“…Niamh.”
Marina’s foot froze mid-step, her heart lurching. For a second, she wondered if she’d misheard.
Samuel was the first to clap, and the rest of the room quickly followed, applause swelling for Niamh.
Except Jonathan.
He sat with his brow furrowed, his face betraying neither surprise nor disappointment.
Niamh strode forward, every movement poised and assured. She hadn’t gone out of her way to dress up, yet there was something undeniably captivating about her—elegant, self-possessed, impossible to ignore.
“Wait a minute!”
Marina darted in front of Samuel and the other two judges.
“Are you serious? Did you make a mistake? How could Niamh be the winner?”
She no longer cared how desperate she looked; she needed an explanation.
“I was way faster than her, and you just finished complimenting my craftsmanship!”
Samuel met her objections with a calm, almost amused smile.
“Yes, Ms. Thornton, your technique is excellent—one of the best I’ve seen in the country.”
“Then why?”
“I said, in the country…”
Catherine, one of the judges, cut in.
It clicked for Marina in that instant: all the judges’ praise had come with a qualifier—within the country.
Her face went ghostly pale.
So no matter how good she was, her skills were only top-tier by Aldonian standards.
“No… That’s impossible… Niamh’s hand is still injured. How could she possibly pull off work at an international level?”
Seeing that Marina still couldn’t accept the outcome, Samuel simply handed her the restored scepter Niamh had worked on.
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