The competition floor had been constructed overnight.
Where the lower hall had stood empty the evening before, raised platforms now formed a perfect grid across the stone. Each was equidistant from the next, their edges aligned precisely with the hall's central axis. Pale inlaid lines marked the working boundary for every competitor — not decorative, but instructional.
No platform extended beyond its measure.
No shadow fell unevenly.
Observers gathered behind a second carved groove in the stone — deeper and darker than the first. They did not cross it.
At the far end of the hall, beneath the vaulted arch, the ruler sat elevated but unadorned, hands resting evenly upon the arms of his chair.
At his right stood Nux.
Still.
Attentive.
Unhurried.
Sir. Wilkinson and Roald entered among Dillaclor's finest — the city's most disciplined hands gathered beneath one roof.
No announcement marked their arrival.
Tools were inspected at the entrance and placed upon each assigned platform in identical orientation.
Handles angled inward.
Blades aligned parallel to the front edge.
Even individuality began from sameness.
Materials were distributed next.
Identical bundles of hardwood.
Identical brass fittings.
Identical lengths of tempered rod.
Pre-measured.
Pre-weighed.
A murmur moved faintly through the hall — not disorderly, but anticipatory.
The ruler rose.
The murmur in the hall dissolved at once.
"Before the competition begins," he said evenly, "there is a matter of fairness to address."
Stillness tightened.
"Sir. Wilkinson of Honeyburrow has demonstrated mastery beyond dispute."
The words carried cleanly beneath the vaulted stone.
Of Honeyburrow.
Roald felt it before he processed it.
He did not move at first.
Then, slowly, he turned his head — just enough that neither the ruler nor Nux would see his face directly.
His jaw tightened.
Not anger.
Something sharper.
Annoyance.
As though a word had been used incorrectly on purpose.
Honeyburrow.
Spoken here as if it were something lesser.
Behind his controlled expression, a flicker of disgust crossed his features — brief, contained, gone.
He faced forward again before anyone could notice.
Beside him, Sir. Wilkinson remained perfectly still.
No correction.
No reaction.
But something in his posture sharpened — not pride, not shame.
Recognition.
The ruler continued.
"It would be improper to require Dillaclor's finest to contend against a craftsman already distinguished at such height."
A pause.
"It has therefore been decided that Sir. Wilkinson will not compete today."
A ripple moved through the gathered observers.
"In recognition of his skill, he will be formally appointed Royal Craftsman within the coming days."
Approval followed — measured, controlled.
Sir. Wilkinson inclined his head once.
Nothing more.
Across the hall, Nux's gaze lingered — not on Sir. Wilkinson.
On Roald.
Just long enough to see that the boy's expression had already returned to composure.
Then Nux looked away.
—------------------------------------------------------
The bell struck.
Work began.
The hall settled into motion — controlled, deliberate, disciplined.
Roald lowered his eyes to the timber.
Mark. Measure. Align.
Around him, chisels struck wood in steady cadence.
But something was wrong.
Not wrong enough to name.
Just… uneven.
A craftsman to his left hesitated longer than necessary before each cut, measuring twice, then a third time — not out of caution, but as if performing caution.
Across the grid, another shaved too deeply, corrected, then overcorrected — movements slightly exaggerated, just visible enough to be noticed.
Roald kept working.
Focus.
The housing first.
Then the channel.
He adjusted the internal tolerance by the smallest permissible fraction.
Clean.
Precise.
He risked a glance to his right.
A woman nearly twice his age fumbled her brass fitting, letting it clatter softly against the platform. She retrieved it quickly — too quickly — her embarrassment appearing almost rehearsed.
Roald frowned faintly.
Dillaclor's finest did not fumble.
Not like that.
He returned to his work.
Perhaps the pressure was affecting them.
Perhaps the ruler's presence unsettled even seasoned hands.
He marked the next cut.
Across the hall, a man misaligned a joint so visibly that an attendant stepped forward — but instead of correcting him immediately, the attendant paused, watching.
Waiting.
Roald's pulse ticked once, harder than before.
The mechanisms rising around him looked… adequate.
Not masterful.
Not disastrous.
Simply inferior.
His own assembly sat cleaner. Tighter. Quieter.
He did not rush.
He did not slow.
He simply built.
And then —
He felt it.
The sensation of being observed not as a participant…
But as prey.
His hands did not stop.
But his eyes lifted.
At the far edge of the hall, where shadow from a stone pillar cut a diagonal across the wall, Nux stood partially obscured.
He was not speaking.
Not instructing.
Not correcting.
He was watching.
Specifically — watching Roald.
And he was smiling.
Not broadly.
Not warmly.
A thin curve at the corner of his mouth, restrained yet unmistakable.
There was something in it that did not belong to ceremony.
Something patient.
Hungry.
Roald's breath caught — only slightly.
For an instant, the hall seemed quieter.
Nux did not blink.
The look was not admiration.
It was anticipation.
Like a predator who had already calculated the distance.
Roald felt a flicker of cold move through him — unfamiliar and unwelcome.
Then, just as quickly, Nux's expression smoothed.
Neutral.
Administrative.
As if nothing had passed between them.
Roald lowered his gaze at once.
Ridiculous.
He forced the thought aside.
Nux was observing all competitors. That was his role.
The smile had meant nothing.
A trick of shadow.
A trick of nerves.
He adjusted his grip.
Measured again.
Cut.
The blade moved cleanly through the grain.
Focus.
Whatever he had seen — if he had seen anything at all — did not matter.
What mattered was alignment.
What mattered was precision.
He would not be distracted.
Across the hall, Nux's eyes never left him.
Yes.
That's the right instinct.
If Nux becomes openly sinister too early, the tension collapses into certainty.
But if he appears refined — even generous — then Roald's fear becomes self-doubt.
And self-doubt is far more powerful than danger.
So instead of escalation through sabotage, we use reassurance.
Public recognition. Calm. Institutional warmth.
That does three things:
• It stabilizes Roald emotionally.
• It preserves the illusion for the reader.
• It makes the earlier predatory image feel like imagination.
And that inner conflict — Did I misread that? — becomes the real tension.
Let's continue naturally from the moment Roald lowers his gaze.
Roald adjusted his grip.
Measured again.
Cut.
The blade moved cleanly through the grain.
Focus.
Whatever he had seen — if he had seen anything at all — did not matter.
The mechanism was taking shape with quiet confidence. The internal channel seated precisely. The gear teeth aligned without resistance.
Around him, the others continued at their measured pace. Hesitations. Minor corrections. Adequate work.
The final bell approached.
When it sounded, tools were placed down almost in unison.
Assistants moved between platforms.
Inspection began.
Roald stepped back within his boundary line, hands resting loosely at his sides.
He did not seek Nux again.
He kept his eyes forward.
The ruler rose once more.
Inspection concluded swiftly — too swiftly, perhaps — but nothing in the hall suggested irregularity.
Nux stepped forward, hands folded behind his back.
"The standard of discipline today," he began evenly, "has upheld the reputation of Dillaclor."
A pause.
"But one mechanism demonstrates exceptional control within permitted tolerance."
Roald felt his pulse shift.
"Apprentice Roald of Honeyburrow."
The word struck differently this time.
Not spat.
Stated.
Neutral.
Measured.
A few heads turned toward him.
Roald stepped forward one pace, as required.
Nux's expression was composed — almost approving.
"The refinement of your internal channel," he continued, "improves rotational efficiency without visible deviation from the assigned design."
A faint murmur moved through the observers.
It was not dramatic praise.
It was technical.
Precise.
Legitimate.
"You worked within measure," Nux said. "And improved within it."
Roald held his posture steady.
The earlier image — the shadow, the smile — began to thin.
This was not predation.
This was acknowledgment.
Even… fairness.
"You have demonstrated discipline," Nux concluded. "Dillaclor rewards discipline."
He inclined his head slightly.
Not a bow.
Recognition.
The ruler echoed the gesture.
Roald stepped back into line, trophy cradled against his arm, the weight of the sack pulling gently at his wrist.
His breathing steadied.
Perhaps he had imagined it.
The shadow.
The hunger.
Nux was exacting, yes. Severe, perhaps. But the city required severity.
And what predator rewarded its prey?
He had built well.
Within measure.
And he had been rewarded for it.
The hall did not feel threatening now.
It felt orderly.
Predictable.
Safe.
At the edge of the stone pillar, Nux watched the boy return to stillness.
The faintest hint of satisfaction crossed his face — not hunger this time.
Calculation.
Across the chamber, Sir. Wilkinson did not look at the trophy.
He did not look at the gold.
His gaze remained fixed on Nux.
Steady.
Unblinking.
Not confrontational.
Not accusing.
Measuring.
Nux did not turn toward him.
But he knew.
And neither man looked away first.
The trap works best when the prey feels secure.
—------------------------------------------------------
That evening, the dining hall felt warmer than usual.
Candles lined the length of the table. Steam rose from polished dishes. Conversation moved gently around him — controlled, pleasant, orderly.
A servant placed a portion of roasted fowl onto Roald's plate.
He thanked him automatically.
And as he lifted his fork—
The words returned.
Clear.
Undistorted.
Do not eat anything he serves you.
Roald paused.
Just for a breath.
He had dismissed it before. The stranger had seemed frantic. Paranoid.
And yet—
He glanced down at the plate.
The food looked immaculate. Measured portions. Perfect symmetry.
He forced himself to take a bite.
Nothing unusual.
Nothing poisoned.
Nothing wrong.
Across the table, someone spoke of the competition. Of discipline. Of refinement.
Roald swallowed.
He remembered the woman dropping her fitting.
Too deliberate.
The man misaligning his joint — obvious, theatrical.
The attendant waiting before intervening.
He had thought it was pressure.
But pressure did not make Dillaclor's finest incompetent.
He lowered his fork slowly.
The hall's warmth began to feel constructed.
Another image surfaced.
The pillar.
The shadow.
Nux watching.
That smile.
Not pride.
Not encouragement.
Expectation.
Roald's chest tightened.
He had told himself it was imagination.
But imagination does not arrange events so neatly.
The warning.
The performance.
The smile.
They no longer sat apart in his mind.
They pulled toward each other.
Thread by thread.
And at the center—
His gaze lifted instinctively, scanning the hall.
Nux was not present at the table.
But his absence felt intentional.
Roald looked back down at his plate.
Do not eat anything he serves you.
For the first time, the warning did not sound irrational.
It sounded precise.
—------------------------------------------------------
The meal thinned gradually.
Chairs shifted. Servants cleared plates. Conversation loosened into smaller circles.
Roald remained seated a moment longer than necessary, waiting for the appropriate pause before rising.
He had just stepped away from the table when a voice reached him — warm, unhurried.
"Apprentice Roald."
He turned at once.
The ruler stood only a few paces away, hands clasped loosely before him, expression open and almost amused.
"Your work today was admirable," he said. "You carry yourself with more composure than many twice your age."
Roald bowed slightly.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
The ruler waved the title away gently.
"Titles are for ceremony. We are past ceremony for the evening."
He stepped closer — not invading space, but narrowing it.
"I am told you are not originally from Dillaclor."
"No, Your—" Roald caught himself. "No, sir."
"Honeyburrow, is it?"
The word was spoken without edge this time. Simply inquiry.
"Yes."
"And you trained there? Before coming here?"
"With Sir. Wilkinson."
"Ah." A pleasant nod. "A fortunate apprenticeship."
The ruler's gaze lingered on him — not sharp, not severe. Curious.
"You adapt quickly," he continued. "Not all young craftsmen transition easily into stricter systems."
Roald felt the subtle weight of that word.
Stricter.
"I prefer clarity," he replied carefully.
The ruler smiled at that.
"Clarity is a virtue."
A servant passed between them carrying a tray of emptied dishes.
The ruler's eyes drifted briefly toward the dining table behind Roald.
Then back to him.
"I hope the meal was satisfactory."
"Yes, sir."
A pause.
"You ate very little."
The statement was gentle.
Almost concerned.
Roald did not hesitate — hesitation would be worse.
"The day required more focus than appetite," he said evenly. "I find I eat less when I am thinking."
The ruler's expression softened, as if amused.
"Discipline even in hunger."
A faint chuckle.
"You will go far here."
Roald inclined his head again.
The ruler stepped back half a pace, as though the exchange had been nothing more than pleasant acknowledgment.
"Rest well tonight," he said. "Dillaclor rewards those who endure."
He turned then, drifting easily back toward the remaining guests.
Roald remained where he was for a moment longer.
The exchange had been polite.
Measured.
Harmless.
And yet—
He could not shake the feeling that something had been weighed.
Not his skill.
Him.
Across the hall, near a tall arched window, Nux stood partially obscured by shadow.
He did not approach.
He did not speak.
But when the ruler passed near him, the faintest inclination of Nux's head suggested something had been confirmed.
Roald did not see it.
He only felt the lingering pressure of unseen calculation.
—------------------------------------------------------
Later that evening, when the corridors had thinned and footsteps no longer echoed with urgency, Roald found Sir. Wilkinson in the smaller antechamber adjoining their quarters.
The older man stood near the narrow window, hands clasped behind his back, gaze resting somewhere beyond the city walls.
He did not turn immediately.
"You ate very little," he said.
Roald closed the door behind him.
"There is something I should have told you earlier."
That made Sir. Wilkinson turn.
Roald held his gaze.
"At the inn. Before the competition. A man approached me."
A pause.
"What man?"
"I don't know his name. He knew I was competing. He warned me."
Sir. Wilkinson's expression did not change — but his stillness sharpened.
"What did he say?"
Roald swallowed once.
"'Do not eat anything he serves you.'"
Silence settled between them.
Not confusion.
Not disbelief.
Assessment.
Sir. Wilkinson moved away from the window slowly.
"When?" he asked.
"Before we entered the city proper."
"And you chose not to tell me."
It was not accusation.
It was fact.
"I thought he was paranoid," Roald said evenly. "Or attempting to unsettle me."
Sir. Wilkinson studied him for a long moment.
"And tonight?"
Roald met his eyes without flinching.
"I think he was precise."
Silence settled between them.
"And today?" Sir. Wilkinson asked.
Roald took a breath.
"They were slower than they should have been."
"Who?"
"The competitors."
A faint narrowing of Sir. Wilkinson's eyes.
"Deliberately?"
"I believe so."
"And?"
Roald hesitated only a fraction.
"I saw Nux watching. From the pillar. He was smiling."
Sir. Wilkinson did not react visibly.
"What kind of smile?"
"Expectation."
The word lingered.
Roald continued.
"The ruler approached me after dinner."
That made Sir. Wilkinson's attention sharpen — not outwardly, but in stillness.
"What did he ask?"
"About Honeyburrow. About adapting. And why I did not eat."
"And what did you say?"
"That I eat less when I am thinking."
A beat.
Sir. Wilkinson exhaled quietly.
"Good."
Roald studied him.
"You believe it too."
It was not a question.
Sir. Wilkinson moved toward the small table in the room and rested his fingertips against its surface — a grounding gesture.
"I believe," he said carefully, "that nothing in Dillaclor occurs without intention."
Roald felt the weight of that settle into place.
"The competition?" he asked.
"A stage."
"The reward?"
"A leash."
The word landed softly. Deliberately.
Roald glanced at the sack of gold resting near his belongings.
Sir. Wilkinson followed his gaze.
"Hospitality," he said, "is the most elegant form of control."
Silence stretched between them.
Not fearful.
Focused.
"What do we do?" Roald asked.
Sir. Wilkinson's expression did not soften.
"We observe."
"Nothing more?"
"For now."
Roald nodded slowly.
The unease did not vanish.
But it shifted.
It was no longer his alone.