Chapter 4: The Fallout and the Forge

Chapter 4: The Fallout and the Forge

The morning sun cast long shadows across the Faire grounds, but none were as cold as the one stretching between the two halves of their sales booth. The air was thick with a silence that screamed louder than any argument. Elara and Maya had arrived at dawn, setting up their side of the display with grim efficiency. Elara’s intricate leatherwork—bracers, journals, and the simpler corsets she sold off the rack—were arranged with their usual impeccable artistry. Maya’s vibrant dyed goods added a splash of defiant color to the gloom. On the other side, Gavin’s section remained a chaotic mess of half-unpacked crates filled with his generic wood-burned plaques.

The unspoken hostility was a palpable thing, a crackle of ozone in the air. Fellow vendors, setting up their own tents and stalls, cast curious glances their way. Whispers were exchanged over mugs of morning coffee. The Renaissance Faire circuit was a village on wheels, and news—especially of a dramatic schism—traveled faster than a runaway horse.

Gavin arrived just as the first patrons began to wander the lanes. He hadn't slept in the RV, and it showed. His hair was disheveled, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was wearing one of yesterday’s shirts, which he’d clearly tried and failed to spot-clean. A dark, greasy stain was still visible on the collar, a small flag marking his defeat. He stormed past them without a word, slamming a crate onto his display table with enough force to make a nearby potter jump.

He was a powder keg, and the entire row of artisans was waiting for the spark.

It came when a regular customer, a cheerful woman named Beatrice who ran the candle-making stall, approached their booth. “Good morning, all! Elara, that new dragon-scale piece you posted online is divine!” she chirped, oblivious to the tension.

Before Elara could reply, Gavin spun around. “Don’t bother,” he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. “You can’t buy anything from her. This business is being dissolved. Turns out my partners are completely, certifiably insane.”

Beatrice’s smile froze on her face. A hush fell over the immediate area.

“Gavin,” Elara said, her voice low and even, a clear warning. “Don’t do this here.”

“Oh, I’m doing this here!” he bellowed, stepping forward into the center of the booth, fully embracing the public stage. He was playing to the crowd now, his voice full of theatrical betrayal. “Everyone should know who they’re dealing with! These two… these two witches… they destroyed my personal property! Vandalized my living space! Poured grease and garbage all over my bed because I accidentally misplaced a cooking pot!”

He gestured wildly, his face a mask of self-pitying rage. “I work my fingers to the bone being the face of this company, bringing in every last customer, and this is the thanks I get? Sabotage! Malice! They’re trying to drive me out!”

Maya took a step forward, her fists clenched, but Elara put a hand on her arm, a silent command to hold. Elara’s expression remained one of glacial calm. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t deny the accusation. She simply stood her ground, the embodiment of weary dignity.

His performance, however, wasn’t having the desired effect. The other vendors weren’t looking at Elara with scorn. They were looking at Gavin. They had all seen his long lunches, his endless smoke breaks, his knack for disappearing whenever a heavy crate needed lifting. They had heard him loudly taking credit for designs they knew were Elara’s. His tale of being the hardworking victim rang hollow against the backdrop of their shared experience.

“Is that true, Elara?” Beatrice asked, her voice now quiet and concerned.

Elara met the woman’s gaze. She didn’t need to list her grievances—the machine, the ruined leather. The community already knew her work ethic. They knew her character.

“There are two sides to every story, Beatrice,” Elara said, her voice steady and clear. “Ours is a business dispute. I’m sorry it’s spilled out into the open.”

Her calm, professional response was more damning to Gavin than any shouted denial. It painted him as exactly what he was: a child throwing a tantrum. He seemed to realize it, too. His face flushed a deeper, angrier red when he saw the sympathetic looks being sent Elara’s way. He had expected outrage on his behalf, a mob ready to condemn the crazy women. Instead, he got quiet judgment.

With a final, frustrated scream that sounded more like a wounded animal, he swept a stack of his own tacky plaques from the table. They clattered to the dusty ground. “Fine! Have your stupid little hobby! I’ll be back with a lawyer! You’ll never work this circuit again!”

He stormed off, disappearing into the growing crowds of the Faire, leaving a wake of shattered wood and shattered dignity.

The silence that followed was broken by the steady, rhythmic clang… clang… clang of the blacksmith’s hammer from down the row. A few moments later, Kael Blackwood appeared, wiping his hands on his soot-stained leather apron. He walked right past Gavin’s mess and stopped in front of Elara. His kind eyes held a deep well of understanding.

“I saw that,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Are you alright?”

“We’re fine,” Elara said, the tension finally beginning to ebb from her shoulders.

“Good,” Kael nodded. He looked at the mess on the ground, then back at her. “Some people can’t stand to see real talent shine brighter than their own cheap varnish.” He gave her a small, supportive smile. “My forge is always open if you need to get away from… this. Or if you just need a cup of tea made with water that’s actually boiled over a fire.”

The simple offer of sanctuary, of solidarity, felt like a lifeline. “Thank you, Kael. I might take you up on that.”

As he walked back to his forge, Beatrice and a few other vendors came over, not with questions, but with quiet words of support. “Don’t you worry, dear.” “His work was junk anyway.” “You two are the real artists here.” The invisible walls of the rolling village were closing ranks, protecting their own.

When they were finally alone, Maya let out a long, shaky breath. “Well. That’s that, I guess.”

“Yes,” Elara agreed, a sense of grim finality settling over her. The partnership was well and truly dead, its corpse left out for the whole Faire to see.

That evening, after closing the booth, they didn’t retreat into the poisoned atmosphere of the RV. Instead, they took a walk to the far edge of the Faire grounds, to a quiet hill overlooking the sea of tents and bonfires. The sounds of revelry were muted here, the air cool and clean.

“He’s going to make this as difficult as possible,” Maya said, staring down at the twinkling lights. “The bank account, the business license, the RV title… it’s all tangled up.”

“I know,” Elara said. She reached up and touched the small leather feather braided into her hair, a nervous habit. But as her fingers brushed against the familiar texture, a new feeling bloomed in her chest, pushing aside the anxiety. It was determination. “But we’re not just going to detangle. We’re going to start over. Completely.”

Maya turned to her, a hopeful glint in her eyes. “You mean…?”

“I mean our own company,” Elara said, the words tasting like freedom. “Just you and me. No dead weight. No saboteurs. We build our own brand, from the ground up.”

A slow, wide grin spread across Maya’s face, the first genuine smile Elara had seen on her all day. “I like the sound of that. What would we call it?”

Elara looked from the intricate feather in her hair to Maya’s fiery, passionate spirit. A name came to her, simple and strong, born from the heart of their craft and their bond.

“How about ‘Feather & Flame Leathers’?”

Maya’s grin widened. “Feather & Flame. Yeah. I can live with that.” She bumped her shoulder against Elara’s. “Okay, boss. Let’s draw up a battle plan.”

There, under the vast, starry sky, far from the grease and the anger, they began to scheme. The old business was a wreck, but from its ashes, a new forge was ready to be lit.