There was no cake, no celebration. Aunt Mara had muttered something about not having time for nonsense, and Kaeli had rolled her eyes when Nysa mentioned it was her birthday. But that morning, after sweeping the front of the shop and washing the kitchen floor, Uncle Jorren handed her something small wrapped in rough cloth.
"What's this?" she asked, blinking at the bundle.
He grunted. "Just open it."
Inside was a thin piece of polished wood—maple, warm and golden—and a simple carving tool, the handle smooth but clearly used. Nysa gasped, her hands trembling a little.
"For me?" she breathed.
Uncle Jorren didn't look at her. "Don't make me regret it. And no cutting yourself."
"I won't! I promise!" She clutched it like it was treasure, tears stinging behind her eyes. "Thank you…"
"You're not useless," he muttered, already turning away.
That was the closest thing she'd heard to kindness in a long while.
From that day on, she spent every free moment in the woodworking shed. Her chores never lessened—Aunt Mara made sure of that—but after scrubbing and fetching and polishing, Nysa would dart outside, roll up her sleeves, and sit on a little stool near the back bench.
Uncle Jorren rarely spoke unless he was giving instruction. But over time, he let her do more. She learned to smooth edges with care, to tell the difference between cherry and pine by the smell, and to sharpen blades without dulling the edges.
Sometimes, when the shop was quiet and her hands were steady, she'd carve tiny shapes into leftover scraps. Leaves. Spirals. A little flame, like the one on her pendant.
She never showed anyone.
"You like that shop too much," Kaeli said one evening as she brushed her hair. "What kind of girl wants to smell like dust and bark all the time?"
Nysa didn't answer. She'd long since stopped trying to explain herself.
But Lina, lying on her cot, looked over and said softly, "It suits her."
Nysa turned in surprise. It was the first kind word Lina had spoken in days.
Spring turned to early summer, and the days grew warmer. One afternoon, Uncle Jorren came back from the town square, his face unusually red and his steps fast. Nysa rushed to take his coat.
"Uncle? Are you alright?"
He didn't answer at first. Then, to her shock, he gave a sharp laugh and slapped the table. "I got it!"
"Got what?"
"The palace commission! The king's celebration—you've heard of it, haven't you?"
She nodded slowly. Everyone in Windale had heard. It was the biggest event of the year. The royal family hosted nobles, merchants, officials—and even a few commoners chosen by lottery—to show off the kingdom's wealth and power. Tradesmen from nearby towns competed fiercely for contracts to supply goods for the event.
"They want furniture carved for the outer banquet halls. Ten pieces. I outbid them all. Even that snake Rellen."
"Really?" Nysa grinned, eyes wide. "That's amazing!"
"It is," he said, a rare glint in his eye. "I've been trying to get that job for five years. This could raise our shop's name across all Aeloria."
Aunt Mara looked up from her mending with a skeptical frown. "You sure they won't change their mind?"
"It's sealed." He pulled out a folded parchment, thick with wax. "I'm to come in person next fortnight to finalize the agreement."
"That means we'll be rich?" Kaeli asked, already spinning with excitement.
"Not rich," he said, chuckling. "But better off."
Nysa felt a thrill in her chest. "Are you going to the palace?"
"Yes," he said. "And I'll be taking samples—only the best."
She bit her lip, then dared to ask, "Can I help you prepare them?"
He looked at her, and for a long moment, she thought he'd say no.
Then: "Yes. You've got sharp eyes. We'll need clean lines and perfect finishes. No flaws."
Nysa beamed. "I won't let you down!"
That week, the house changed. Aunt Mara hummed as she cooked. Uncle Jorren worked late into the night, sanding and carving with more precision than ever. Even Kaeli stopped teasing—for a while.
Nysa spent hours beside him, her fingers raw from holding cloth and oiling wood. She studied every motion of his hands, every line he drew. He let her apply finish to one of the smaller chairs—a simple design, but she worked on it like it was a crown.
"You've got the makings of a real craftswoman," he said one evening, quietly, not looking at her.
Nysa didn't know what to say. She just nodded, heart full.
But not everyone was pleased.
"She's not even your child," Aunt Mara muttered one night when she thought Nysa was asleep. "You'll have her thinking she belongs here."
"She works harder than Kaeli," he snapped back. "And listens better, too."
Nysa turned her face deeper into her pillow, her eyes open and dry.
The night before the trip to the palace, the finished pieces were lined in the shop: benches with curling legs, tables carved with vines, chairs that looked like they could belong in a throne room. Nysa had helped polish every one.
"I wish I could go with you," she whispered as they packed the wagon. "Just to see it."
Uncle Jorren paused. "Maybe someday. Not this time."
She nodded, hiding her disappointment. "Will you tell me what it's like?"
"If I remember," he said, but his tone was lighter than usual.
That night, she sat on her mattress with the flame pendant pressed to her chest, staring out at the star-filled sky. Something stirred inside her, a strange flutter between fear and hope.
What if something waited for her, beyond Windale? What if this was the beginning of more?
She closed her eyes and let the night whisper its secrets.
---
The morning of the journey began like any other, save for the odd quiet in the house. Nysa had just finished brushing her tangled curls when Aunt Mara called her into the main room.
.
.