran's blood ran cold. "The Duke Thorne?"
"You know him?"
Kieran remembered a man in military dress standing in the VIP box. "Tall? Looks like he's never smiled in his life? Probably has a stick permanently lodged somewhere uncomfortable?"
Celeste laughed despite the tension. "That's him. He's the Empire's official representative here, but everyone knows he's also one of their primary weapon procurement officers. If he thinks Dawnbreaker is valuable enough..." She trailed off, the implication clear.
"He'll try to acquire it," Mira finished. "By purchase or pressure."
"There's also a merchant named Jonas Rift who's been following me around making increasingly absurd offers. Started at five hundred gold, last I heard he was up to two thousand." Celeste shook her head in disbelief. "And Archbishop Whitegrace from the Sanctum actually stopped me in the hallway to inform me that such a 'blessed weapon' should properly belong to the church, not a secular noble."
"Two thousand gold," Mira breathed. "Celeste, that's—"
"Not for sale," Celeste interrupted firmly. "This sword was made for me. For my hand, my style, my dreams. I don't care if they offer ten thousand gold—Dawnbreaker isn't leaving my side."
She looked at Kieran when she said it, and something in her expression made his heart skip.
"I just wanted you both to know," Celeste continued. "In case things get... complicated. These are powerful people with resources and influence. I'm going to keep refusing them, but they're not used to being refused."
"Can they force you to give it up?" Kieran asked quietly.
"Not legally, no. It's my property, obtained through legitimate transaction. But Duke Thorne could make things difficult for House Varnham politically. Jonas Rift could manipulate trade agreements to hurt our finances. And the Sanctum..." She grimaced. "The church has ways of applying pressure that don't show up in legal documents."
A knock at the door interrupted them. The page's voice called: "Lady Varnham? Ten minutes to your quarter-final match."
"I need to prepare," Celeste said, but she caught Kieran's hand before he could leave. "Thank you. For making me something worth fighting for. Worth protecting."
Her hand was warm, calloused from sword work, steady despite the pressure she was under. Kieran found himself squeezing back.
"Win," he said simply. "Just win."
She smiled—bright and fierce and beautiful. "I will."
The quarter-final was against an A-rank Knight named Sir Percival, a tournament veteran with decades of experience. He wielded a legendary family blade and fought with the cold precision of someone who'd killed in actual wars, not just exhibition matches.
The match lasted twenty-three minutes—an eternity in tournament time—and was the most technically brilliant display of swordplay Kieran had ever witnessed.
Sir Percival didn't make mistakes. His guard was perfect, his footwork flawless, his strikes calculated to exploit every possible opening. He forced Celeste to work for every inch, testing her skill in ways no previous opponent had.
But Celeste had Dawnbreaker.
Every time Sir Percival pressed an advantage, the sword's enhanced agility let Celeste slip free. Every time she channeled radiant energy, the forty percent amplification turned good attacks into devastating ones. And the blade's perfect balance meant she could transition between offense and defense faster than her opponent could track.
In the end, it came down to endurance. Sir Percival was older, his stamina finite despite his higher rank. Celeste, boosted by Dawnbreaker's enhancements, simply outlasted him. When he finally made a microsecond mistake—his guard dropping a fraction of an inch after a particularly taxing exchange—she was there, Dawnbreaker's point at his throat.
The arena erupted.
"SEMI-FINALS!" the announcer roared. "LADY CELESTE VARNHAM ADVANCES TO THE SEMI-FINALS!"
Kieran was on his feet, shouting himself hoarse with the crowd. Mira was jumping up and down, grabbing his arm and shaking it enthusiastically.
"She did it! She's in the final four! Kieran, she's in the final four!"
But Kieran's celebration died as he caught sight of the VIP box again.
Duke Thorne was speaking urgently to an aide, his expression dark.
Jonas Rift was writing something in a ledger, a calculating smile on his face.
Archbishop Whitegrace had her hands pressed together in prayer, but her eyes were locked on Dawnbreaker with unmistakable hunger.
The vultures had stopped circling.
Now they were descending.
That evening, back at their inn, Kieran couldn't sleep.
He sat by the window, watching rain stream down the glass, his mind churning with worst-case scenarios. Duke Thorne using military pressure to seize the sword. Jonas Rift buying up House Varnham's debts to force a sale. The Sanctum declaring Dawnbreaker a holy relic that must be surrendered.
And underneath all of it, the cold certainty that this was his fault. His work had attracted exactly the kind of attention he desperately wanted to avoid. The cage was closing again, just like in Greyhaven, and this time he'd dragged Celeste and Mira into it with him.
A soft knock at his door. "Kieran? You awake?"
Mira slipped into his room, wrapped in a blanket, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looked younger like this, less like the confident business manager and more like the street kid she'd been before Kieran hired her.
"Couldn't sleep either?" she asked, settling onto the floor beside his chair.
"Too much thinking."
"Want to talk about it?"
Kieran was quiet for a long moment, watching the rain. Then: "This is what I was afraid of. This exact situation. Powerful people noticing, asking questions, wanting what I made. It's Greyhaven all over again."
"It's not," Mira said firmly. "In Greyhaven, you were alone. Here, you have Celeste fighting to keep the sword. You have me helping to protect your identity. You're not facing this alone."
"But what if that's not enough? What if Duke Thorne decides to investigate who made Dawnbreaker? What if Jonas Rift offers Celeste so much money she can't refuse? What if—"
"Kieran." Mira grabbed his hand, forcing him to look at her. "You're spiraling again. Come back to the present. Right here, right now, in this moment—are you safe?"
He took a shaky breath. "Yes."
"Is your identity still secret?"
"Yes."
"Has Celeste given any indication she'd betray your confidence?"
"No. She's been protecting it fiercely."
"Then we deal with tomorrow's problems tomorrow." Mira squeezed his hand. "For tonight, just let yourself feel proud. You created something amazing. Something that's helping someone achieve their dreams. That's worth celebrating, even if it's scary."
Kieran felt something tight in his chest loosen slightly. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You're just usually too busy panicking to notice." She smiled. "For what it's worth, I think you're incredibly brave."
"I'm not brave. I'm terrified constantly."
"Brave isn't not being scared. Brave is being scared and doing it anyway." Mira stood, pulling her blanket tighter. "You made that sword knowing it might expose you. You let Celeste take it into the most public venue possible. That's courage, even if it doesn't feel like it."
After she left, Kieran sat with those words, turning them over in his mind.
Maybe she was right. Maybe there was bravery in creating despite fear, in taking risks for someone else's dreams, in allowing his work to be seen even when staying hidden felt safer.
Or maybe he was just an idiot who couldn't help himself when it came to perfecting his craft.
Probably both.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing away the day's dust and preparing for tomorrow's battles.
In the arena, Celeste would face her semi-final match.
And in the shadows, the powerful and ambitious would continue their calculations, trying to determine how to claim what they wanted.
But for now, in this quiet moment, Kieran let himself feel something other than fear:
Hope.
Hope that Celeste would win.
Hope that his secret would hold.
Hope that maybe, just maybe, things would work out.
It was a fragile thing, easily shattered.
But it was there.
And sometimes, hope was enough to get through one more night.