The Claybourne House at Nightfall

  Brinna sat at the edge of her narrow bed, hands folded tightly in her lap, the candlelight throwing long shadows against the peeling walls.

  The house felt too big without company. Too quiet without Ma’Ryn’s voice drifting across the fields in the mornings, scolding the chickens or arguing with the village boys about proper planting lines.

  Brinna wiped the corner of her eye roughly with the heel of her hand.

  No time for tears. Not now.

  She rocked forward slightly, pressing her palms into her knees. Her eyes were fixed on the darkened window that overlooked Sector 4C — the small, crooked house where two children too bright for their own good now lived alone.

  A sharp flicker caught her attention — a light snapping on inside the Aierenbane house.

  She let out a slow, shuddering breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

  Good. They were home. Alive. Still standing — for now.

  Brinna whispered a prayer into her cupped hands — a strange, stubborn little thing, half curse, half blessing — and blew the candle out, leaving the house in darkness.

  ???

  The Aierenbane House

  Ilyari sat cross-legged at the rickety kitchen table, turning the iron key over and over in her hands, the firelight gleaming off the faint glyphs scratched into its surface.

  Tazien slouched across from her, chewing absently on a broken reed he’d plucked from the garden fence.

  “We have to know,” he said at last, breaking the heavy silence.

  Ilyari nodded, slowly.

  They both rose without speaking and padded back into the cramped bedroom Ma’Ryn had spent most of her time in.

  "Where do we start?" Tazien asked.

  "Using the glyphs, we should find it in no time," Ilyari said, her eyes already scanning the small room. "There." She pointed to a spot by the bed. "We need to move the mattress."

  The mattress sagged heavily when they lifted it, revealing a patch of wood floor slightly different from the rest — newer boards, carefully nailed down, just wide enough for a small box.

  Tazien pried at the edges with a chipped knife. The panel came loose with a hollow thud, revealing a tightly wrapped bundle of faded linen.

  Inside it — a box.

  Smooth black stone. No seams. No lock. No hinges.

  Only the faint shimmer of Primordial Glyphs etched into its surface, pulsing softly as if breathing.

  Ilyari recoiled instinctively.

  Tazien crouched closer, his breath fogging slightly against the box's surface.

  "Ma'Ryn..." he whispered. "She could see it too."

  Ilyari nodded, feeling the truth settle like a stone in her gut.

  Only those who could touch the Primordial Glyphs would even know the box was there.

  This wasn’t just something Ma’Ryn had hidden. It was something Ma’Ryn had protected. Something she had prepared.

  Tazien touched the glyphs lightly, then yanked his hand back as if burned.

  "I can feel it... it's like it's alive. Like it's waiting," he said, voice low.

  Ilyari stood, heart pounding.

  "We're not ready," she said finally.

  Tazien hesitated, then nodded.

  They reburied the box beneath the floorboards, careful to hammer the plank down exactly as they found it.

  The key stayed with them — tucked safely into Ilyari’s belt pouch, heavy as a secret no one else could carry.

  ???

  Morning

  Morning came cold and sharp.

  Ilyari and Tazien stood outside Brinna’s weathered home, shivering slightly in the early mist.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Brinna opened the door with her usual brisk energy, wiping floury hands on a stained apron.

  "You're up early," she said, waving them inside.

  "We need help," Tazien blurted, pulling his satchel tighter. "We need clothes. For... the thing."

  "The Acceptance Ceremony," Ilyari added, feeling awkward even saying it aloud.

  Brinna's face softened with a proud little smile.

  "Well, if anyone can make you look respectable enough to shame those peacocks, it's old Master Veylan. He's half-blind now but he still has hands like magic. Go to his shop before noon — he’s buried in commissions by afternoon."

  She handed Ilyari a scrap of parchment with an address scrawled in rough, looping script.

  But then, as she ushered them back toward the door, she paused — almost too casually.

  "And that key," she said lightly, "have you figured it out yet?"

  Both children stiffened.

  Brinna chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. "Ah, don’t mind me. Just an old woman curious about odd things. I’ve never seen a key quite like it. Probably just... something sentimental, knowing Ma’Ryn."

  She winked, sharp and knowing.

  "Now hurry. Veylan’s shop won't stay empty for long."

  They thanked her quickly and darted into the street, hearts hammering again — but this time, not from fear.

  This time, from the thrilling, terrifying sense that their world was about to change. And that Ma’Ryn had left them far more than survival tucked beneath that dusty floor.

  ???

  Veylan's Fine Tailoring – Lower Midring

  The streets of Lower Midring buzzed with the usual clamor — hawkers shouting, wagons rattling, mana-crows pecking at fallen scraps.

  Ilyari and Tazien weaved through the crowds, clutching Brinna’s parchment like a precious map.

  The tailor shop, when they found it, was tucked between a cracked bakery and an abandoned rune-carver's workshop. A faded sign hung overhead, carved in elegant script:

  "Veylan’s Fine Tailoring – Tradition Meets Art."

  The shop itself looked modest — a narrow, two-story building with brightly polished windows and heavy blue curtains pulled back just enough to display a few elegant outfits on mannequins.

  Tazien whistled low under his breath. "Looks fancier than the whole village put together."

  Ilyari shoved his shoulder lightly. "Mind your manners."

  They pushed the door open.

  A soft chime — not of bells, but of woven mana strands — whispered through the air.

  The shop smelled of pressed linen, rich oils, and old wood.

  Bolts of cloth floated lazily in the air, rolling and unrolling themselves under faint glyph commands. Mannequins with half-finished garments turned slowly on pedestals. At the far counter, hunched over a glowing measurement slate, was a man with silver-streaked hair, narrow spectacles, and an impressively stiff collar.

  Master Veylan.

  He didn’t look up immediately.

  "Come to browse or come to beg?" he asked, voice dry as old paper.

  "We were sent by Brinna Claybourne," Ilyari said quickly. "We need attire for the Acceptance Ceremony."

  At that, he looked up — and his sharp, unsettling green eyes flickered over them with scrutiny that weighed and measured more than just height and width.

  "Hmph," he muttered.

  He rose with surprising grace, snapping his measuring slate shut.

  "I’ve heard of you," he said, adjusting his spectacles. "The usurpers of Sector 4C. The commoners who made the nobles wet themselves."

  Tazien smirked.

  Ilyari flushed slightly but kept her head high.

  Master Veylan snorted.

  "Rumors. Gossip. Nonsense," he said briskly, waving a hand. "We'll see if you’re anything interesting at all."

  He pointed a stern finger toward a small side door.

  "Before you even THINK of touching anything in my store — back room. Basin. Shoes off. Wash thoroughly."

  They blinked at him.

  "Now!" he barked, startling a floating roll of velvet into collapsing midair.

  Tazien yanked off his boots first, grinning like this was some grand adventure.

  Ilyari hesitated, then followed.

  The back room was small but clean — dominated by a shallow, wide basin etched with mana-glyphs.

  The water inside shimmered faintly — warm, welcoming — and smelled faintly of lavender and something sharper, medicinal.

  Ilyari touched the surface with cautious fingers.

  It tingled.

  When she dipped her hand in fully, the sensation deepened — the grime clinging stubbornly to her skin loosened instantly, peeling away as if it had never been there.

  Tazien splashed his face vigorously, laughing when his freckles started showing through properly for the first time in years.

  "You’re brown underneath!" he crowed.

  Ilyari ignored him, focusing instead on her hair — working the strands free, rinsing the dust and weight of a decade of the Lower Zone from her scalp.

  The water pulled the grime away in soft, glittering tendrils, leaving her curls shining, light, springy.

  She stared at her reflection in the basin, stunned.

  For the first time, she looked...

  Not like a white and brown bore-rabbit caked in mud.

  Not like a peasant.

  But like something else.

  Something more.

  She smiled — and deep down, she hoped she looked like her mother.

  Behind her, Tazien toweled off, staring at her in open amazement.

  "You look like one of the paintings in the big temple halls," he said.

  She ducked her head quickly, embarrassed.

  They returned to the shop front barefoot and damp-haired, carrying their battered boots.

  Master Veylan turned toward them — and froze.

  For a long moment, he simply stared, spectacles slipping slightly down his nose.

  Then a slow, delighted smile broke across his face — not the polite smile of a merchant, but the genuine grin of a man who had just found a priceless treasure buried under dirt.

  "Perfect," he breathed.

  Ilyari and Tazien glanced at each other uncertainly.

  He circled them once, muttering under his breath.

  "The lines! The carriage! The structure! The hair! The color palette!"

  He stopped, hands clasped behind his back, positively beaming.

  "I have a design," he said. "One I dared not attempt before. Too bold for the usual lordlings. Too daring. Too honest."

  He leaned forward conspiratorially.

  "But you two — you could wear it. You would own it."

  Ilyari stiffened slightly. "We... don't have much coin."

  Master Veylan waved this away.

  "Bah. I know that. I can smell poverty better than a rat can smell grain."

  Tazien looked vaguely offended.

  "But," Veylan continued smoothly, "I propose a trade."

  They waited.

  "You will work for me for one month. Stitching. Mending. Cleaning. And in return, I will dress you for the ceremony."

  His green eyes gleamed.

  "And when you walk through those grand halls, wearing my craft, you will be a sword thrust into the heart of every House that ever spat on you."

  Tazien grinned instantly. "Deal."

  Ilyari hesitated — then extended her hand.

  Master Veylan took it in a firm, warm grip.

  "Deal," she said.

  "Good," he said, releasing her. "Come tomorrow at dawn. Wear nothing you want to keep. I plan on working you both very hard."

  Ilyari and Tazien left the shop with lighter steps than they’d had in days — and for the first time in what felt like forever, a future that didn't just taste like survival... but possibility.