The days at Veylan’s Fine Tailoring slipped into a rhythm sharper than a blade’s edge.

  Early mornings. Long hours. Late nights by candlelight.

  Ilyari and Tazien worked — and learned.

  They stitched until their fingers were raw, polished until the floors gleamed like mirrors, listened until the gossip of noble houses became a living, breathing map in their minds.

  They were doing well.

  Which, of course, meant that trouble found them sooner rather than later.

  ???

  The shop bell chimed sharply one dreary afternoon.

  Veylan didn’t even look up from the waistcoat he was fitting onto a floating mannequin.

  "Handle it," he barked at Ilyari, waving a loose needle.

  She wiped her hands and crossed to the door, brushing the folds of her plain work apron smooth.

  Standing in the threshold was a man with the pinched face of someone who considered every breath he took a charitable gift to the world. His robes were brown and stiff, embroidered with the black-and-silver scales of the Mortgage Collectors’ Guild.

  Debt-keepers. Bloodhounds.

  "Master Veylan," the man intoned, voice like sour milk. "By authority of the Guild, notice of foreclosure is hereby served. Six months of delinquency—"

  "Two," Veylan snapped without looking up. "And if you learned to read the ledgers instead of parroting threats, you’d know it."

  The collector scowled, flipping through a packet of rune-sealed documents.

  Ilyari stepped back instinctively as the man pushed into the shop, ignoring her.

  Tazien bristled nearby, but stayed silent.

  Veylan, still calmly stitching, jerked his chin toward a low shelf by the register.

  "The books. They're open. Go ahead."

  Muttering, the collector pulled out the ledgers.

  Page after page — clear, precise, every sale meticulously recorded.

  And the most recent pages showed a flood of new commissions. Payments already secured with noble seals. High-profile clients, loyal to Veylan’s craft.

  The collector’s lips thinned.

  "The Guild will still expect you to catch up promptly," he said coldly.

  Veylan finally turned to face him, smile dry.

  "And thanks to my two apprentices," he said, gesturing lazily at Ilyari and Tazien, "I have finished commissions ahead of schedule for the first time in three years. Shall I arrange payment now or embarrass you at the next Guild audit?"

  The collector flushed an ugly shade of mauve, slammed the ledger shut, and stormed out without another word.

  The bell jangled violently behind him.

  Veylan chuckled low under his breath.

  "Vultures," he said. "All of them."

  He patted the counter fondly.

  "But vultures know better than to pick a living wolf."

  Ilyari and Tazien exchanged a wide-eyed grin.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  They were surviving. For now.

  ???

  Later that week, a different kind of customer arrived.

  A man of broad shoulders, silvered hair at his temples, and weary blue eyes stepped into the shop, his young daughter bouncing eagerly at his side.

  The girl, no older than seven or eight, had a wild halo of ash-blonde curls and the bright, uncontainable energy of a sunbeam.

  "Master Veylan," the man said warmly, bowing slightly. "Lord Corwin Talvane. I was told you’re the best."

  "By whom?" Veylan asked, amused.

  "Everyone who has daughters," Lord Talvane said dryly.

  He sighed and ruffled the girl's hair, making her giggle and spin.

  "Her Name Day is in two weeks. I need a gown that’s — and I say this with despair — durable."

  The girl squealed and began twirling faster, bumping into one of the floating fabric bolts.

  Before the disaster could happen, Veylan flicked a sharp gesture with two fingers — a faint mana shield shimmered into place, herding the cloth neatly out of reach.

  Ilyari blinked in admiration. She hadn't even noticed the spells Veylan had layered through the shop.

  Floating the fabrics. Warding the counters. Shielding the needles.

  The tailor wasn’t just good. He was prepared.

  Veylan rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  "Most dresses aren’t designed for stampeding ponies," he said. "But… perhaps one of my apprentices could try."

  He turned, eyebrow raised, toward Ilyari.

  She startled. "Me?" she said.

  "You have two hands. Two eyes. And two weeks and a woman's touch," he said. "If you botch it, I'll dock your pay for the commission and you’ll stitch cleaning cloths for a year."

  Tazien made a sympathetic choking noise. Ilyari swallowed hard — and nodded.

  "Most dresses aren’t designed for stampeding ponies," he said. "But… perhaps one of my apprentices could try."

  He turned, eyebrow raised, toward Ilyari.

  She blinked. "Me?"

  "You have two hands. Two eyes. And ten minutes," he said. "If you botch it, you’ll be scrubbing embroidery hoops until you’re old enough to retire."

  Before she could lose her nerve, Ilyari caught sight of the girl frolicking past again — a blur of golden curls and shrieking giggles. Lord Talvane gave weary chase, looking like he regretted every decision that had led him to this moment.

  Something clicked sharply in Ilyari's mind.

  She didn't sit. Didn't ponder.

  She simply grabbed a scrap of chalk from the counter, rolled out a parchment bolt, and drew — fast and clean.

  A shorter skirt, hemmed to mid-shin so the girl wouldn’t trip.

  Hidden trousers beneath, stitched from the same lightweight fabric for freedom of movement.

  A detachable apron, designed to wrap snugly and tie in a dramatic double bow — practical for play, removable for parties.

  A matching hair set made from leftover cloth scraps, strong enough to anchor the wild curls without constant retying.

  She spun the parchment around and thrust it at Lord Talvane before her courage could falter.

  "This," she said firmly. "It'll hold up."

  The nobleman stared, clearly overwhelmed — but a slow, cautious hope began to spark behind his tired eyes.

  Before he could answer, Ilyari turned on her heel, marching back to the cloth racks.

  She plucked bolts of bright river-blue fabric and sun-yellow trim, balancing them expertly in her arms. She held the fabrics up to the little girl, who immediately stopped bouncing and clapped her hands in delight at the colors.

  Veylan leaned on the counter, watching the whole scene unfold with one raised brow and an increasingly impressed smirk.

  When Ilyari approached him, holding out her choices silently for approval, he chuckled low in his throat.

  "Color to match her spirit," he said approvingly. "You’ve got the eye for it."

  He tossed her a measuring cord. "Get to work before the little hurricane changes her mind."

  Lord Talvane scratched the back of his neck, still looking slightly dazed.

  "It’s… pretty," he said slowly, studying the sketch again. "And maybe durable enough. But my wife — Lady Talvane — will be back from the Borderlands before the ceremony. She’ll want final say."

  He gave Ilyari a small, almost apologetic shrug. "She has an eye for such things. And stronger opinions."

  Ilyari simply nodded, calm and professional.

  The work would speak for itself.

  After Lord Talvane and his whirlwind daughter left — with promises to return after Lady Talvane's approval — the shop finally settled into a strange, comfortable rhythm again.

  Ilyari finished folding the last bolt of blue cloth, her fingers absently smoothing the edges as she worked. Across the room, Tazien polished the counter until it gleamed like river glass, whistling under his breath.

  Master Veylan leaned back in his chair, boots propped on a low stool, reading a trade manifest and muttering to himself about fools who didn't know a loom from a spinning wheel.

  It should have felt safe. It should have felt simple.

  But as Ilyari tucked the blue cloth into place, and she reached for the pins in her pocket for the pattern her hand brushed the iron key hidden deep inside her apron pocket — and the hum of magic still thrumming against the glyphs etched into it.

  She froze. The weight of it pulled at her, cold and insistent, like a secret buried too long.

  They hadn't dared try again to unlock the stone box. Not yet. Not with so many eyes around them. Not when one wrong glyph could shatter whatever fragile life they were barely stitching together here.

  But the key wanted to be used. She could feel it sometimes, like a second heartbeat against her skin.

  She caught Tazien's eye across the room.

  He noticed the way her hand hovered near her pocket and gave a subtle, knowing nod.

  Later. Tonight. They would try again.

  Ilyari and Tazien straightened up the last of the cloth bundles back into their places and helped Vaylen close the shop. As the city started to sleep and the mana lights dimmed, they would see what Ma'Ryn had hidden away.

  Because the Acceptance Ceremony was coming.

  And whatever was locked beneath their floor, Ilyari knew in her gut — it wasn’t just for keeping secrets.