Nysa raised both brows. "Two?"
"Yes. One's a baker's son—smelled like flour and desperation. The other's a guard's apprentice. Strong arms, no brain." She paused. "Not that I mind strong arms, but he talked about swords for thirty minutes, Nysa."
Nysa giggled. "So picky."
"I have standards." Cara smirked, but there was something sharper behind it. "Besides, none of them can compare to Prince Auren."
Nysa tilted her head. "You've really got it bad."
"Oh, you have no idea." Cara leaned back, her eyes dreamy. "When he stepped off that horse... I swear every girl nearby forgot how to breathe."
Nysa didn't know why, but a strange flutter brushed her chest. She thought of dark eyes and a boy in a garden, long ago. The memory was hazy, fogged by time and grief. She reached for her neck out of habit, her fingers brushing the empty space where her pendant should have been.
Nothing.
The flutter faded.
"I'm glad you're back though," Cara said, stretching. "Madame Selene will probably work you to the bone for disappearing."
"I didn't disappear," Nysa said lightly. "I was working. Just not with gold or wire."
Cara leaned forward again, elbows on the counter. "Well, you're lucky. I had to share a bench with Mira the Mouse all week. She kept sneezing and muttering under her breath like she was cursed."
"I'm sure she missed me too," Nysa said dryly.
"Oh, definitely. Everyone did." Cara grinned. "Even Damos pretended to sulk because you weren't around to correct his awful designs."
Nysa rolled her eyes, though she smiled. The shop had started to feel like a second home, a place where she mattered—even if most of the others didn't exactly show it. Only Cara made it easier, made her feel seen.
"I'll be back tomorrow," Nysa said. "Aunt Mara's finally sleeping more."
"Good. Things were too quiet without you."
They fell into a comfortable silence after that. Cara swung her legs like a child, humming something off-key while Nysa watched the fading afternoon light filter through the shop's windows.
"I missed this," Nysa said softly.
Cara looked at her. "What?"
"Laughing. Talking. Feeling like me."
Cara's smile was gentle. "Then we'll do it more. Deal?"
"Deal."
They sat there a moment longer, watching as the last rays of sun painted the wooden counters gold. Outside, the street buzzed with the usual life—vendors shouting, carts rolling, kids darting through alleyways.
And then—
The door burst open with a jingle.
Madame Selene stood in the doorway, hair frazzled, hands on her hips. Her sharp eyes scanned the room until they locked on Nysa.
"You," she said. "Tomorrow. Early. We've got a noblewoman coming and I want the display case flawless."
Nysa stood quickly, bowing her head. "Yes, Madame."
"And tell that cousin of yours to stop sniffing around the back entrance," Selene added, half under her breath. "I run a workshop, not a street circus."
With that, she vanished just as quickly as she arrived.
Cara blinked. "She missed you too. In her own terrifying way."
Nysa just laughed. "I should get home."
Cara stood too. "Walk you halfway?"
"Always."
They stepped out together into the cool breeze of evening, shoulder to shoulder. Laughter still clung to their lips, the night still light with the comfort of companionship.
But just around the corner, where shadows thickened and whispers bloomed, someone else was watching. Eyes followed the girls' retreating forms with quiet interest. And when Nysa's name floated back through the wind, the figure stiffened.
Then vanished.
---
2 years later
Windale had changed in two years, but not nearly as much as Nysa.
At seventeen, she no longer blended into the corners of the town as she once had. She'd grown taller, her figure delicate but graceful, her features soft and striking all at once. Her thick, curly brown hair often spilled out of the scarf she tied around it, and her hazel eyes, now older and sharper, always seemed to be caught in thought. She wore her beauty lightly, unaware of the way others turned to look when she walked by.
But beauty, in Windale, wasn't always a blessing.
The town's whispers had started a few months ago—gentle at first, then sharper, bolder. "She's too proud now," someone muttered at the well. "Thinks herself better than us, now that she works in Madame Selene's shop." Another voice, more bitter, whispered behind a market stall, "No wonder she has no suitor. Probably full of secrets, that one."
Nysa never responded. She kept her head down and her hands busy. If she noticed the glares or the gossip, she never said a word.
---
Nysa had changed. The mirror in Madame Selene's studio confirmed it, though she barely noticed. Her hands—once calloused from sweeping floors and polishing wood—now moved with grace over silver and stone.
Customers often watched her as she worked, whispering to each other when they thought she couldn't hear. Apprentices she once looked up to now muttered behind her back, their envy hidden behind forced smiles. But none of it seemed to matter. Nysa had Cara.
Two years had passed, and their friendship had grown close—inseparable, even. Cara always found ways to make her laugh, to distract her when things grew heavy at home. Nysa still carried the weight of chores, still rose early to fetch water, still returned late from the shop only to cook for her uncle's family, scrub the floors, and be ready to serve again the next day. But Cara made it bearable.
"Don't mind them," she said with a dramatic roll of her eyes as they sat behind the shop counter. "They're just jealous. Honestly, if I had your face and your skill, I'd be a threat too."
Nysa laughed, tucking her curls behind her ear. "You're the one who gets everyone's attention, not me."
"Oh please," Cara scoffed. "You don't see the way the boys stare at you. Even that merchant's son—what's his name? Elric? He nearly tripped over a crate last week watching you polish gemstones."
Nysa flushed, shaking her head. "You're imagining things."
Cara leaned closer, lips curling into a knowing smirk. "I never imagine boys. I just reject them."
They laughed, the sound soft and girlish, echoing through the backroom of the shop. The worktable before them was scattered with thin chains, jewel molds, and tools glinting in the morning light. Nysa carefully etched the delicate shape of a teardrop gem, the design flowing like memory. She'd been trying again to recreate her pendant—but the flame never came out right. Not yet.
"You've gotten really good at those," Cara said casually, inspecting the piece Nysa had been working on. "Madame Selene says you're her favorite."
Nysa hesitated. "She never said that."
"Not directly, but it's obvious," Cara shrugged. "Half the customers ask for your designs now. Honestly, it's no surprise."
Nysa offered a shy smile. "You helped me a lot when I first started."
"Of course I did." Cara beamed, though her fingers curled slightly against the table edge.
.
.