Tazien braced one foot against a moss-slick stone path, both hands gripped tightly around the twisted base of a stubborn vine root.

  “Just… a little… more!” he growled through clenched teeth.

  The vine gave a sudden, violent tug—and with a cry, Tazien flew backward, landing flat on his back in a puff of dust and stray clover petals.

  “Oh!” two voices gasped in unison.

  Before he could sit up, Galen Thorne’s daughters—one tall and sharp-eyed, the other smaller and wide-cheeked—were already rushing over. The taller one reached down dramatically.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked breathlessly. “That was such a powerful yank!”

  “You must be so strong,” her sister added, eyes wide.

  Tazien groaned and waved them off. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  But they hovered, fawning over him, brushing dirt from his sleeve and asking if he needed water or a place to sit.

  From a few feet away, Ilyari bit her lip to suppress a grin as she tied up bundles of clover. When Tazien stomped past her, cheeks red and muttering under his breath, she raised an eyebrow.

  “Problem?” she asked innocently.

  He didn’t answer. Just stormed into the house.

  Inside, Galen was laying out the day’s sketches for the upper stairwell. Tazien appeared at the doorway, flushed and flustered.

  “Do you need help inside today?” he asked quickly.

  Galen looked up, blinking. “I thought you were in the garden—”

  Then he saw the shadows at the doorway. His daughters peeking around the corner, both staring after Tazien.

  A knowing smile broke across his face. “Ahhh.”

  Tazien scowled.

  Galen chuckled. “Yes, yes, come lend a hand. We’re bracing the new railing and the apprentices could use someone to hold the base steady.”

  “Gladly.”

  They moved into the hall where the wrought iron railing was being fitted. Tazien helped hold a long metal section in place as one of the apprentices tightened bolts with careful precision.

  The railing curved gracefully with the stairs, its iron pattern shaped into vines, curling tendrils, and clusters of flowers. Tazien ran his hand along the design, impressed.

  “This looks… amazing,” he said honestly.

  The apprentice beamed. “Thanks. We thought it suited the house—like it grew here.”

  Galen nodded. “Once we replace the upper railings, it’ll open up the whole room. Make the stairwell feel like it belongs to the manor, not just attached to it.”

  They worked in peace for a few minutes—until another round of muffled giggling echoed from the corridor.

  Tazien froze. “They’re still here?”

  Galen laughed, not looking up. “Don’t worry. I’ll shoo them off.”

  With a shooing motion and an amused smirk, he waved toward the door, and the girls reluctantly retreated with dramatic sighs.

  Back outside, the girls reappeared, this time drifting toward Ilyari with feigned interest in the herb bundles.

  “Do you do this every day?” one asked.

  Ilyari smiled politely. “Most days. The garden needs a lot of work.”

  The taller girl leaned closer. “And Tazien? He’ll be attending the Academy soon, right? Or is he still in school?”

  Ilyari kept tying clover into bundles. “He’s been accepted early. He’ll be joining the Academy directly.”

  Both girls exchanged impressed glances.

  “He’s very clever,” one whispered.

  “And handsome,” the other added, not bothering to whisper.

  Then the youngest asked, her voice sweet and hopeful, “Does he already have an arranged marriage?”

  Ilyari burst out laughing. “Our family doesn’t do arranged marriages.”

  “Oh,” the girl said, slightly deflated. “That’s… good to know.”

  Ilyari shook her head as they wandered off again, no doubt plotting their next ambush. She glanced back toward the house where Tazien was probably hiding behind ironwork and blessed bolts.

  Grinning to herself, she muttered, “Poor thing never stood a chance.”

  Lady Thorne arrived near midafternoon, her carriage glinting like lacquered wood under a pale sun. Galen stepped out from the house with a slight limp and dust on his cuffs, lifting a hand in greeting. “They’re out in the tea garden,” he said, nodding toward the east path.

  Tazien had spotted her from the porch and grabbed a bucket of water, a rough brush, and the stiffest broom he could find. By the time Lady Thorne reached the apothecary, he was aggressively sweeping dust out the doorway like it had personally offended him.

  The woman paused, blinking as a small cloud rose at her feet.

  “I… hope the girls behaved?” she said with a tight smile.

  Ilyari wiped her hands on her apron and stepped forward, giving the woman a warm, practiced bow. “They were absolutely lovely,” she said, voice polite and smooth.

  Tazien, behind her, grunted and swept harder.

  Lady Thorne’s eyebrow twitched.

  The girls came fluttering up behind their mother, curtsying to Ilyari with a perfectly synchronized, “Thank you so much for having us!”

  Then they turned toward the apothecary with syrupy smiles.

  “Goodbye, Tazien,” the elder one sang sweetly.

  “We had such a wonderful time,” the younger added, clasping her hands like a scene from a romance serial.

  Tazien, still sweeping, did not turn around. “Goodbye!” he said far too loudly.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The elder girl twirled a strand of hair. “Do you think we could come back sometime? Maybe help clean again?”

  From inside: “No.”

  Lady Thorne stared.

  Ilyari covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. “They were very helpful.”

  Lady Thorne gave Galen a flat look. Galen, without missing a beat, spread his hands innocently and shrugged.

  “Mother,” one of the girls whispered loudly as they moved to the carriage, “he’s just like the prince in The Violet Garden scrolls.”

  “I know,” the other swooned. “He even has that tragic look in his eyes. Do you think we could be Ilyari’s ladies in waiting?”

  Lady Thorne closed her eyes, exhaled slowly, and facepalmed.

  She gave Ilyari an apologetic look as she guided the girls firmly toward the carriage. “Thank you for your hospitality. Sincerely. And thank you for… not feeding them to the vines.”

  Tazien, from inside, muttered something about wishing the vines had tried.

  The door shut.

  The carriage pulled away.

  Ilyari looked toward the apothecary, where Tazien was still vigorously sweeping nothing.

  She grinned.

  Ilyari leaned casually against the apothecary doorframe, watching Tazien mutter under his breath and sweep like he was trying to punish the floorboards into obedience. The dust was already gone, but his frustration had apparently decided to linger.

  She folded her arms, a grin tugging at her lips.

  “Ohhh, helloooo, handsome prince,” she said in her most dramatic, sing-song voice, fluttering her lashes with theatrical flair. “Would you be so kind as to carry these heavy bundles to the drying line for me? You’re just so strong and mysterious. And dreamy-eyed. Just like the scrolls said.”

  Tazien paused mid-sweep and stared at her, deadpan. “…You done?”

  “Not yet,” Ilyari said brightly. “Should I swoon here or wait until you flex while lifting the mint bundles?”

  He lunged for her with the broom.

  Ilyari squealed and darted toward the herb racks, laughing as Tazien chased her across the garden path with the broom held like a jousting lance.

  “You take that back!” he shouted, trying not to laugh.

  “Never!” she yelled over her shoulder. “I’m going to tell Indrale’s son that you’re royalty! You’ll have a fan club by dusk!”

  “You are evil, Ilyari Aierenbane!”

  “You love me anyway!”

  He caught up just long enough to poke her in the side with the broom bristles, and she yelped.

  They collapsed against the old tea table, still giggling, breathless from the run.

  “Next time,” Tazien said, panting, “I’m calling in Galen’s daughters for backup.”

  Ilyari smirked. “Please don’t. I don’t think your royal fanbase could handle the competition.”

  Tazien groaned and dropped the broom, throwing his head back dramatically. “I’m cursed.”

  “And beautiful,” Ilyari added helpfully.

  Just as he opened his mouth to fire back, a chill swept through the garden, sharp and precise.

  The sound of boots clicked against stone—sharp, measured, unmistakable.

  Ilyari and Tazien both straightened, their smiles fading as Master Veska strode into the garden with the air of someone about to put out a fire… with ice.

  She stopped at the edge of the overgrown path, eyeing the scattered tools, the broom tossed lazily to the side, and the faint trails of dusty footprints still visible in the trimmed grass.

  “I see,” she said, folding her arms. “Running through the garden. Swinging brooms. Laughing like common stablehands.”

  Tazien’s spine stiffened. Ilyari set her jaw.

  Veska’s gaze swept over them like a weight. “You are royalty, not wayward children. You should not be playing in the dirt or behaving like unruly villagers in an open field. It is improper.”

  She said the word like it was poison.

  A second set of boots echoed from the east wing.

  Lord Galen Thorne stepped into view, wiping his hands with a cloth, clearly having heard the entire exchange.

  He didn’t rush. He didn’t bow.

  He just smiled, slow and dry. “Good to see them laughing,” he said, his voice steady. “They’ve had a hard few weeks. It’s rare enough to see young ones happy to be home.”

  Veska turned sharply toward him. “Their titles are not an excuse for indulgence. They are not simply children—they are royalty. And you, Craftsman Thorne, would do well to remember that.”

  Galen’s brows rose ever so slightly. “Then I hope you also remember their titles,” he said coolly. “Because unless I’ve forgotten the old laws, it is deeply improper to berate royals in public—especially when their rank exceeds yours.”

  The silence that followed was immediate and cutting.

  Veska’s mouth twitched.

  Tazien looked like he was trying not to grin.

  Ilyari crossed her arms, mirroring Veska’s posture with infuriating grace.

  Veska’s eyes flicked back to the pair of them. “Wash up. You will receive me for your lessons in one hour. I’m going to the market to retrieve scrolls.”

  She turned sharply on her heel.

  Tazien’s voice followed her, clear and loud. “Strange. You came to scold us, but didn’t even bring our lesson materials. I suppose our education was less urgent than your temper tantrum.”

  Ilyari choked back a laugh. Galen coughed pointedly into his sleeve.

  Veska stopped cold.

  She didn’t turn around. But her voice dropped to a deadly low. “Tazien Aierenbane, you will be prepared when I return. I assure you—my report will not be so forgiving.”

  She strode off, boots echoing like snapping wires.

  Once she was gone, Galen finally exhaled.

  Tazien looked at him sideways. “Think she’s going to dock me points for sarcasm?”

  Galen chuckled. “She’s going to dock you points for breathing too confidently. But stars help me, that was worth it.”

  Ilyari rolled her eyes. “We should probably change clothes.”

  Tazien smirked. “I’ll change into my ‘royal scold-me-again-and-I-drop-your-scrolls-in-the-mud’ robes.”

  “Too bold,” Ilyari said. “Go with your classic ‘just a humble exile learning to behave’ tunic.”

  “Ah yes,” Tazien said with mock reverence. “Always a favorite.”

  And together, they headed inside—preparing for another round of Veska’s storm.

  The parlor of Willowgrove had been tidied—at least as much as possible, given the state of the estate. Sunlight filtered through the newly cleaned windowpanes, casting soft lines across the worn rug and the freshly polished table. Ilyari sat with perfect posture on the edge of the settee, her skirt smoothed and hands folded. Tazien lounged a little less formally in the chair across from her, leg bouncing—more from nerves than restlessness.

  The front door creaked open.

  “She's early,” Tazien muttered.

  “No, she’s just... smug,” Ilyari replied without looking up.

  Master Veska stepped into the parlor like a storm contained in silk—cloak swirling faintly as she approached the table. Without a word, she produced a narrow scroll bound in red thread and set it down with surgical precision between them.

  “A formal complaint,” she announced, her voice rich with self-satisfaction. “From a noble vendor in the Central Market. Seems the pair of you tried to sell tea without proper licensure.”

  She raised an eyebrow as if expecting them to crumble.

  Tazien blinked. “Oh, Phoran,” he said with a scoff. “Of course he tattled.”

  Ilyari picked up the scroll and skimmed it calmly. “He didn’t even buy the tea.”

  “Attempting to sell without a merchant’s license is still against guild law,” Veska snapped. “You’ve broken it.”

  Ilyari set the scroll down and looked up, unruffled. “We were informed of the license requirement after our attempt. And we’ve already made plans to take the test.”

  Veska’s eyes narrowed. “What proof do you have that no sale was made?”

  Ilyari smiled faintly. “Had you taken a moment to observe, you’d have seen the drying racks in the back garden. All of the herbs we carried that day are still there—unsold, untouched, and in full view.”

  Veska’s mouth tightened. “Show me.”

  Without a word, Ilyari rose, gesturing toward the back door.

  They crossed through the corridor and stepped into the garden where the sun lit rows of hanging bundles—sage, mint, calendula, and a full rack of red clover, still fragrant and curling in the breeze.

  Veska stared at it all.

  “…Impossible.”

  Tazien tilted his head. “So you believe we harvested all this, and our garden spontaneously regrew the exact same herbs for display?” He smirked. “That’s a lot of faith in our farming skills.”

  Ilyari folded her hands neatly. “Which means the complaint is false. And perhaps you owe us a warning about filing baseless accusations. Or shall I file a counter-claim for improper conduct of a merchant noble insulting a member of royal lineage?” She added with a hint of bite, “Page sixteen of the codebook. Section three, paragraph four.”

  Veska’s jaw worked. “You memorized it.”

  “You gave it to us,” Ilyari replied sweetly. “We assumed it was assigned reading.”

  Tazien crossed his arms. “Where’s Lorn? You usually come as a pair. Did he run out of scrolls to glare at us with?”

  Veska's mouth twitched. “Lorn has… stepped down.”

  That made both of them pause.

  “He what?” Tazien said, blinking. “Why?”

  Veska exhaled sharply. “He found your progress… lacking. And your mouth intolerable. He has taken on duties elsewhere, where he feels his skills will be better respected.”

  Tazien said nothing at first. His jaw clenched.

  “That’s…” He shook his head. “He didn’t even say goodbye.”

  Ilyari looked over at him with a flicker of concern.

  Veska, sensing the mood, stepped forward again.

  “This is now a warning,” she said coldly. “One more slip, and I will personally ensure your expulsion from the Academy. Do not disturb noble commerce again. Do not abuse your station.”

  Ilyari stepped forward, voice still smooth. “And you would do well not to forget our station. As you’ve just said—we are royalty. Which makes your tone… a little inappropriate.”

  The silence that followed was thick.

  Tazien raised an eyebrow. “We’ll be ready for our lessons, Master Veska,” he said, more subdued. “Thank you for coming.”

  Veska gave them a long, unreadable look—then swept out of the garden without another word.

  Tazien watched her go, expression tight.

  “I didn’t think Lorn would quit,” he murmured.

  “I don’t think he quit us,” Ilyari replied gently.

  “…Maybe I’ll apologize when I see him again.”

  She didn’t respond. But her silence said she approved.

  And just like that, another battle ended—not with spells, but with scrolls and memory.

  ?? And would you have chased Ilyari with a broom if she called you a dreamy-eyed prince? ??

  ?? Most importantly… how do you think this new tea-selling venture is going to play out now that Veska is watching?

  Glitchborn: Code of Fallen, please consider leaving a ?????????? rating! Every review and rating helps new readers discover our exiled siblings and join the rebellion… one sarcastic smirk at a time.