Later that night, lying on the straw mattress in her shared room, Nysa stared at the ceiling.
Cara was her friend. The only real friend she'd had in years. Could so many people be wrong?
She remembered the time Cara shared her lunch, the evenings they walked home together, the way she always made her laugh.
But she also remembered how quick Cara was to change the subject when asked about money... how she'd started keeping more orders to herself... how Nysa's designs ended up sold under Cara's name "just for convenience."
Still, Nysa told herself there had to be an explanation.
Didn't Cara say once that real friends don't doubt each other?
Nysa rolled over, clutching her blanket close.
Outside, Windale's streets were silent.
But something was shifting.
And this time, Nysa felt it.
---
Windale stirred with the warmth of early spring. The scent of dust and blooming lilacs filled the streets as sunlight stretched over cobbled roads and merchants opened their stalls. Inside Madame Selene's shop, the hum of work had already begun.
Nysa stood by the side table, her fingers twisting silver wire with careful precision. Her hands were skilled, confident, moving faster than the others—years of practice sharpening her touch. A pair of sapphire earrings sparkled under her breath, nearly done.
"You make the rest of us look lazy," Cara teased lightly, leaning over Nysa's shoulder.
Nysa smiled without looking up. "You're the one who always says to make things shine."
Cara's laugh tinkled. "I say many things. You're the one who listens."
At that moment, the door chimed. A man—perhaps in his early twenties—stepped in. He was tall, modestly dressed in a clean navy tunic, and carried a folded cloak. His brown eyes scanned the shop until they landed on Nysa.
Cara's smile faltered.
He approached, pausing a little too long at the edge of the workshop area. "Excuse me," he said, his voice gentle. "Are you Nysa?"
Nysa looked up, blinking. "Yes?"
But before she could rise, Cara had already stepped between them.
"Oh! She's quite busy," Cara said quickly, placing herself between him and the table. "Very important commission. I handle all her requests."
The man frowned slightly. "I wasn't asking for work—just wanted to—"
"She doesn't really talk during work hours," Cara cut in, her voice dipped in sweetness. "But I'll let her know you came by, alright?"
She ushered him toward the door so smoothly Nysa barely had time to process what happened. By the time she looked up from her project, he was already leaving with a puzzled look.
"Who was that?" Nysa asked, her tone light but curious.
"Just someone trying to sell cheap stones," Cara said with a roll of her eyes. "I spared you the trouble."
"Oh… alright."
The next few hours passed in the usual rush. But later that week, another visitor arrived—this one more persistent.
He came with the scent of sandalwood and confidence, with golden skin and wind-tossed hair the color of chestnuts. His clothes were stylish but not flashy, and his smile had a roguish tilt that made a few heads turn—even Madame Selene's.
"Looking for someone?" the old woman asked without looking up from her ledger.
"I believe so," he said. "If her name's Nysa and she happens to work wonders with silver."
Nysa, startled, looked up from the polishing station. "Yes?"
"Then I found the right place," he grinned. "Lioren."
He offered his hand, and she hesitantly took it. "Nysa."
"I've seen your work in the market stalls," he said, releasing her hand. "I came to buy a piece and found out the maker was even more striking than the art."
Nysa flushed. "Thank you. That's kind of you."
Cara, watching from across the room, narrowed her eyes.
Lioren visited again the next day—and the next. Sometimes with a small gift: a ribbon, a book of sketches, a little paper bird folded in clever lines. Each time, he asked Nysa about her work. Her dreams. Her favorite kind of stone. What colors she saw when she closed her eyes.
He didn't push. He lingered.
And she, despite her guarded heart, began to look forward to those visits.
Nysa's chisel hovered over the moonstone as a shadow fell across her worktable. She didn't need to look up to know who it was.
"You hold your tools like they're part of your hands," Lioren said, leaning against the bench.
She flicked a glance at him. "And you hover like you've got nothing better to do."
He grinned, picking up a discarded shard. "I don't. Not when there's art being made." Rolling the fragment between his fingers, he added, "Even your scraps are pretty."
"That's a cracked rock."
"Exactly. It's honest." He set it down gently. "Unlike the nobles who buy your work—all polish, no flaws allowed."
A surprised laugh escaped her. "You shouldn't say that where clients can hear."
"Good thing I only care about impressing you."
A week later, he slid a wrapped bundle across her table.
Nysa untied the twine, then froze. "This dye costs half a month's earnings."
"Not if you trade a favor to the right merchant."
She narrowed her eyes. "What kind of favor?"
"The kind where I don't ask about his 'imports,' and he doesn't ask why I need indigo that matches a certain artist's sketches."
Her face warmed. "You're ridiculous."
"And you," he said, leaning in just enough to make her pulse jump, "are avoiding saying thank you."
She shoved his shoulder. "Thank you. Now go away."
He went—but not before flashing that infuriating grin over his shoulder.
"You're wasting your time with someone like that," Cara said sharply one afternoon, startling Nysa from her thoughts.
"What do you mean?" Nysa asked, gently setting aside her pliers.
"He's clearly just playing around," Cara continued. "You think someone like him is serious? Men say sweet things all the time to pretty girls. Doesn't mean it's real."
Nysa frowned. "He hasn't done anything wrong."
"Yet," Cara muttered, before pasting on a smile. "Just saying—be careful. You're too nice for your own good."
Later that evening, Nysa stayed behind to clean. Her hands worked mindlessly while her mind drifted—to the way Lioren made her laugh, the way he never seemed rushed or distracted when she spoke.
But Cara's words curled at the edge of her thoughts, like a shadow.
As she stepped out of the shop with her apron folded in her arms, she spotted something tucked by the door. A pressed lily with a folded paper beneath it.
She opened it.
> "To the girl who smiles with her eyes and shapes metal like poetry. Until tomorrow. —L."
Nysa pressed it to her chest and smiled.
Elsewhere in Windale, Cara sat in a candlelit room counting coins. Some were hers. Some were Nysa's—pieces sold under her name, sold for triple their price.
Her smile didn't reach her eyes as she whispered, "Boys always fall for the light. But fire burns too."
.
.