Lord Harlan Wavecrest was not what Kieran expected.
The A-rank Tide Warrior arrived not in some ostentatious display of wealth and power, but riding a modest horse-drawn cart, dressed in practical traveling clothes that showed salt stains and wear. He was perhaps fifty, with sun-weathered skin, silver-streaked hair tied back in a sailor's knot, and the kind of easy confidence that came from decades of surviving dangerous waters.
"Master Ashford," he greeted, his voice carrying the rough warmth of someone who'd spent more time shouting over storm winds than engaging in polite conversation. "Harlan Wavecrest. You can skip the 'Lord' business—that's just a title they gave me for killing enough sea monsters. Makes the nobility feel better about hiring common sailors."
Kieran felt some of his tension ease. This man wasn't like the other nobles who'd been hounding him—no airs, no pretension, just straightforward practicality.
"Please, come in," Kieran managed. "I have your commission ready."
Mira had set up the presentation area with more care than usual—a clean cloth draped over the workbench, the forge tidied to within an inch of its life, even fresh flowers in a chipped vase that Kieran hadn't known they owned. She'd insisted that receiving a client should feel professional.
Harlan stepped into the forge and immediately went still, his eyes finding Tidecaller even beneath its silk wrapping.
"That's it," he breathed. "I can feel it from here. Water-aspected, powerful as the deep current." He looked at Kieran with new respect. "The Consortium said you were talented, but they undersold you by a league."
"I... thank you." Kieran moved to the workbench, his hands only slightly trembling as he unwrapped Tidecaller.
The sword emerged from its silk cocoon like a revelation. Afternoon sunlight streaming through the window caught the blade's surface, and the deep-sea steel seemed to come alive—patterns flowing across its length, the wavelike fuller channels glowing with soft luminescence, water condensing from the air to form delicate spirals along the edge.
Harlan's breath caught audibly.
"By the drowned gods," he whispered, stepping closer with the reverence of someone approaching a shrine. "May I?"
Kieran nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.
Harlan reached out slowly, his calloused fingers wrapping around Tidecaller's grip. The moment of contact was electric—the sword flared with brilliant blue-green light, water surging along its length in response to its new wielder's affinity.
The Tide Warrior's eyes widened as the weapon's passive abilities flooded through him. Kieran watched the man's stance shift, becoming more fluid, more balanced. The adaptive flow enchantment was working, adjusting the sword's weight and balance to perfectly suit Harlan's frame and fighting style.
"This is..." Harlan moved through a basic form, and Tidecaller sang through the air, leaving trails of condensed water vapor. "This is beyond anything I've ever wielded. The balance—it's perfect. And the water manipulation—" He concentrated, and moisture in the air swirled toward the blade, forming a spiraling vortex around its edge. "It responds like an extension of my own abilities, amplifying them."
"Sixty percent boost to water-based skills," Kieran said quietly. "Plus enhanced underwater mobility, water breathing, and the ability to manipulate water within a thirty-foot radius. There's also an active skill—Riptide—but I'd recommend testing that somewhere with more space."
Harlan lowered the sword slowly, his expression somewhere between awe and something that might have been grief. "I've been fighting for thirty years. Killed a Kraken, two Leviathans, cleared seventeen underwater dungeons. I've earned enough to commission work from the finest smiths in three kingdoms." He looked at Kieran. "This is the finest weapon I've ever held. And it's not even close."
The weight of that statement hung in the air.
"The System rated it S-rank," Mira said, stepping forward with a practiced smile. "Which reflects in the final pricing. The commission was two thousand gold, but given the quality exceeded expectations, we're invoking the quality adjustment clause—"
"I'll pay three thousand," Harlan interrupted. "And I'd pay five if you asked. This blade is worth more than gold."
Kieran's stomach dropped. "That's too much. The agreement was—"
"The agreement didn't account for you creating an S-rank artifact when the commission called for A-rank work." Harlan sheathed Tidecaller carefully, almost reluctantly. "Trust an old sailor, boy—when someone offers to pay you more than agreed, take the money and say thank you."
"Thank you," Mira said immediately, shooting Kieran a look that clearly communicated shut up and let the man be generous.
Harlan produced a thick coin purse and began counting out gold pieces—far more than Kieran had ever seen in one place. The coins clinked onto the counter in neat stacks, catching the light.
"I have one request," the Tide Warrior said as he counted. "Professional courtesy, really. I'm returning to the Coastal Defense Initiative headquarters in Seahaven. There's a celebration in three days—successful dungeon clear, the usual revelry. I'd like to show off my new blade to the other fighters, maybe give a demonstration. Would that be acceptable?"
Every instinct Kieran had screamed no. The more people who saw Tidecaller, the more attention it would attract. But Harlan was asking politely, and technically had every right to show off his legally purchased weapon.
"That's your sword now," Kieran said carefully. "You can do whatever you want with it."
"I'll be discreet about where it came from," Harlan promised. "Just 'commissioned from a talented smith,' nothing specific."
"We'd appreciate that," Mira said.
But Kieran noticed she didn't sound convinced it would matter.
After Harlan left—practically glowing with satisfaction, Tidecaller strapped carefully to his side—the forge fell into heavy silence.
"Three thousand gold," Mira said eventually. "That's... that's more than we made in the entire previous year."
"It's blood money," Kieran said quietly. "Payment for painting an even bigger target on my back."
"Don't be dramatic."
"I'm not." Kieran moved to the window, watching Harlan's cart disappear down the street. "He's going to show that sword to other A-rank fighters. Word is going to spread. And when people learn there's a smith in Millhaven who can create S-rank artifacts..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Mira was quiet for a long moment. "We could leave. Take the money, close the forge, disappear before—"
"Before what? Before the Consortium realizes what I made and demands to know why I'm not producing more? Before the Empire decides an S-rank smith is too valuable to leave independent? Before the Sanctum declares my work is too powerful for secular hands?" Kieran laughed bitterly. "Running didn't work in Greyhaven. It won't work now."
"Then what do we do?"
"We prepare," Kieran said. "And we hope Harlan really does keep quiet about where Tidecaller came from."
Harlan Wavecrest did not keep quiet.
To be fair, he tried. For almost six hours.
The celebration at the Coastal Defense Initiative was, by all accounts, spectacular. A-rank and B-rank fighters from across the maritime provinces had gathered to commemorate clearing the Abyssal Trench Dungeon—one of the most dangerous underwater dungeons in the region.
Alcohol flowed. Stories were shared. Warriors compared equipment and bragged about exploits.
And when Harlan drew Tidecaller to demonstrate a new technique he'd been practicing, the entire hall went silent.
An S-rank artifact was impossible to mistake. The way it moved, the power it radiated, the sheer presence it commanded—every experienced fighter in the room recognized what they were seeing.
"Where did you get that?" someone asked.
"Commissioned it," Harlan said, trying for casual and failing spectacularly. "From a talented smith."
"Bullshit," said Marcus Stone.
The Valorian Empire's quartermaster had been present at the celebration—"observing maritime defense readiness," officially, though everyone knew he was recruiting for the eastern front. He stood now, his expression carved from granite, staring at Tidecaller with the intensity of a man who'd just seen something he desperately wanted.
"That's artifact-class," Stone continued, moving closer. "S-rank, unless my appraisal skills have gone completely to shit. There are maybe twenty smiths in the entire world capable of creating S-rank weapons, and I know for a fact that none of them took commissions in the past two months." His eyes narrowed. "So I'll ask again, Wavecrest: where did you get that sword?"
Harlan's jaw tightened. "I commissioned it legally, paid fair price, and where I got it is my business."
"Not when it's a strategic resource it's not." Stone's hand moved to his own sword—not threatening exactly, but not friendly either. "S-rank artifacts don't just appear from nowhere. Someone made that blade, and that someone is either a security risk or a valuable asset. Either way, the Empire has a right to know."
"The Empire has no jurisdiction over—"
"Was it that blacksmith in Millhaven?" Stone interrupted. "The one who made Lady Varnham's tournament sword? Dawnbreaker was A-rank, and you're telling me the same smith created an S-rank weapon just months later?"
The hall had gone completely silent. Every fighter present was now focused on the conversation, recognizing its importance.
Harlan said nothing, but his expression was answer enough.
Stone's face shifted from suspicion to certainty. "It was him. That anxious little craftsman who can barely string two words together created an S-rank artifact." He laughed—sharp and humorless. "The Consortium must be thrilled. They managed to secure the most valuable smith in the region through sheer luck."
"He's not Consortium property," Harlan growled. "He's an independent craftsman who took a commission—"
"He signed a partnership agreement with Asterlin," Stone corrected. "Which means they have first claim on his services. Which means..." He smiled coldly. "This is going to get very complicated very quickly."
By midnight, word had spread beyond the Coastal Defense Initiative.
By dawn, it had reached the Empire's military command.
By noon the next day, it had reached the Sanctum's theological council.
And by evening, emergency meetings were being convened in three different capitals, all discussing the same question:
What do we do about the S-rank Artifact Smith in Millhaven?
Kieran learned about the spread of information three days later, when Sylvie Merchant arrived at his forge looking simultaneously thrilled and terrified.
"You made an S-rank artifact," she said without preamble, sweeping into the forge like a storm. "An actual, System-confirmed S-rank artifact. And you didn't think to mention this to your business partners?"
"I didn't mean to," Kieran said weakly. "It was supposed to be A-rank, maybe high B-rank. It just... happened."
"It just happened." Sylvie laughed, slightly hysterical. "Do you have any idea what this means? S-rank smiths are worth their weight in mithril. Nations go to war to secure their services. And you 'just happened' to create an S-rank weapon while fulfilling your first Consortium commission."
"I'm sorry?" Kieran offered.
"Don't apologize—this is incredible! The Consortium's stock value has risen fifteen percent just on rumors that we have exclusive partnership with an S-rank smith." Sylvie was pacing now, her merchant's mind clearly calculating. "We need to renegotiate your contract immediately. New terms, better protection, possibly exclusive rights to—"
"No," Mira interrupted firmly. "The contract stands as written. Master Ashford fulfilled his commission exactly as specified. The fact that the result exceeded expectations doesn't change our agreement."
"But the publicity alone is worth—"
"Worth painting an even bigger target on him," Mira finished. "Or have you not considered what happens when the Empire and Sanctum learn that you have a partnership with an S-rank smith? They're not going to politely compete for access—they're going to demand it."
Sylvie's pacing slowed. "They already are demanding it. The Empire sent a formal inquiry about 'verifying reports of strategic asset development in neutral territories.' The Sanctum issued a theological statement about 'divine gifts requiring proper oversight.' Both of them are putting pressure on the Consortium to either share access or void the contract."
"They can't void the contract," Kieran said, panic rising. "It's System-binding."
"They can make our lives difficult enough that voiding it seems preferable," Sylvie corrected. "Trade sanctions, tariff increases, restriction of Consortium operations in Empire and Sanctum territories. We're merchants, Kieran—we operate through negotiation and compromise. If the pressure gets high enough..."
"You'll throw me to them," Kieran finished quietly. "Trade me away to preserve your business interests."
"I didn't say that."
"But you didn't deny it either."
Sylvie's expression flickered with something that might have been genuine regret. "Look, I like you. You're talented, relatively easy to work with once you get past the anxiety, and you've already made the Consortium a fortune in publicity alone. But I answer to people who care more about profit margins than individual craftsmen. If it comes down to protecting you or protecting our trade networks..."
She didn't finish, but the implication was clear.
After Sylvie left—promising to "do everything in her power" to protect their partnership while her tone suggested exactly how far that power extended—Kieran sat in his forge feeling the walls closing in.
"The Consortium isn't protection," he said numbly. "It's just a different kind of cage."
"Not yet it's not," Mira said, but she didn't sound convinced. "We still have leverage. They need you more than—"
A knock at the door interrupted her. Not polite. Aggressive, official.
Mira answered to find two town guards looking uncomfortable.
"Master Ashford? Mayor Fletcher needs to see you immediately. There's been... a development."
The development, as Fletcher explained ten minutes later in his office, was that Millhaven had received formal inquiries from both the Valorian Empire and the Sanctum of Radiance, both demanding information about "strategic asset development in neutral territory."
"They're asking about you," Fletcher said bluntly, looking tired. "Specifically, they're asking whether Millhaven is harboring an S-rank Artifact Smith without proper oversight or regulation."
"I'm not being harbored," Kieran protested. "I'm a citizen living and working legally—"
"I know that. You know that. But they're framing it as a security concern. The Empire is claiming that S-rank weapons production requires military oversight. The Sanctum is claiming it requires theological supervision. Both are suggesting that Millhaven's neutral status makes us inadequate to properly 'manage' someone of your capabilities."
"What are you going to tell them?"
Fletcher was quiet for a long moment. "That you're a private citizen with rights and protections under Millhaven law, and that I'll resist any attempts to infringe on those rights."
"Thank you," Kieran said, relief flooding through him.
"But," Fletcher continued, his expression hardening, "I'm also going to be honest with you, boy. I can resist for a while. I can cite laws and treaties and neutral territory agreements. But if both the Empire and the Sanctum decide you're too valuable to leave independent, there's a limit to what one frontier town can do to protect you."
"So what do I do?"
"You make yourself too valuable to mistreat," Fletcher said. "You make it clear that cooperation gets results but coercion gets nothing. You use your talent as leverage instead of letting it be used against you." He sighed. "And you prepare for the possibility that no matter how careful you are, powerful people might decide to take what they want by force."
Walking back to the forge, Kieran felt numb. This was Greyhaven all over again—powerful people recognizing his value, closing in, preparing to strip away his freedom in the name of "proper oversight" or "strategic necessity" or whatever justification they preferred.
"We need a plan," Mira said as they entered the forge. "Something more than just hoping they'll leave you alone."
"What kind of plan?"
"I don't know yet. But sitting here waiting for them to decide your fate isn't going to work." She moved to the window, looking out at Millhaven's streets with calculating intensity. "We need leverage. We need protection. We need—"
She stopped mid-sentence, her expression shifting to alarm.
Kieran joined her at the window. "What is it?"
Following her gaze, he saw what had caught her attention: a group of figures in Valorian military uniforms setting up what looked like an observation post across the street. Not threatening exactly, but clearly positioned to monitor the forge.
"They're watching us," Mira breathed.
"Of course they are." Kieran's laugh was bitter. "Can't let a strategic asset move around unsupervised."
Over the next few days, the situation deteriorated.
Sanctum clergy began appearing in Millhaven, preaching in the square about the proper use of divine gifts. They didn't mention Kieran by name, but the implication was clear.
Consortium representatives increased their visits, each time with new proposals for "enhanced partnership agreements" that coincidentally gave them more control over Kieran's work.
And the Empire's observation post remained, a constant reminder that Kieran's movements were being monitored.
On the fifth day after Tidecaller's revelation, Kieran stood in his forge at midnight, unable to sleep, staring at his tools and his workbench and the space where he'd created two artifacts that had changed his life.
"I should have stayed mediocre," he said to the empty room. "Should have made decent swords and stayed invisible and never let anyone know what I could really do."
But he knew that was a lie. The moment his class had evolved to Artifact Smith, his fate had been sealed. Legendary classes didn't stay hidden. Exceptional talent didn't remain anonymous.
He could run, but they'd find him. He could hide, but they'd dig him out. He could refuse to work, but they'd find ways to compel him.
The cage was closing, just like before.
The only question was whether this time, he'd have the courage to fight back before the door locked shut.
Outside, Millhaven slept peacefully, unaware that the quiet blacksmith on Iron Street had become the center of a power struggle that could reshape the region.
And in his forge, Kieran Ashford stood alone, feeling the weight of his talent crushing down like a physical thing, and tried to find a way forward that didn't end in chains.
He was still searching when dawn broke.
He suspected he'd be searching for a long time yet.