Downstairs, the clang of metal and wood told her that Uncle Jorren was already in the workshop. With a deep breath, she left her little room and walked into the kitchen where Aunt Mara was kneading dough.
The woman glanced up. Her lips tightened. "You'll help with the firewood today. Kaeli's not doing it."
"Yes, Aunt Mara," Nysa whispered.
Kaeli strolled in moments later, smirking. "Poor thing. Still soaked from the royal bath?"
Nysa flushed but said nothing. Lina, who sat quietly peeling potatoes at the corner of the table, glanced up briefly but looked away again.
"I said I was sorry," Nysa murmured.
Kaeli scoffed. "You should've stayed outside with the cart like you were told."
Aunt Mara didn't interfere. She never did.
After breakfast, Nysa quietly slipped into the workshop. Uncle Jorren was there, his sleeves rolled up, jaw set like carved stone. He was sanding a chair leg furiously, sawdust flying around him.
She hesitated in the doorway. "Uncle?"
He didn't look at her.
"I didn't mean to ruin anything. I just—he was a boy, and he wanted to play…"
The sound of the sandpaper halted. He turned slowly.
"A boy?" he said, voice low and tight. "You mean the prince?"
Nysa nodded, her throat dry.
He stepped forward. "Do you know what you've done?"
"I—I tried to help him when he fell. I didn't know—"
"The royal steward revoked the entire commission," Jorren snapped. "Do you know what that means? No coin. No prestige. Nothing. And you—after everything—I brought you along because you help me. And you repay me with this?"
"I'm sorry," she choked out, tears springing again. "I didn't mean to—"
"Don't cry," he snapped. "Not here. Go split the firewood. You'll have double chores for the week. And don't expect full meals."
Nysa flinched but nodded and backed out of the workshop.
Kaeli was waiting outside with a smug look. "Told you so."
The day dragged. Her arms ached from swinging the axe. Blisters bubbled on her palms, but she said nothing. When Aunt Mara handed her only a piece of dry bread for lunch, she said thank you.
That evening, when the others were eating stew, Nysa scrubbed the kitchen floor in silence, her stomach growling.
Lina passed by on her way to bed and paused. She opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, then glanced toward Kaeli—who was laughing at something—and walked away.
The days that followed didn't get better.
Jorren barely spoke to her unless barking orders. Aunt Mara seemed colder. Kaeli took every opportunity to mock her. Only Lina showed small kindnesses: passing her a scrap of meat under the table or helping her fetch water without being asked.
But Nysa felt hollow.
Her grief was no longer sharp and hot. It was quiet now. Lingering. The kind that sat behind her eyes and under her ribs, waiting for night to fall.
One evening, as she washed her apron near the well, she whispered, "I'm sorry, Mama."
She looked at the stars—cold and distant—and wondered where Taren was. If he was safe. If he remembered her at all.
Would he be mad that she lost the pendant?
A tear slid down her cheek, and she wiped it away.
In the days to come, she worked harder. She learned to listen more, to speak less. She began to memorize the names of woods Uncle Jorren used, the way the grain curled, the smell of cedar when it was freshly cut. He didn't praise her, but he stopped growling. That was enough.
But the fire in her never went out.
She kept her grief close, tucked behind her smile.
And though she never said it aloud, she promised herself: One day, she would find her pendant again. One day, she'd find Taren.
And one day, someone would see her—not as a burden, not as a servant—but as someone who mattered.
Even if it took everything.
---
10 years later
The air in Windale smelled of morning frost and chimney smoke as the town stirred awake. The pale light of dawn filtered through the thin shutters of Nysa's small room, casting a silver hue across the worn floorboards. She sat cross-legged on her straw-stuffed mattress, a folded scrap of parchment resting on her lap. Her fingers hovered above the paper, clutching a piece of charcoal worn nearly to a nub.
She stared at the half-finished sketch—again. The flame-shaped pendant was almost right, but something was missing. The curve too sharp, the symbol too shallow. No matter how many times she drew it, it never matched the one that used to sit warm against her chest.
Nysa sighed and leaned back, gazing at the ceiling. It had been ten years since she last saw it. Ten years since the fire, the screaming, the smoke. Since Taren's tiny hand slipped from hers.
Her grip on the charcoal tightened.
"Nysa!" Aunt Mara's voice rang up the stairs like a cracked bell. "Water! And sweep the front steps before you leave!"
"I'm coming!" she called back, already stuffing the sketch under her pillow.
Outside, the frost crunched under her boots as she hurried to the well. She hauled water with practiced strength, her arms lean from years of splitting firewood and sanding wood in the workshop. She moved like muscle and rhythm were stitched into her bones.
Back inside, she swept the steps, warmed a bit of leftover broth, and left it covered for Lina and Kaeli. The latter, now as moody and sharp-tongued as ever at seventeen, had been more unbearable lately. Lina, on the other hand, barely spoke—though Nysa caught her watching sometimes, eyes quiet and distant.
Nysa tied her hair back—now a tumble of long, unruly brown curls—and changed into her cleanest tunic and apron. It was patched in two places, but she'd brushed off the dust as best as she could. Today had to be perfect.
Today was her first day at Madame Selene's.
After three years of pleading—years spent convincing Uncle Jorren that a girl with "clever fingers" was worth more with tools in hand than cleaning soot—he had finally relented. Begrudgingly.
.
.