Rain drummed against the shop's shutters as Nysa packed up. Lioren lingered by the door, shaking water from his sleeves.
"You don't have to walk me home," she said for the third time.
"I know." He held out her cloak. "But if I don't, who'll remind you to look up?"
"At what?"
"The stars. You're always head-down, working. Might miss something."
She hesitated, then took the cloak. "Fine. But if you quote poetry, I'm pushing you into the canal."
He pressed a hand to his chest. "Cruel. What if it's really good poetry?"
"Especially then."
But when they stepped outside, she did glance up—just once—at the sky.
And he didn't quote a single line.
---
Whispers swirled through Windale like the spring wind: soft, thrilling, and impossible to ignore.
It began with a messenger riding through town, draped in the royal crest—crimson and gold, his scroll sealed with the mark of the crown. By dusk, the news was everywhere.
The Royal Celebration was returning.
Held once each year in the capital of Aeloria, it was the one event where commoners and nobles dined under the same vaulted ceiling—at least in theory. The palace gates would open, and names would be drawn from every town and village across the kingdom. It was said to be the king's "gesture of goodwill." A reminder that Aeloria belonged to its people.
But in Windale, it was something else entirely.
It was spectacle. Status. A dream wrapped in velvet.
And for the first time, Nysa's name was on the list.
She found out two days later when Madame Selene entered the workshop with a folded paper and an expression caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
"Where's that girl?" the old woman barked.
Nysa straightened from her bench. "Here, madam."
"You'll want to sit."
Nysa blinked, brushing her curls from her face. "What is it?"
Madame Selene unfolded the parchment and held it out. "Your name's on the guest list."
Nysa's brow furrowed. "Guest list?"
"For the Royal Celebration."
The room went still.
Cara's file slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.
"Me?" Nysa asked, stunned. "Are you sure it's not a mistake?"
"I don't mistake names," Selene grunted. "Congratulations, girl. Don't go tripping over yourself in front of royalty."
Nysa took the paper with trembling hands. Her name was there—printed neatly between dozens of others selected from Windale.
A swirl of emotions hit her all at once—shock, disbelief, excitement... and confusion.
Cara stood slowly, her face unreadable.
"You've never been chosen, right?" Nysa asked, looking toward her.
Cara blinked, lips pressed tight. "No. Never."
Nysa's face fell. "Oh."
But Cara forced a smile and clapped her hands once. "Well! That's wonderful, isn't it? You're finally being noticed."
"I... guess," Nysa said slowly. "I never thought they'd pick someone like me."
Cara leaned in and squeezed her hand. "Maybe they finally saw what I always see."
But her grip was tighter than usual.
---
The news rippled through the marketplace like a sudden gust of wind, turning heads and sparking whispers wherever it traveled. Nysa heard the murmurs follow her as she made her way to the well, the heavy water jug balanced against her hip.
"Look at her," a spice vendor muttered to his neighbor, not bothering to lower his voice. "Think she's better than us now, just because some noble took notice?"
His companion snorted. "Give it a week. They'll toss her back soon enough, just like they always do with our kind."
Nysa kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, her jaw clenched tight. The rough rope burned against her palms as she lowered the bucket into the well's dark depths.
"Careful there, little mouse," Kaeli's sharp voice cut through the chatter. She leaned against the well's stone rim, her arms crossed. "Wouldn't want you to fall in before your big debut. Though I suppose the nobles would find that entertaining too - a drowning peasant for their amusement."
The bucket hit the water with a splash. Nysa hauled it back up, her arms trembling with the effort. "I'm not here for your entertainment either, Kaeli."
Kaeli's laugh was like the scrape of metal on stone. "Oh, but you are. We all are. Just wait until you see what happens when common girls like us try to play in their world."
Back home, the air in the cramped kitchen was thick with the smell of burnt bread and simmering resentment. Uncle Jorren didn't look up from his meal when she entered. "So. The whole town's talking about our little celebrity."
Nysa set the water jug down carefully. "It's just one evening, Uncle."
"One evening where you represent this family," he growled, finally fixing her with a hard stare. "One misstep, one wrong word, and it's not just your neck on the line. We'll all suffer for your arrogance."
Aunt Mara hurried over, wiping her hands on her apron. "Now, Jorren, it's an honor to be invited." But when she turned to Nysa, her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Just... don't go expecting too much from this, dear. These things rarely turn out the way young girls hope."
Nysa nodded mutely, the weight of their words settling like stones in her stomach. Yet beneath the doubt and warnings, something stubborn fluttered in her chest - a traitorous little spark that refused to be extinguished.
---
That evening, Lioren came to the shop just before closing, carrying two plums and a folded napkin of sugared bread.
"I heard," he said, handing her one of the plums. "You're going to the celebration."
Nysa took it carefully. "How did you find out so fast?"
"Everyone knows," he said. "Windale isn't exactly a quiet town."
She smiled faintly. "I'm still trying to believe it."
"You should," he said. "You deserve it."
They sat together on the back step of the shop, the sky stained orange and pink behind them.
"Do you think it'll change anything?" she asked after a moment.
Lioren looked at her, expression thoughtful. "Maybe. Or maybe it's just a glimpse of what you could have."
She looked at him then, studying the sharp lines of his jaw, the kindness in his voice. "I'm not sure I want to be seen like that."
"Then go to be remembered for something else."
She smiled at that.
And for a moment, the thought of royalty didn't feel so distant.
.
.