All Chapters of The Ironsmith's Mandate: Chapter 21 - Chapter 28

Passing 7.2***One week ago…***The front gate clicked open like a small, polite announcement as the first of the Maestro’s relatives arrived in a pleasant trickle: with them were neighbors carrying covered dishes, a pair of cousins in sensible coats, someone from Manila who brought a fruitcake that tried very hard to look traditional. I met them at the door because that is what hosts do; Salve had given me a list in the kitchen and a look that said: distribute, divert, and no talk of legal bullshit anywhere. I kept the Maestro’s will on the back burner with the rest of the winter stew: simmering, necessary, but not to be boiled over tonight.“Welcome,” I said to each face as they came in, saying names like small blessings. I took coats, found places for hands to rest, put someone beside the tray of fried lumpia, and performed the brief choreography of hospitality: move thi

Passing 7.4***The first day of school after Christmas break always feels like stepping into a place that forgot you briefly. The air around Southern Cross High still carried that odd blend of new notebooks, disinfectant, and sunlight striking wet pavement: a combination that made you feel both refreshed and uneasy, as though the halls had been reset while you weren’t looking.Jaric swaggered beside me, as if the weeks away from classes had only polished his confidence instead of taming it. His bag hung off one shoulder like a prop, his grin already set to “default mischief.” The morning light caught the faint tan he’d earned from afternoons of pretending to “rehabilitate” his arm while actually flirting at basketball courts across San Vicente.“Ah, I’ve missed this smell,” he declared, spreading his arms as if greeting old friends. “School’s back, my man. New semester, new rules, same cafeteria food.”“So much for New Year’s reso

Commencement 8.1***The ceiling fans did their best, but they only managed to push the heat around. It was that kind of early summer afternoon — air thick as syrup, sunlight pressing through the gym’s tall windows in molten ribbons, the smell of starch and perfume and floor wax tangling in the stillness. Rows upon rows of white-and-gold chairs faced the stage where the podium waited, a humble wooden island drowning in the promise of speeches about the future.It was graduation day at Southern Cross High School.We looked like an army of candles about to melt: cream uniforms stiff with starch, golden sashes drooping under the heat. The principal stood at the microphone, his voice amplified by speakers that whined every few sentences, talking about excellence, about honor, about the “boundless horizons that await the youth of today.” I tried to listen for a minute, but the words washed over me like the steady rhythm of a tide I’d

Commencement 8.3***“San Vicente, Maximo.”The name sounded different when it came through a microphone.It always had. Even during tournaments, when announcers stretched it across speakers and turned it into something louder, sharper—something meant to echo. But this was quieter in its own way. More deliberate. Like it was being weighed before it was released into the air.For a fraction of a second, I didn’t move.Then my body remembered what to do.I stood.The chair legs scraped faintly against the varnished floor. The noise barely registered, swallowed by the swell of applause that rose from the gymnasium like a tide hitting stone. It wasn’t thunderous—not the kind that shakes your bones—but it was steady. Warm. Personal.I stepped into the aisle.The walk to the stage wasn’t long. Maybe ten steps. Fifteen, if you counted the slight detour around a crooked chair. But in that moment, it stret