BANG. BANG. BANG.

  The pounding at the front door echoed through Willowgrove House like a battering ram aimed straight at Ilyari’s dreams.

  She groaned, flinging an arm over her eyes. “Stars above, are we being raided?”

  Tazien was already halfway to falling off his side of the mattress, his white hair stuck up like hay. “It’s too early for a revolution,” he mumbled.

  BANG. BANG. BANG.

  “Nope. Definitely a revolution,” he added, dragging himself upright. “Or breakfast.”

  Ilyari sat up with a grunt, rubbing her face. “Why do they knock like we’re three walls and a barricade deep?”

  “Because they want us to think they’re important,” he grumbled, swinging his legs over the edge and stumbling toward the door. “They think if they hit it hard enough, it’ll open on fear.”

  Ilyari caught a glimpse of herself in the dust-smeared mirror hanging beside the hearth—and immediately recoiled.

  “Oh no,” she whispered. “I look like a wild weed. An actual garden weed that pulled itself from the compost and sprouted legs.”

  Tazien paused on the stairs, giving her a once-over. “You’re not a weed.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re like one of those aggressive creeping vines,” he amended. “That snatches ankles.”

  “Better,” she muttered, dragging her fingers through the chaos of her curls.

  The pounding resumed. Tazien opened the door mid-knock, catching the delivery man mid-swing with a sack in one hand.

  “Oh,” the soldier said, mildly startled. “Was told to knock loud. This place’s got ghosts, they said.”

  “We’re the ghosts,” Tazien said, voice flat.

  The man blinked, shoved two ration bags into his arms, then disappeared without another word.

  Tazien shut the door and turned back to his sister. “Apparently we’re haunted.”

  “We’ll be one hungry ghost if you don’t pass me mine,” she said, arms crossed. “And we need a better mattress. This one feels like it was stuffed with rocks and regret.”

  Tazien tossed her a bag. “Then let’s go see Vaylen. Maybe he can make us a regret-free mattress.”

  He gave a dramatic sigh and chewed slowly. “Still, could be worse.”

  “How?”

  He gestured to the window. “It’s not raining.”

  She blinked, glanced toward the tall window overlooking the back garden—and blinked again.

  Sunlight filtered through the vines, a pale gold cutting between leaves and dust, casting slanted light across the floor. For once, the sky was soft. Blue peeked through scattered clouds.

  “Huh,” she said. “Maybe the house made a deal with the weather. Kill our backs, spare the sky.”

  Tazien held up his apple like a toast. “To clear skies, sore spines, and better breakfast someday.”

  Ilyari clinked her apple to his. “And a mattress that doesn’t fight back.”

  The bread was a little stale. The butter spread like glue. But after a night on a soggy mattress and a floor that might as well have been cobblestone, even soldier rations tasted like victory.

  “I think my hip’s stuck sideways,” Tazien groaned, shoving another bite into his mouth. “Like, permanently. If I start walking in circles, you know why.”

  Ilyari stifled a laugh, teeth flashing behind her crusty slice of ration bread. Her hair—still a tangled mess from sleep—framed her face like a wind-tossed halo.

  “You look like a wild weed,” Tazien added, grinning at her.

  Ilyari reached for the comb with mock offense. “You slept like a dropkicked scarecrow, and I’m the wild weed?”

  He nodded sagely. “That’s because I’ve accepted it. You’re still in denial.”

  She threw a crumb at him.

  Outside, the clouds had rolled back. Pale sunlight filtered through the high windows of Willowgrove, painting golden streaks across the worn floorboards. It wasn’t warm, exactly, but it wasn’t raining—and that, to them, was more than enough.

  Ilyari finished her meal and stood, stretching until her spine popped. “We should go see Vaylen. If I sleep on that mattress again, I’ll wake up with a permanent hunch.”

  “Maybe we’ll match,” Tazien muttered, rubbing his back.

  They laughed, just a little, and it felt good.

  Vaylen barely looked up from the fabric bolts stacked on the table when the bell above the door jingled. “If it’s another noble brat needing last-minute hemming, I swear to—” He blinked. “Oh. It’s you two.”

  Ilyari smiled, cautious. “Good morning, Master Vaylen.”

  Tazien gave a small wave. “We… have a few small favors to ask.”

  Vaylen raised a brow. “You always do.” He eyed their clothes, the robes bunched at the ankles and sleeves flopping over their hands. “Good stars. Did the Academy mistake you for ceremonial puppets?”

  Tazien held out the hem of his robe with both hands. “We were drowned in fabric. I tripped down the stairs trying to reach the front gate.”

  “I believe it,” Vaylen muttered. “You look like two toddlers in a theater curtain.” He finally set his shears aside. “So. What do you want? Don’t say coins. I’m still trying to recover from the trauma of that silver thread order.”

  “We need material,” Ilyari said. “Mattress canvas—enough for two. And pillow stuffing. Sheets, too, if you’ve got anything that isn’t moth-eaten.”

  Vaylen gave her a long look. “You planning on opening a secondhand inn?”

  “No,” Tazien said quickly. “We just… don’t have anything decent to sleep on.”

  Vaylen blinked. “You still crashing on that old cot in the Lower Zone?”

  There was a pause. Ilyari forced a casual shrug. “We found somewhere a little… quieter.”

  “Hmm.” Vaylen didn’t press, but his eyes narrowed just slightly. “Well, supplies aren’t free. But I do need someone to re-catalog the thread cabinet, clear out the rag bin, and sort the dye powders before I end up dyeing lace black by accident again.” He scratched his beard. “I’ll trade. One full day of work, and you can take what you need—canvas, filler, scraps for repairs.”

  Tazien lit up. “Really?”

  “Only because I like you,” Vaylen said gruffly. “Not because I’m running a charity.”

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  Ilyari smiled. “Thank you, Vaylen. We’ll make it worth your while.”

  “See that you do.” He handed them each a pair of thread-splitting gloves and pointed toward the back storeroom. “Tazien you are coming with me. We have to go see Orlen. I’d rather only take one of you this time. And I need the stronger one. Tazien flexed with a grin.

  Ilyari followed, already rolling up her too-long sleeves. For now, the mystery of their residence remained safe—but their backs might not survive the day.

  The shop was starting to get busy when Ilyari stepped behind the counter. Vaylen had cleared a workbench for her, placing bolts of fabric, a set of finely weighted needles, and the Academy robe they’d brought to tailor. The light from the side window cast a bright wash across the room, making her dress look less noble and more patched at the seams—but she didn’t care. She was focused.

  “You’re good with customers,” Vaylen muttered, grabbing his coat. “Just don’t sell the shop while I’m gone.”

  Ilyari rolled her eyes. “Only if someone makes a really good offer.”

  He grunted and called toward the back, “Tazien! You ready?”

  Tazien jogged out, sleeves rolled up and shoulders squared. “As I’ll ever be.”

  Vaylen nodded. “Let’s go deal with a roach in merchant silk.”

  The door jingled as it shut behind them.

  Tazien followed close behind Vaylen as they made their way to the upper market. It wasn’t far, but it was several layers above where they used to walk. The cobbles here were cleaner, the people less forgiving. Orlen’s stall sat under a polished awning, with bolts of cloth hanging like banners and a scale that gleamed from too much polish—not use.

  Orlen looked up as they approached. His smirk didn’t so much fade as twist into something slimier.

  “Well, if it isn’t the crippled tailor and the little prince of gutterland,” Orlen drawled. “Back to beg?”

  Tazien stiffened, but Vaylen’s voice was even. “Back to pay. Fair coin. Canvas and filler. We need enough for two mattresses, pillows, and linen.”

  “Two?” Orlen arched a brow. “Well, someone’s moved up. What are you furnishing? A rat palace?”

  Tazien opened his mouth, but Vaylen touched his arm—a subtle signal.

  “We’ve taken on more work,” Vaylen said calmly. “Got mouths to feed. Bodies to rest.”

  Orlen sniffed. “Well, I’ve got the canvas. Not the soft stuff, mind—coarse as cobblestone and twice as itchy.”

  “It’ll do,” Vaylen replied. “Name your price.”

  Orlen did. It was too high.

  “That’s robbery,” Tazien muttered.

  “That’s business,” Orlen said sweetly. “You want the royal treatment? Pay royal coin.”

  “We don’t need silk,” Tazien shot back. “Just something that doesn’t smell like goat and regret.”

  Orlen leaned over the counter, eyes narrowing. “Still got that mouth, huh? Careful. Nobles don’t like that. You might end up back in a cell.”

  Tazien’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t reply. He just met Orlen’s eyes, steady and quiet.

  Vaylen laid the coins down on the counter. “We’ll take the canvas, the straw filler, and the bolts of sheet-grade cloth. And if you want our business next time, you’ll remember who stitched that dress Lady Talvane keeps bragging about.”

  Orlen’s expression curdled, but he scooped up the coins and tossed the supplies toward a waiting assistant.

  “So where are they keeping you? Brinna came by all weepy saying she hated the quiet.” Vaylen asked Tazien.

  Tazien hesitated, then replied quickly, “Willowgrove House. They gave us the deed.”

  Vaylen coughed, and Orlen cackled.

  “WHAT? That haunted old thing? Didn’t half of it burn?” Orlen mused.

  Vaylen shook his head. “No one should live there. It’s been abandoned longer than I was born. That is a travesty.”

  “I don’t know, I think it fits. Gutter rats should live in hovels.” Orlen preened on the other side of the counter.

  “Watch what you say to the prince. He has his title you should give him the respect he is due Orlen!” Vaylen countered.

  “Oh. I will practice my courtesy. He’s a prince without power and exiled. He’s a damaged political puppet from a fallen world. I’ll live.” Orlen placed the last bolt on the table. “Get out.”

  Tazien grabbed the bundles, slinging them over his shoulder without another word.

  As they walked away, Vaylen gave a small grunt. “You handled that better than I thought.”

  Tazien didn’t smile. “He’s not worth it. But next time he calls us gutter trash, I might forget that.”

  Vaylen glanced at him sidelong. “You’re learning restraint. Might be noble blood in there after all.”

  __________________

  Back at the shop midday

  Ilyari was halfway through adjusting the hem of a robe sleeve when the shop bell jingled for the third time in as many minutes.

  She didn’t look up at first.

  “Welcome,” she said automatically, biting a thread with her teeth. “Give me a moment and I’ll be with you.”

  “Take all the time you need,” came a bright voice—too bright, too practiced.

  She looked up.

  Three students stood just inside the door, none of them from the Lower Array. Their robes were crisp, fresh—accented with jewel-toned silk. Crest pins glittered on their collars.

  Upperclassmen. Nobles.

  The girl in front, tall and golden-eyed, offered a smile that didn’t touch her cheeks. “We heard the scholarship princess was doing fittings now. Is that true?”

  Ilyari froze, needle poised midair.

  “…Word travels fast.”

  “It does,” the girl said sweetly. “Especially after a scene like yours last night. I think half the school heard about the chess match. The other half heard about how you walked away from the prince like he was your footman.”

  The two boys behind her chuckled, but Ilyari didn’t blink.

  “I’m working,” she said evenly. “If you need something tailored, there’s a sign-up sheet.”

  “Don’t be like that.” The girl leaned on the counter, inspecting Ilyari’s stitching. “We’re just curious. It’s not every day someone goes from gutter orphan to potential fashion icon overnight.”

  Another student stepped through the door, then another.

  By the time Ilyari glanced out the window, there were five more nobles loitering outside. Whispering. Pretending to browse.

  And behind them—more onlookers drifting closer.

  She pressed her lips into a line and forced herself to keep sewing.

  The girl smiled again, wider this time. “Is it true you made that silver dress yourself?”

  “I designed it,” Ilyari replied coolly. “With some help.”

  “It was stunning,” the girl admitted, then added with a smirk, “for someone who’s never been inside a ballroom before. A little provincial around the sleeves, but the line of the waist? Impressive.”

  Ilyari met her gaze. “If you’re here to insult me with compliments, you’re wasting your time.”

  “Oh no,” the noble girl said lightly. “I’m here to see how long it takes before the scholarship princess starts charging gold for thread.”

  The shop bell rang again.

  Ilyari’s jaw clenched. “Then I hope you brought coin.”

  The girl’s grin sharpened. “Always.”

  By the time the fifth robe order came through the door, Ilyari had officially lost control of the line. Noble students were everywhere—leaning on shelves, lounging on stools, asking too many questions and offering too few answers. A few slipped notes across the counter with measurements and fabric preferences written in glittering ink.

  Outside, the line stretched down the block.

  Inside, Ilyari tried not to scream.

  “I’m sorry,” she said for the fourth time that minute, tying off a thread. “You’ll have to wait your turn—yes, even if you’re from House Kaesrin. No, I don’t do embroidery with bloodstones.”

  The front bell jingled again.

  And this time, it wasn’t giggling nobles.

  Two older women stepped in—familiar customers. Regal in posture but clearly not amused by the crowd.

  One of them—Lady Devrin, a long-time patron—wrinkled her nose. “What is this? A circus?”

  “Ilyari,” said the other, her voice clipped. “I placed an order last week for a ceremonial cloak. Is it ready?”

  Ilyari tried to smile. “Almost. I just need to—”

  “Don’t tell me,” Lady Devrin interrupted, eyeing the group of lounging teenagers. “The Academy brats are your new priority.”

  A ripple of uncomfortable silence passed through the shop.

  The girl who’d mocked Ilyari earlier blinked. “Excuse me?”

  Devrin didn’t turn. “I wasn’t speaking to you, chickweed.”

  Ilyari stepped forward. “Your order will be ready today, Lady Devrin. I’ll make sure of it.”

  The bell rang again—louder.

  Vaylen shoved open the door with an elbow, balancing two rolls of mattress canvas under one arm. “Tazien, careful—don’t let that box rip open, I just stitched the side—”

  He stopped.

  So did Tazien.

  There were at least twelve nobles crammed into the tiny front showroom. Half of them holding up fabric samples. The other half debating hem widths.

  Vaylen looked at Ilyari. Then at the register. Then at the aristocrats.

  “…What in the name of warped velvet happened here?”

  Tazien stared wide-eyed. “Is this a rebellion?”

  The noble girl from before twirled a ribbon of lace through her fingers. “Just a little scholarship magic.”

  Vaylen slowly walked to the counter, set the canvas down, and looked at Ilyari.

  She gave him the most exhausted, pleading look in her arsenal.

  “I said I didn’t want attention,” she muttered. “And then I forgot people gossip.”

  He looked back at the line and whistled low. “Well, looks like the shop’s famous again.”

  He nodded to the nobles, then to Tazien. “You and I are going to need to reinforce that back room. Ilyari, prep a ledger. We’re not turning anyone away, but they pay before fittings.”

  Tazien nodded, already heading for the storage crates.

  Vaylen leaned on the counter. “And you,” he said to Ilyari with a grin, “might’ve just become the most in-demand tailor on the edge of the Empire.”

  Ilyari pinched the bridge of her nose.

  “This,” she muttered, “is going to be a long week.”