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.