Aunt Mara only agreed on the condition that Nysa's chores continued without delay.
"Be home by sunset," Jorren had growled the night before. "Don't bring shame to the family."
As if she was truly family.
She shook the thought away and stepped into the streets of Windale. The town buzzed with its usual rhythm—vendors opening shops, children darting through the narrow alleys, traders unloading carts. Windale wasn't wealthy, but it sat close enough to the palace that it saw a steady flow of business. That meant coin if one had the right craft.
Madame Selene's shop sat at the edge of the market square—small, elegant, and always gleaming with light. The sign above the door read Selene's Fine Works, carved into polished brass, a testament to her reputation.
Nysa paused in front of the door, heart fluttering. She could already smell metal and polish in the air.
She stepped in.
The shop was warmer than she expected, and brighter. Crystals hung from thin wires along the walls, casting prismatic light as the sun hit them. Velvet-lined shelves displayed earrings, brooches, pendants—each more intricate than the last. It was like stepping into a treasure chest.
A woman stood at a workbench near the back. She wore a deep purple gown, her silver-streaked black hair tied in an elegant knot. Her hands moved with effortless grace over a looped chain.
"Madame Selene?" Nysa said softly.
The woman looked up.
Her eyes, the color of storm clouds, studied Nysa for a long moment before she smiled faintly. "You're early."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. I don't tolerate laziness."
Nysa nodded quickly. "I'll work hard."
Selene gestured toward the second workbench. "That's your station. You'll clean tools, sort gemstones, and observe for now. No designing until I say. If you impress me, you'll shape your own pieces."
"Yes, ma'am," Nysa said again, trying not to smile too brightly.
The hours passed quickly. She cleaned polishing stones, sorted amethysts from garnets, and carefully filed metal strands as instructed. Selene rarely spoke unless giving orders, but she never scolded—only watched.
Nysa worked silently but kept stealing glances at Selene's hands. The way she twisted wire into spirals, the flick of her wrist while setting stones. Every movement was like music in metal.
At midday, Selene brought out bread and cheese. Nysa hesitated, but the woman motioned for her to sit.
"You've done well. Most girls can't sit still for more than an hour."
"I like working with my hands," Nysa said, surprised by the compliment.
"So I see." Selene eyed her. "You have a mind that works in shapes. You used to carve wood, yes?"
"Yes. With my uncle."
"That's a good foundation. Precision, patience." She took a sip from her cup. "But jewelry is more than carving. It's emotion. Memory. Sometimes pain."
Nysa looked down. Her fingers itched to sketch again.
"I had a pendant once," she said quietly. "A gift. I've tried to recreate it for years, but it never comes out right."
Selene studied her. "What did it look like?"
"A flame. Curved like wind moving through fire. It had a meaning—my name means 'beginning of flame.' It was engraved with something, but I was too young to read it."
Selene nodded thoughtfully. "Bring your sketches tomorrow. I'll see them."
Nysa blinked. "You will?"
"Only fools ignore the fire inside a girl's hands."
At that, a flicker of warmth lit Nysa's chest. She nodded, holding back the rush of emotion.
The rest of the afternoon was spent assembling a simple chain. Selene showed her how to bend each loop, how to align links so they wouldn't twist. It wasn't glamorous work, but it was a start.
By the time the sky turned gold, Nysa had cleaned every corner and packed her tools. As she left, Selene handed her a small pouch.
"Wages," she said. "Not much, but you've earned it."
Nysa stared at the coin inside. Two silvers and a copper. More than she'd ever held.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Selene only nodded and turned back to her work.
Outside, the wind had picked up, rustling through the cobbled streets. The market was closing, and the lanterns of Windale began to flicker to life. Nysa clutched the pouch tightly, heart fluttering with something close to joy.
When she reached home, the familiar weight of chores greeted her, but for once, it didn't sting. She swept the steps, lit the fire, and even peeled potatoes without complaint.
Kaeli sneered when she saw the pouch, but Nysa didn't rise to it.
That night, lying on her bed beneath the rafters, she pulled out her sketch. Then, with careful fingers and a fresh piece of charcoal, she drew again.
This time, the flame seemed to flicker just right.
---
The days at Madame Selene's shop had begun to fall into a rhythm—polishing stones, melting metals, taking orders, and trying to stay unnoticed by the more experienced apprentices. Nysa, however, was not the kind to remain hidden. Her designs had a charm that pulled eyes even when no one wanted to admit it.
"Who did this?" Madame Selene asked one morning, holding up a delicate silver bracelet inlaid with three teardrop-shaped sapphires that shimmered like dew.
The workshop fell silent.
Nysa hesitated. "I... I did, ma'am."
Selene's lips twitched into a small smile. "Hmm. Good. It's graceful work. Keep it up."
Nysa flushed with pride, but from the corner of her eye, she saw Mira—the oldest apprentice—tighten her grip on her own work, jaw clenching.
That was how it often went. Praise for Nysa meant cold glances from the others. Whispers started the moment she left a room.
"She thinks she's special because of her curls."
"She only got in here because of pity."
Nysa had grown used to pretending she didn't hear them. She focused on her work, on each tiny bead and curve, the tools in her hand steady even when her heart wasn't.
One day, while Nysa swept the floor near the counter, a loud customer swept into the shop like a storm.
.
.