Garin turns to the apprentices. "You three, eyes open. You'll watch and you'll learn. No talking unless I ask."

They line up, stiff and quiet. I glance over my shoulder and can't help myself. "You should really pay attention," I say. "Might be the first time you learn to do something well."

All three of them twitch at once. One bites his lip hard. Another goes pink to the ears. The third stares at the floor, fists clenched, thinking whatever Elvish curse he's not brave enough to say out loud. Shameless Human. He can't even pour a damn ingot straight. And he lectures us?!

Garin ignores the heat behind us. He lays out the tools in order—hammers, tongs, and everything.

He looks at me. "You call the pieces. Chest, back, pauldrons, vambraces, fauld. We'll do the chest today."

I nod, all business. "Chest."

"Good," he says.

"So," he says, "pick up…"

"Argh…" I moan in pain.

"What's happening?" the Blacksmith frowns.

"Oh, nothing, just… my hands hurts real bad. How about I just give you some tips? I can't really use my hands."

Garin squints at me, confused, but he doesn't argue. "Fine," he says. "Talk me through it."

They don't know about the Grimoire. I might not have Blacksmithing Skills… but let's see.

I cradle my right hand and step back. "Start with the heat. You're running it too high," I say, nodding at the hearth. "Bring it down a little. You want an even color, not a bright flare."

He adjusts the air. The color settles. I point at the piece. "Now pull and set the shoulders first. Short, clean blows. Don't chase length yet."

He does it. The line comes in straighter. The apprentices lean forward despite themselves.

I keep it simple and low. "Hammer face on Station Two is biting."

Garin turns. "Dress that face," he tells the apprentice. The kid fixes it; the next strike lands smooth.

"Tong grip is too far back on Three; you're twisting the piece."

Garin: "Choke up." The twist stops.

"Don't hit cold on One. Back to heat, then strike."

Garin: "Reheat. Then continue."

We move like that—my cues, his orders. "Normalize between passes." "Mind the seam; don't trap scale." "Ease up at the edge; you're thinning it."

The plate starts to look right. Garin steps back, nods once. "Better."

Garin doesn't question the flow again. He keeps working; I keep calling it tight and short. "Set the radius." "Reheat now." "Light taps. Let the metal move." He translates every cue into clean orders, and the floor snaps to it.

The apprentices keep stealing looks at me. First it's outrage—

"Still a shameless Human… just pretending with a fake hand injury," one mutters.

Then it's confusion when each correction fixes a problem they didn't know they were causing. Then it's something closer to respect, though they hate that, too.

We run the sequence end to end—draw, shoulder, dish, planish, check fit, normalize, repeat. No wasted strikes. No dead heat. The plate comes up true. Even Garin's eyebrows climb a millimeter when the surface settles without waves.

The quartermaster watches from the side, arms crossed, saying nothing. The forge runs quieter, smoother. No one cracks a joke now.

I point once more, careful and plain. "That seam. Clean it before the next pass."

Garin nods and relays it. "Clean the seam. Then we strike."

They move. And for the first time since I walked in, the whole shop looks like a single tool doing one job right.

Garin stops for a moment.

"You're the Guide of the Champions."

It's not a question, but I still answer.

"Yeah."

"It shows," he says and goes back to work.

* * *

Garin runs a hand along the chest plate one last time, checking the edges. He nods to himself, then looks at me.

"This is the best Platinum job I've put out," he says. "I don't work much Platinum anymore. Most orders I take are True Diamond fittings. Heavier problems. Fewer pieces." He taps the pauldron. "I don't regret this one."

"It feels right," I say. "Balanced."

He grunts. "It is. Your contribution, Champion, was… hard not to understate. I'm not saying this often, but I look forward to working with you again."

I raise an eyebrow. "You plan on making a habit of this?"

"If you bring ore like that and listen when I talk, yes," he says. Then he glances at my hand. "And when that heals, I want to see what you can do on the hammer."

I cough. "Right. When it heals."

Behind him, all three apprentices slap their foreheads at the same time. Garin doesn't turn around. He just says, "You three can bring the molds back to the rack and then sweep. Quietly."

He looks back to me. "When you come back from your business, bring the set for inspection. I'll take care of the other Champions myself. Also, you brought way too much Platinum. Half of what you gave me was enough. You can sell the rest for…"

He scratches his chin.

"I'll have it appraised and shipped to your dormitory by the end of the day."

"Deal," I say, fastening the last strap and smiling at the Platinum armor.

* * *

I leave the forge with the case on my back and the new plate sitting right on my shoulders. The street feels louder than usual. Every step is a bit heavier than what I'm used to but… it's so cool. I can feel the work in it.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

I want to see my mother's face when she sees it.

I catch myself checking the reflection in a window.

Wait, what am I thinking? I'm not a damn little boy anymore. I don't have to show off. What the hell—

You want to show her. That is normal.

You think so? I send the thought back to King Baalrek, surprised by the intermission.

Of course. You BLED for this. Wear it and stand straight, Jacob Cloud. Your deeds have been remarkable.

Remarkable, huh? I don't feel that way. I feel like a kid who can't wait for his mother to say she's proud of him. It's pathetic.

It is not pathetic.

Sure it is. I walk faster, hoping movement will drown out the thought. I've fought monsters, leveled past two hundred, killed things that could flatten armies… and now I'm worried about whether my mother smiles or not at the new armor I'm wearing.

It is… a mortal's riddle, Baalrek says. Even when we command legions, we still want to be seen by those who made us or even those whe lead. Your wish does not make you weak, only honest.

You think she'll even care?

She will. She is still your mother, and you are still her son. Nothing changes that.

I glance down at the armor again. It gleams faintly under the afternoon light. You sound awfully sentimental today.

I had a mother once, too, Jacob Cloud. Even Kings spawn the same way as everybody else.

Fair, I guess.

Every son wants his mother's pride. I had a mother once, too. Be proud of what you have done.

I nod to myself. "Yeah," I mutter under my breath. "Alright."

Good. Now, go. Show her. Trust me, she WILL be impressed. This is from Rafnov himself. This is basically a relic-grade for a Platinum Rank like you.

* * *

The garden is quieter than I remember. The fountains run, the air smells faintly of flowers, but there's no laughter, no music, no servants moving around. Just stillness. The kind that means something's wrong.

When I reach the main hall, the guard at the door hesitates before letting me in. Kai is waiting just past the entrance, his arms crossed, face pale.

"Jacob," he says, low. "Come in. There's… bad news."

"What happened?"

He doesn't answer—just gestures for me to follow.

We walk down the corridor and into the council room. It's packed. Nobles from the Valemont family fill every corner, whispering in low voices. At the center sits Duke Dorian Valemont, robes perfect, posture rigid, the picture of solemn authority. A herald stands behind him, holding a parchment with the royal seal.

Dorian glances up when he sees me, then deliberately turns his gaze back to the letter. He clears his throat and begins to read, his voice smooth and heavy with false regret.

"By the decree of Her Majesty, Queen Anthea of Valemont, the conduct of Princess Priscilla Valemont is found unbecoming of her station. Her alliances, associations, and recent actions are to be considered a matter of shame to the royal house and a violation of decorum."

The nobles murmur. Dorian keeps reading, a faint glint in his eyes.

"As such, Princess Priscilla's Court status is hereby rescinded. She remains a member of the royal bloodline for the time being, though under scrutiny and without privilege of title."

He folds the letter neatly, his lips pressed into what could pass for regret.

"A grave day," he says, almost sadly.

But I see it—the small flicker at the corner of his mouth, the satisfaction he can't quite hide. Around him, a few of the lesser nobles exchange smug looks, like scavengers circling a wounded beast.

Kai's hand tightens on my arm before I can say anything.

Princess Priscilla Valemont sits near the end of the long table, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her brown hair, tied high behind her head is pulled into a neat ponytail.

She looks neither cornered nor humiliated—just calm, her posture straight, her gaze steady.

When Duke Dorian finishes reading the letter, she tilts her head slightly, almost amused. "That's all?" she asks. "I was expecting something far harsher after my last discussion with Mother."

Dorian clears his throat, visibly thrown off. "Your Highness—well, Priscilla. This is no trivial matter. The Queen herself has declared your Court status rescinded. Your name is being discussed among the Council. I must express my—"

"Your concern," Priscilla finishes for him, her smile faint but genuine. "You always do." She waves a hand lightly. "Do not worry, Duke Dorian. I'll survive without my seat at the tea table."

A few nobles shift uncomfortably, unsure if she's mocking them or the Queen. Dorian's polite mask holds, but his jaw tightens. "It isn't tea we speak of, cousin. It is legacy. You must understand the weight of—"

"Legacy?" Priscilla interrupts softly, still smiling. "I understand it quite well. I've carried it for years. You finally have a shot at it, congratulations."

The room stills. Her words aren't sharp, but they cut all the same. She rises, graceful and unhurried, and inclines her head toward the Duke. "If this brings you peace, then I'm glad. You've been so restless since my son entered the Academy. I'd hate to think the Court's affairs were giving you ulcers."

A few muffled laughs ripple among the servants before being smothered by a cough or two. Around the room, however, most of the nobles look smug—content to watch what they think is a royal disgrace unfold.

One of them can't help himself. A young Valemont cousin lets out a low, mocking chuckle. The sound slices through the uneasy quiet.

I turn to him. "Do you find this amusing?"

The cousin leans back, eyes glinting with arrogance. "Who do you think you are to talk to me like this? You're not a noble. Your mother is nobody now. Speak again, and I'll see you disciplined."

He gestures lazily toward me. "Nice armor, though. Useless, seeing how thin it is—but pretty. You could be a pretty princess one day if you marry well."

The room ripples with laughter.

My mother's expression shifts to curiosity as she evaluates my next moves.

The laughter dies down enough for me to hear the faint hum of the Grimoire in the back of my mind. My eyes flick to the cousin, and a window opens before me.

[Valen Valemont: …]

Peak of Platinum Rank, I ponder.

You're thinking of challenging him, King Baalrek's voice rumbles, a quiet note of interest threading through the words.

He insulted my mother, I think back. In her own house.

Yes, he did. But remember where you stand. You can't kill him—not here, not outside. The Academy protects its own, and the noble lines protect theirs.

Then what? I let him talk like that?

No, Baalrek says. You remind him that words have weight. A duel on honor is allowed. Win it, and his tongue will stay behind his teeth the next time he thinks of your family.

I glance again at Valen, who's still grinning. Honor duel, huh? Is this an Academy practice I don't know of?

Exactly, Jacob Cloud. Just… don't kill him but you can give him a solid beating. Do you think you can win?

I don't reply—I just smile.

I straighten my back and step forward. "You've got a loud mouth for someone hiding behind a little title," I say, my voice steady. "Why don't you put some steel behind your words? How about a little honor duel? Have you ever heard of it?"

Valen's grin falters for just a second. Then he laughs, loud and sharp.

"You? You want to duel me? The Fake Champion? You're insane."

"I've been called worse," I say, taking one more step.

A few chuckles ripple through the room.

"Listen to him—he thinks he's in a play," one noble whispers.

"Someone should remind the boy this isn't a tavern brawl," another adds, half-smiling behind a jeweled fan.

"A duel? With Valen?" a third says, incredulous. "The audacity would be impressive if it weren't so stupid."

"I saw him in one of my Classes. That armor is new. Maybe he thinks it gave him more ranks."

"Let him have this little tantrum and let's enjoy the spectacle of him being thoroughly humiliated."

Duke Dorian looks up, annoyed but curious. Valen rises, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.

"Fine, then," he says, smirking again. "Let's have this duel, Fake Champion."

"Do you care for a little bet?" I smile.

"And what would that be in your books? A shiny sword to add to the set?"

"You can pick whatever you want. As for me," I point to Marcel, Duke Dorian's son's bald head. "That's what awaits you."

"Excuse me?" Valen looks puzzled.

"You heard me. If I'll have to shave the entire family to teach you manners, call me the barber."

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