"I'm here for the pendant I ordered—two weeks ago!" the woman barked. She wore too many rings and carried herself like she expected people to move before she even asked.
Selene raised an eyebrow. "It was picked up yesterday. By your maid."
The woman blinked. "What?"
There was a pause. Everyone in the workshop froze, listening.
Selene waved her off calmly. "Check with her. Now—anyone else?"
Before the door even fully shut behind the angry customer, one of the younger boys whispered, "Bet her pendant was ugly anyway."
The group burst into muffled laughter.
Nysa smiled, then turned back to her workbench—until she noticed someone else chuckling nearby. A girl her age, with curly blonde hair tied in two short puffs, and eyes as sharp as her chisel. She'd been working silently beside Mira until now.
"I'm Cara," she said, holding out a hand. "You're Nysa, right? The one with the perfect fingers."
Nysa laughed. "Perfect fingers?"
"Selene says you carve like someone twice your age."
Nysa glanced down, a little shy. "I've always liked tiny details. I used to help my uncle in his shop."
"Wood?" Cara asked.
Nysa nodded. "He's a woodworker."
"That explains the steady hands. I'm better at melting than carving," Cara said, scrunching her nose. "And don't worry about Mira. She acts like the queen of the forge, but she only got here first."
It was the first time someone didn't sound annoyed just to be talking to her. Nysa grinned. "Thanks."
From then on, Cara began appearing at her side more often—whispering jokes while Madame Selene inspected work, pointing out which customers liked to argue for discounts, and sharing scraps of bread during breaks.
"Do you ever miss home?" Cara asked once, as they waited for a batch of metal to cool.
Nysa didn't answer right away. "Home… doesn't really exist anymore."
Cara didn't press. She only nodded and nudged her shoulder gently.
One afternoon, as the sun poured golden light through the stained-glass windows of the shop, Nysa got her first real customer.
A quiet man with a crooked beard entered, staring at a crumpled drawing in his hand. "I need this made," he said, placing it on the counter.
Selene glanced at it. "Custom work. Two weeks."
The man hesitated. "Is there someone who can… make it more lifelike? This was drawn by my son. It's for his late mother."
Selene looked around. Her eyes landed on Nysa.
"She can try," she said.
Nysa stepped forward. "I'll do my best."
The drawing was of a small bird resting on a flower—simple, messy lines, clearly drawn by a child. But in it, Nysa saw something tender and quiet.
She worked for days, staying late after the others left. She shaped the petals with the softest curves, and filed the bird's wings until they shimmered. It wasn't perfect. But it was honest.
When the man returned and opened the box, he went still.
"My boy will love it," he said, voice thick. "Thank you."
After he left, Cara nudged her. "That was beautiful."
Nysa beamed. "It felt like… I was building a memory. Not just jewelry."
Cara tilted her head. "You always say strange things like that?"
Nysa giggled. "Probably."
She didn't know then that the piece she made would soon hang in the front window for all customers to see. Or that Mira, watching silently from behind, would fume for days.
But for the moment, Nysa simply felt proud. The spark in her chest flickered warmer.
Something was changing. Slowly, yes. But changing.
---
The shop bell jingled with its usual tired chime as Cara breezed in, cheeks flushed, a scarf tied too loosely around her blonde curls. Nysa hadn't been at the workshop in a week, and the moment Cara spotted her sitting behind the front counter, her eyes widened like she'd seen a ghost.
"Nysa!" she gasped, crossing the room quickly. "Where have you been? Madame Selene was this close to having a meltdown."
Nysa stood slowly, brushing the dust from her apron. "Aunt Mara's been sick. Real sick. I couldn't leave her."
Cara blinked, then softened. "Oh. I didn't know it was that serious."
"It was," Nysa said, her voice quieter than usual. "Fever. Coughing. Could barely stand. Uncle Jorren said she just needed rest, but someone had to clean and cook and make sure she ate."
There was a pause. The weight of responsibility hung in the air, but only for a moment. Then Cara tilted her head, a playful smirk creeping back onto her lips.
"Well, don't worry, you haven't missed too much. Except the juiciest gossip Windale has heard in months!"
Nysa raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Cara leaned on the counter, her voice dropping into a dramatic whisper. "The royal siblings visited town."
Nysa blinked. "What? Here?"
"Yes! I swear it on my mother's last decent dress." Cara's voice rose with excitement. "They rode in with a whole guard, all regal and cold and untouchable. Princess Serana was like a doll carved from snow, and the prince…" She placed a hand to her chest. "Auren. Prince Auren. Nysa, he is breathtaking."
Nysa chuckled, unable to stop the small smile that formed. "You only got a glimpse."
"That's all I needed!" Cara twirled dramatically. "He had on black—like real black, not dusty-town-black. His hair matched his horse. I'm telling you, he looked like something out of a dream. You know, the dangerous kind that still kisses your hand before ruining your life."
Nysa laughed harder at that. "You're hopeless."
"Hopelessly smitten," Cara corrected, plopping onto the stool next to her. "Honestly, if he looked my way, I might forget how to speak."
"You forget how to speak all the time."
"Touché."
Their laughter filled the shop, warm and quick. Nysa felt the tension of the past week slip off her shoulders just a little. It had been exhausting—tending to Aunt Mara, enduring Uncle Jorren's silence, Kaeli's complaining, and Lina's quiet distance. No one had said it out loud, but she knew they blamed her for everything bad that happened.
Cara nudged her gently. "Also, I may have turned down two suitors this week. Just saying."
.
.