The front door creaked open with a tired groan, and the scent of sun-warmed soil and lemon balm still clung to their sleeves as Ilyari and Tazien stepped inside. The air was cooler here—still tinged faintly with clay dust and old varnish—but brighter than it had been just a week ago.

  Their eyes lifted together.

  The stairwell was finished.

  Where once splintered wood and half-tacked planks had threatened every ascent, now stood a graceful bannister of twisted iron, shaped with curling leaf motifs and tiny crests of spiraling flame. The steps had been sanded and sealed, stained to match the wild-toned beams above. It didn’t just look restored—it looked noble.

  “Whoa,” Tazien breathed. “This almost looks... expensive.”

  “It was,” Galen Thorne said dryly, stepping out of the parlor behind them and brushing sawdust from his tunic. “But I got to test out a few new apprentices, so we’ll call it even.”

  Ilyari smiled. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  Galen gave a respectful nod, then scratched his beard. “That’s not the only thing. You might want to see the hearth.”

  They followed him into the kitchen, where the large stone-set cooking hearth stood empty and quiet—save for a dark red shimmer pulsing faintly between the runes carved into the outer lip.

  “About midday,” Galen said, pointing to the stone rim, “it started to heat on its own. Flamed up steady. Then just... stopped.”

  “No one lit it?” Tazien asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “No one touched it,” Galen replied. “And none of my workers have the nerve to spellcast inside a house like this. The stones look unburned, but the logs we put in last week turned to cinder.”

  Ilyari stepped closer, crouching beside the hearth. The runes were familiar, but something about them seemed just slightly… echoed. Like a glyph copied from memory but out of alignment. The residual heat still hummed beneath the stone.

  “I don’t like this,” she said. “If it flares again and we’re not here, it could catch the beams.”

  “Then leave it clear,” Galen said simply. “Nothing flammable. Not until we understand what it’s doing.”

  They agreed. Tazien pulled out the logs, stacking the cinders in a clay bucket for disposal. Ilyari laid a heavy iron lid over the top just in case.

  By the time the workers finished packing up, the sun had already begun to drop behind the trees, and the wind carried the scent of chamomile and soot.

  Later, back inside, the house was quieter than it had been in days.

  The tea trays were brought in and sorted. Ilyari carefully cleaned the bundles that hadn’t been sent to market, stacking them in the drying cabinet while Tazien scraped herb paste from the bottom of the mortar bowls. Leftover biscuits were still slightly soft, and the honey dish had enough left for two spoons each.

  They sat in the workshop, elbows on the table, chewing slowly in exhausted silence.

  Then Tazien pulled the coin purse from his belt and spilled it out on the table.

  “Four silver vatra and thirty-eight fins,” he announced. “And a button from your jacket.”

  “I liked that button,” Ilyari mumbled through a mouthful of sweetroot cake.

  He raised an eyebrow. “It’s broken.”

  “So is the economy.”

  They stared at the coins for a moment longer.

  “We can’t afford anything major,” Tazien said. “But... what if we take the guild test? Before Academy. Just so we have a fallback.”

  “That’s two days from now,” Ilyari said. “You want to cram a year’s worth of certification prep in one?”

  He gave a tired shrug. “I don’t want to be the smartest person at the Academy who still needs a work permit to legally sell jam.”

  “…Fair.”

  They looked at each other.

  Then nodded.

  That night, the siblings burned the oil low, books and notebooks stacked around the workshop table. Ilyari read aloud as Tazien copied diagrams. He tested her on trade categories. She quizzed him on resource ethics and ledgers.

  They studied until their eyes blurred and the words stopped making sense.

  Then, at last, they stumbled up the beautiful new stairs and collapsed into bed—tea-stained, biscuit-fueled, and just a little closer to being ready for the world that had tried to forget them.

  By morning, the house was full of muttered definitions, whispered formulae, and the occasional frustrated thump of a book hitting a table.

  Tazien sat cross-legged on the floor, reciting trade classifications to a basket of drying sage.

  Ilyari paced the hallway with a ledger in hand, quizzing herself on tax codes and proper weights for dried goods.

  By midday, the pages were dog-eared, their hair was a mess, and every answer came as second nature.

  “…I think we’ve actually memorized it,” Ilyari said, blinking in surprise.

  Tazien groaned, flopping backward onto the floor. “I’m not even proud. I’m just glad it’s over.”

  She nudged his knee with her boot. “Not over. We still have to pay for the test.”

  Right.With a shared look, they got to work.

  They gathered herbs from the drying cabinets, fresh bundles from the newest garden cuts, and a few rarer flowers they’d held back last time, just in case. This time, they packed twice as much.

  When the poles were loaded, they lugged it down the slope and toward the same small apothecary shop nestled at the edge of the inner ring.

  The bell above the door jingled just as it had before, but this time Herbologist Esha Tinvaire nearly dropped her teacup when she saw them.

  “You two!” she gasped, rushing forward. “Where have you been? Do you have any idea what you did?”

  Tazien froze. “We’re sorry—did we—?”

  She held up both hands, eyes wide. “No! No, no, not trouble. Miracle. Your herbs—everything I bought from you last week? Gone in two days. I sold it for triple what I expected. Triple!”

  Ilyari blinked. “That much?”

  Esha beamed, bustling around the counter. “The clover was potent, the mint crisp, and even the elderberry leaf came in at top tier. The bakers, the salvesmiths—everyone wanted more. I’ve already had customers asking if your stock was permanent.”

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  She looked at the cart and practically sighed with relief. “This is more than before.”

  “We wanted to make sure we had enough to cover a test fee,” Ilyari explained.

  “I’ll take all of it. No haggling.”

  She paid them immediately—silver vatra and fins warm from her counting tray—and carefully began arranging the bundles by freshness tier.

  With the purse secured, the siblings left the apothecary and made their way across the plaza to the city’s Guild Tower.

  The building stood stark against the sky—gray stone trimmed with deep bronze. Four banners flapped gently above the arched entryway, each bearing a single word in gilded script:

  Commerce. Craft. Clarity. Discipline.

  Tazien gave a low whistle. “They really want to make it sound noble.”

  “Still better than ‘Tedium. Weights. And Rules,’” Ilyari muttered.

  Inside, the guild hall was cool and brightly lit, with long tables, curtained testing booths, and examiners seated behind polished counters. Their paperwork was reviewed. Identification checked. Pins and spell-imbued fraud detectors verified their herb bundles.

  And just down the street, unnoticed, a cloaked figure leaned against a stone column.

  Ink-stained gloves scribbled quickly across parchment. Another scroll. Another falcon. Another dispatch.

  The test was long, but not difficult.

  They filled out ledgers, labeled crates in simulations, measured herbs, calculated trade routes, and identified fraudulent glyph-tags on cargo slips.

  Before they could leave the Guild Tower, a clerk stepped forward with a clipboard and a crisp smile.

  “Please follow me,” she said. “The Guildmaster would like to complete your induction properly.”

  Ilyari and Tazien exchanged a surprised glance but followed her down a hall paneled with dark oak and soft lanternlight. The room they entered was modest—stone walls, a central table, and a tall-backed chair behind it where an older man with steel-gray hair and a heavy ledger sat waiting.

  He stood as they approached.

  “Welcome,” he said, voice deep and clear. “I am Master Gendrel, Head of the Merchant’s Guild for this district. You’ve passed your examinations with distinction.”

  Tazien tried not to fidget as the man retrieved two folded shawls from the table.

  “As of today, you are recognized as Licensed Guild Traders, authorized to sell all legal non-animal goods across the empire. This includes herbs, food, tools, spell-safe craftwork, and enchanted dry goods. You are also bound by trade ethics and merchant law.”

  He handed them each a brown wool shawl, trimmed at the edges with a simple tan stitch. “Brown marks you as new guild. Freshly licensed, but protected under the Charter. Wear it when trading—it lets buyers and other merchants know your standing.”

  Then he held out two pins—the same bronze sprouting-leaf emblems from their test box, but now set against a seal ribbon of pale parchment.

  “With this pin, you are sworn to fair trade. In time, should you certify for livestock and magical fauna, you’ll earn the full guild badge—gold, silver, and bronze—and your shawl will turn blue.”

  Ilyari bowed her head as he fastened the pin near her collarbone. Tazien followed suit.

  “Do you swear,” Guildmaster Gendrel said, “to trade with integrity, protect your wares, honor guild law, and report violations when they arise?”

  “We swear,” they said in unison.

  He smiled faintly. “Then rise. And may your ledgers stay balanced and your scales honest.”

  They were now licensed traders—authorized to sell goods, gather supplies, and take commissions across the city and outer trade routes.

  Tazien grinned as they stepped back into the sunlight. “Guess we’ll hold off on the frog farm, then.”

  Ilyari laughed, tucking her pin safely inside her cloak. “One victory at a time.”

  Vaylen’s tailor shop was aglow with lamplight and lace, bolts of fabric spilling across the counters in a riot of spring tones. As they stepped through the doorway, the sound of raised voices greeted them—sharp, dramatic, and unmistakably noble.

  “I told you I didn’t want this trim, Master Vaylen!” a girl cried. “It’s too plain! I wanted it to sparkle like the morning bells!”

  Across the counter stood Lady Talvane, arms crossed in elegant restraint, her lips pinched into a familiar line of quiet disappointment. Beside her, Avenel, her daughter, was wearing a very expensive, very well-made, and very unloved spring gown.

  Vaylen looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.

  “Avenel—” he began carefully.

  But the girl turned—and spotted Ilyari.

  Her face crumpled.

  With a sob, she rushed forward, skirts rustling and eyes welling with glittering tears. “Miss Ilyari!”

  Ilyari barely had time to brace before Avenel threw herself into a hug, tears streaking ever so faintly as she sniffled into her middle.

  “I wanted you to make it! The last one was perfect! And this one—this one isn’t right at all!”

  Lady Talvane exhaled through her nose, clearly torn between scolding and surrendering. “Avenel, darling, Master Vaylen has followed your measurements and preferences to the letter. You gave your approval on the sketch—”

  “But it wasn’t her drawing!” Avenel wailed. “She gets it!”

  Ilyari met Lady Talvane’s gaze over the girl’s head, both of them silently assessing how much of this was dramatic flair and how much was genuine distress.

  The Lady sighed. “Fine. One more dress. But this is the last time.”

  Ilyari smoothed Avenel’s hair gently. “That works out. Because this will have to be the last one for a while.”

  Avenel looked up, wide-eyed. “Why?”

  “I’ve been accepted to the Royal Academy,” Ilyari said. “I leave in two days.”

  Avenel gasped. “You’ll live there?”

  “For most of the year. But if your mother allows it… maybe over the holiday break, I can sneak away to make one more gown.”

  Avenel brightened immediately and turned pleadingly to her mother. “Can she?”

  Lady Talvane gave a long-suffering sigh. “We shall see.”

  Vaylen, finally recovering his breath behind the counter, gave Ilyari a grateful, exhausted smile. “You really are a miracle worker.”

  She smiled softly. “I prefer tea and tailoring.”

  As the last tears were dabbed away and Avenel agreed to a sketching session “first thing tomorrow,” Vaylen stepped out from behind the counter, finally catching his breath.

  Then he paused, his sharp eyes catching the pins fastened to Ilyari and Tazien’s shawls.

  “…Are those guild pins?”

  Tazien grinned, tugging his brown shawl a bit straighter. “Fresh from the Guildmaster’s hand.”

  “You two are full of surprises.” Vaylen stepped closer and gave each of them a firm nod of approval. “Congratulations. That’s not just impressive—it’s smart.”

  “Thank you,” Ilyari said, then hesitated. “But… we’ve got two problems.”

  “Always the way,” Vaylen said. “Let’s hear them.”

  “We’re about to leave for the Academy,” Tazien explained. “And we’re gaining enough orders and contracts that we can’t keep up if we’re not here.”

  “But,” Ilyari added quickly, “based on what we just earned and the margin we can sustain… we could pay three people. And still turn a profit.”

  Vaylen tilted his head, clearly intrigued. “So… what’s stopping you?”

  Ilyari folded her arms. “Well, most people won’t want to walk from the Lower Zone to our estate every day. Not with the way the guards and nobles glare.”

  “They’d balk at showing up dirty or tired,” Tazien added. “Or worse, they’d get stopped before even getting through the gates.”

  Vaylen tapped his chin. “Where did you learn how to grow such rare teas and herbs?”

  Ilyari blinked. “In the Lower Zone. The garden plots.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “So go back. If you can find people with the same grit and skill you learned from, offer them something better. Not just coin—relocation.”

  He leaned on the counter with a sly smile. “If someone’s willing to live at Willowgrove, you can provide them with food, shelter, and safety. In exchange? You’ll have your first employees. And your estate won’t go dark while you’re gone.”

  By early evening, they walked into the narrow, uneven streets of the Lower Zone. Familiar alleys greeted them—lined with patchy moss, crooked signs, and the worn voices of street sellers hawking bitter root and bone broth.

  Brinna was tending to her cousin’s drying nets when she spotted them.

  “Well now,” she called, brushing flour from her hands, “if it isn’t the garden royalty.”

  “Brinna,” Ilyari said, jumping down from the cart, “we need your help.”

  “Of course you do,” she replied, not unkindly. “It’s what I’m here for.”

  They told her everything—about the guild, the estate, the harvest demand, and the fact that they wouldn’t be home for most of the year.

  When they finished, Brinna stared at them in silence for a long moment. Then crossed her arms.

  “You want me to run an estate?”

  “You already run half this block,” Tazien said.

  She barked a laugh.

  “You’ll have full food access, your own room, and anything grown you get first pick,” Ilyari added. “And we need three others. Skilled with herbs and willing to learn tea.”

  Brinna’s eyes sparkled. “You two are serious, aren’t you?”

  “We don’t ask small,” Ilyari said softly.

  Brinna smirked. “Good. I don’t do small.”

  She tapped her chin, already thinking. “I know two I trust. One more, I’ll need to test. But I’ll come out tomorrow and see the place for myself.”

  As Brinna returned to her netted herbs, already muttering names and weighing personalities, Ilyari and Tazien stood in front of their first home and told Ma'Ryn exactly what happened until the sun cast long amber shadows across the crooked rooftops of the Lower Zone.

  They didn’t speak for the first stretch of the walk back—both lost in thought, the good kind. The kind that fluttered in the chest and warmed behind the ribs.

  Then Tazien finally let out a laugh—low and almost disbelieving. “We’re doing this. We’re actually doing this.”

  Ilyari leaned back against the cart frame, the wind tugging strands of hair from her braid. “A business. A house. Employees. And a growing garden.”

  He elbowed her lightly. “Don’t forget the part where we have to cram into noble robes and pretend not to know how to pull weeds.”

  She grinned. “One more day. That’s all we’ve got.”

  “One day to meet our new hires, open bank accounts, help Brinna settle in, and… oh, right—design an entirely new dress for a noble girl who will cry if it’s not pink enough.”

  They both groaned, but it was the kind of groan that came with laughter.

  They had one day left.

  And somehow, it was enough.

  one day to do it all before the Academy gates open. No biggie! They got this!