Chapter 2: The Second Sin

Chapter 2: The Second Sin

The tiny, grease-soaked felt washer sat in the palm of Elara’s hand like a cancerous growth. It was no bigger than a coin, but it held the power to destroy thousands of dollars of machinery and an entire season’s worth of profit. The sight of it—clogged, dark, and smelling faintly of burnt pork—made her stomach clench with a rage so cold it felt like ice water in her veins.

“I can’t believe this,” Maya seethed, pacing the narrow confines of the RV like a caged wolf. “This isn’t just a simple replacement part, is it? We can’t just run to the hardware store.”

“It’s a specialized component from Japan,” Elara confirmed, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. It was the only way to keep from screaming. “Ordering a new one will take at least two weeks.”

Two weeks they didn't have. Their client for "The Wyvern's Embrace" was arriving on the final weekend of the Faire to pick it up in person. Failure wasn't an option.

“Right,” Maya said, stopping her pacing and cracking her knuckles. A dangerous light gleamed in her eyes. “Plan B. I’ll man the booth. You go on a quest. There has to be someone in this medieval Disneyland who works with high-density felt and industrial parts.”

The next few hours were a frantic, desperate scramble. Elara moved through the vibrant tapestry of the Faire like a ghost, the cheerful shouts of "Huzzah!" and the scent of cinnamon-roasted almonds turning her stomach. She showed the contaminated washer to a weaver who worked with wool felt, but it was too soft. She asked a puppet maker, who only had flimsy craft felt. Every dead end tightened the knot of panic in her chest.

Her last hope was the deep, rhythmic clang… clang… clang of the blacksmith’s forge at the far end of the vendors’ row. The smithy, ‘Blackwood Ironworks,’ was an open-air affair, glowing with the heat of the forge. A man stood before the anvil, his back to her. He was tall, with strong, broad shoulders that moved with an easy, powerful grace beneath his linen shirt. As he turned to quench a piece of glowing metal in a trough, sending up a great hiss of steam, Elara saw a face smudged with soot, with kind eyes and a quiet, focused intensity that she immediately recognized as a fellow artisan lost in their craft. This was Kaelen Blackwood.

“Excuse me,” Elara said, her voice sounding small against the noise of the forge.

He turned, wiping his hands on his heavy leather apron. His smile was surprisingly warm. “Well met. What can I do for you?”

She held out the greasy felt washer. “This is a long shot, but I’m looking for something like this. High-density industrial felt. It’s an oiler for my sewing machine.”

Kael took the washer, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle. He examined it, his brow furrowed in concentration. “That’s a nasty bit of business. Cooking grease?”

Elara just nodded, the shame and anger of it fresh on her tongue.

“I don’t have an exact match,” he said, his gaze meeting hers with a flicker of understanding. “But I use sheets of industrial felt for polishing. It might be dense enough. Let’s take a look.”

He led her to a large wooden chest and pulled out a thick, clean sheet of pristine white felt. It was perfect. More than perfect. He refused her offer of payment, simply taking out a set of fine calipers, measuring the old washer, and using a specialized punch to cut a perfect replacement.

“A fellow craftsman in a bind is a friend in need,” he said, pressing the small, clean disc into her palm. “I hope this gets your machine running again. What you do with leather… it’s true art. Can’t have that stopped by a bit of carelessness.”

His simple, genuine respect was a balm on her frayed nerves. “Thank you, Kael. Truly. I owe you one.”

Back in the RV, the suffocating tension had been replaced by the focused energy of a field hospital. With the precision of a bomb disposal expert, Elara flushed the machine’s internal mechanisms with solvent, painstakingly cleaning every gear and housing before installing the new felt washer Kael had made. She re-oiled it with the proper lubricant, the clear, fine liquid a stark contrast to the filth she’d just removed. After a tense moment, she pressed the foot pedal. The Beast whirred to life with a smooth, powerful hum. The sound was sweeter than any lute music.

By the time Gavin swaggered back into the RV that evening, flush with the day’s sales and his own self-importance, Elara and Maya were sitting at the small table, nursing mugs of tea, exhausted but victorious.

“Tough day at the office, ladies?” he asked, tossing his cash pouch onto the counter. It landed perilously close to a stack of Maya’s freshly dyed leather cuffs. Maya snatched them away just in time.

“We spent the entire day cleaning your mess, Gavin,” Maya said, her voice low and tight. “A mess you lied about. It wasn’t a ‘little oil,’ it seeped into the entire mechanism. We had to get a new part custom-made.”

Gavin rolled his eyes, a master of theatrical martyrdom. “Oh, here we go. I said I was sorry, didn't I? I wiped it up. You’re always so dramatic, Elara. Honestly, for someone who left the corporate world, you still thrive on stress.” He started rummaging in the small fridge, his back to them. “Besides, you should see the state of this place. Your leather scraps are everywhere. A man can’t even find a place to put his feet up.”

The hypocrisy was so astounding it was almost breathtaking. He had committed a cardinal sin against their business, nearly crippled their most valuable asset, and now he was complaining about a few errant trimmings on the floor.

“My ‘scraps’ are the byproduct of the work that pays for the gas in this RV,” Elara stated, her voice as cold and sharp as an awl. “The time I spent fixing your mistake today cost us nearly five hundred dollars in lost productivity. That’s coming out of your cut.”

Gavin slammed the fridge door shut, whirling around. His charming facade cracked, revealing the ugly insecurity beneath. “My cut? I’m the face of this business! I bring in the customers! You two would just be sitting in here hoarding your pretty little crafts if it wasn’t for me. It’s a hobby for you, but it's a business for me!”

The words hung in the air, thick and poisonous. A hobby. He had called her life’s work, her passion, her hard-won freedom, a hobby.

“Get out,” Maya said, standing up. It wasn’t a request.

“Fine!” Gavin snarled. “I’ll go hang out with people who actually know how to have fun.” He grabbed his jacket and stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the tools on the walls.

The silence he left behind was heavy and bleak. The confrontation had solved nothing. It had only solidified the truth they had long tried to ignore: Gavin didn't just disrespect their work; he resented it. He was jealous.

A weary sense of dread settled over Elara. They limped through the rest of the evening, the earlier triumph of fixing the machine now tainted. The next morning, Elara rose before the sun, determined to make up for lost time on The Wyvern’s Embrace. She pulled on her leather apron, the familiar weight a small comfort, and walked to the flat-file cabinet where she kept the most valuable hides.

She slid open the drawer containing the single, perfect piece of Grade-A vegetable-tanned shoulder, the one she had set aside for the corset’s intricate back panels. It had been dyed a deep, iridescent midnight blue, a custom color she’d spent days perfecting.

Her hand stopped.

There, splashed right across the center of the flawless blue hide, was an ugly, sprawling stain of dark walnut. Gavin’s wood stain. It had soaked deep into the grain, a permanent, jagged wound that rendered the entire priceless piece of leather utterly useless. Droplets spattered around the main blotch, evidence of a careless, deliberate pour.

Elara stared at it, the blood draining from her face. This wasn't a forgotten Dutch oven. This wasn't a clumsy accident. This was quiet, calculated sabotage. This was a second sin, committed in the dark, and it was a declaration of war.