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Chapter Text

The world had gone quiet when she died.

Not silent—quiet. As though the gods themselves had paused to acknowledge the end of her path. Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, the Oracle of the Astrals, Queen of Tenebrae in title if not rule, had known the moment would come. She had foreseen it—perhaps not the when, but certainly the cost.

And she had paid it, willingly.

Her final act: a prayer offered in the storm-swept waters of Altissia. She had raised her trident high, invoking the might of the Astrals and forging the way for the Chosen King, Noctis, to fulfill the prophecy and cast back the darkness—the Scourge of the Star—that devoured the light from their world.

But in her heart, she had carried more than duty.

She had carried memories. The weight of a crown she never wore, the dreams of a boy who once made her smile through prison bars of obligation, and the echo of a brother’s voice, distant and strained with suffering.

Ravus.

He had grown colder in the end, hardened by war and loss. His arm—the one taken and replaced with a magitek prosthetic—had pulsed with that very scourge they both had sworn to destroy. She had hoped he would live… but her death had likely sealed his fate.

And Noctis?

She did not know. She couldn’t know.

The gods, who once whispered like wind in her thoughts, were silent now.

And yet—when her spirit slipped from the shores of the Tidemother’s eternal waters, she had not fallen into darkness. She had not met the peace or judgment she expected.

Instead… she awoke.

..

She inhaled sharply, as if surfacing from beneath deep water. A breath filled with dust, must, and wood smoke. The scent softened by something boiling nearby. Her body trembled under coarse, heavy sheets. Her limbs—frail, thin, aching.

This is not my body.

That thought came not with fear, but certainty.

She blinked slowly, adjusting to the dim morning light streaming through a small window. A wooden ceiling overhead. Cracks in the plaster walls. She was lying on a low bed, tucked into a corner of what looked like a modest family home.

Faint warmth pulsed beneath her ribs—her magic, still with her, still intact. But it was like forcing an ocean into a fragile vessel. The raw, natural energy within her—once finely channeled through ritual and control—was now too great for the body it inhabited. It raged beneath her skin, without form, without anchor. A curse, if she were untrained.

No… not a curse. A trial.

Her hand twitched. Small. Pale.

It was not her own.

She reached inward, instinctively sorting through what little clarity she had—memories that did not belong to her, yet nestled beside her own.

A name: Myne.

A home: Ehrenfest.

A family—Effa, a mother.

Gunther, a father.

Tulli, a sister.

There was no royal blood flowing in this child. No prophecies. No Astrals. No kings. Just a fragile girl, poor and often bedridden, who had once chased her sister into town before collapsing from fever.

Luna—still Luna, even in this small borrowed body—closed her eyes for a moment and breathed through the ache. These memories, simple though they were, held warmth.

A mother who smiled. A father who carried her. A sister who called her name.

She had not known this kind of life, not since the fall of Tenebrae. Her parents had died too soon. And Ravus—well, he had lived, but war had taken more from him than his arm.

Is this a mercy? She wondered. Or another task laid before my feet?

The door creaked.

“Myne?” came a young voice—hopeful, uncertain, and vaguely familiar. “You awake?”

Luna turned her head.

A girl stood in the doorway, barely older than her—freckles across her nose, electric blue hair tied in uneven bunches, eyes wide with concern and relief. A handmade apron hung over her dress, dusted with flour and soot.

She rushed over without waiting for a reply.

“Thank goodness,” the girl whispered, gently touching her forehead. “You don’t feel as hot anymore.”

Tulli, Luna realized.

Myne’s sister.

There was a moment, just a heartbeat, where Luna allowed herself to relax into the sensation. The touch. The closeness.

No duty. No trident. No throne.

Just a sister.

A life so ordinary it felt foreign.

Tulli sat beside her on the bed, chattering nervously. “You scared us again. Papa said if your fever didn’t go down by this morning, we’d have to call the priest. I told him you’d be fine, that you always get better.”

Luna blinked slowly, her breathing still shallow. It hurt to speak. Her throat was dry. But she managed a soft word.

“…Tulli.”

The girl paused, staring at her.

“You said my name,” she whispered, smiling now. “That means your head’s not all fuzzy anymore, right?”

Luna didn’t answer. She didn’t know how. Not yet.

She glanced around the room. There were no books. No televisions. Only simple tools, baskets, a corner shelf with dried herbs, and a crude wooden toy carved into the shape of a bird.

It struck her as odd and familiar, all in the same breath.

Tulli was still speaking. “Mama’s making soup. She used the good root, the one you like. If you can sit up later, maybe you can eat?”

Luna gave her a small nod.

The motion exhausted her.

Tulli beamed. “I’ll go tell Mama you’re awake!”

She stood, and Luna caught her hand.

“Tulli,” she rasped. Her voice cracked like dry parchment. “Thank you.”

The girl looked stunned. Then her eyes softened, and she gave her sister’s hand a small squeeze.

“You always say weird things when you’re sick,” she said, laughing lightly. “But I like it when you say thank you.”

And then she was gone, off to the kitchen, calling, “Mama! Myne’s awake!”

Luna leaned back slowly against the wall, drawing the blanket tighter around her. Her body trembled with fatigue, but her mind remained sharp.

She looked down at her small hands. Myne’s hands.

Is this reincarnation? Possession? A fragment of fate unspooling?

She didn’t know.

But the gods had placed her here—or allowed it. That alone told her this was no accident.

And if she was to live again… in this world where the Scourge had not yet crept across the sky… where a family loved her… and where her magic still lived, though barely contained…

Then she would begin again.

Not as a Queen.

Not yet as the Oracle.

But as a sister.

As a daughter.

As Myne.

And slowly, she would begin to learn why.

…

For what felt like hours, though only minutes had passed in actuality, Luna—as Myne—lay quietly on the family’s shared bed.

And yes, shared. It was far too wide for one child, too humble to be extravagant, and far too intimate to belong to anyone but kin. The corners were soft with age, and the blanket smelled faintly of hearth smoke and worn linen. The morning light streamed in from the small window, brushing dust motes into gold.

A simple home.

But not an unpleasant one.

From what scattered impressions she could glean from the child whose body she now inhabited, Ehrenfest was a town of laborers and craftsmen, of simple rhythms and deep-seated traditions. A place where winter was long, resources were few, and families clung to one another like knots in a woven cloth.

It reminded her keenly of Tenebrae’s outlying villages—those nestled deep in the highlands, far from Nifleheim’s engines and Lucis' magical spires. Long ago, before war and empire and prophecy, her kingdom had also lived like this. Modestly. Closely.

And with faith.

Ehrenfest breathed the same air as that old world. There was something deeply scared in its simplicity: meals cooked slowly over flame, cloth stitched by hand, bread made with quiet pride. Even the home’s layout—low ceilings, exposed beams, shared sleeping quarters—echoed the provincial estates of early Tenebraen nobility, where stone and timber marked the boundary between civilization and the wild.

It called to mind the Old Era, that shadowed stretch of time a millennium after Solheim’s fall. When Ifrit’s betrayal razed the world’s most advanced civilization to ash, and the people—terrified, scattered, grieving—forsook their machines in fear of divine wrath. They turned instead to community, to ancestry, to gods that still heard prayer not through circuitry, but through song.

Tenebrae's foundation had been born from that quiet resistance. Its customs grew from reverence rather than rebellion. Festivals followed the movement of the stars. Royal rites were performed with flowers instead of steel. Knowledge was passed down orally, embroidered into cloth or inked into vellum—never flaunted.

Luna’s mother had once said that dignity was the soft thread that stitched life together.

Here, in Ehrenfest, she felt the same thread.

The woven aprons, the way shoes were lined neatly by the door, the unspoken discipline of conserving every scrap of food. The softness with which Tulli had touched her brow. These were not grand gestures, but rituals, born of a people who lived with hardship and still carved joy out of their days.

And unlike the isolated grace of Tenebrae, Ehrenfest was loud with life—markets, festivals, church bells, and arguments shouted from windows.

There was warmth in it. A kind of noisy closeness Luna had rarely known.

The Tenebrae of her time, for all its beauty, had been filled with silence. Jaded sophistication. Eyes always watching. Simles too soft to be authentic.

But Ehrenfest? There was dust in the corners. Children laughed too loudly. Bread crusts were fought over. Sisters pulled each other’s braids. And a sense of community holding their small world by the seams.

She tried to recall Myne’s memories—distant, fragile, like paper left out in the sun. Moments blurred by fever. Yet there were flickers: a girl—Tulli—kneeling to help her lace her shoes with patient fingers. Cold mornings spent sitting shoulder to shoulder by the fire. The soft comfort of a sliced apple shared without a word.

She had a mother here.

A father. A sister.

It was more than she had in years. And perhaps—more than she would ever deserve.

In Eos, she had been born with purpose but not choice. Groomed for duty. Praised for piety. Stripped of wants before she even learned to speak them aloud.

But this time, she was given something else.

She was given life. Not mission.

No crown. No war. No gods whispering in her ear. Perhaps, not yet.

For now, she told herself, I will watch. I will wait. I will regain my strength.

But not merely to survive.

This time, she would live. Truly.

Not as a vessel of fate or the voice of divine will. But as her own person.

She would walk again beneath the sky—whatever world this may be—and leave behind more than footsteps in salt and snow. She would not fade like a prayer whispered in war.

Her eyes fluttered shut briefly, the barest smile at the corner of her lips.

This world did not know who she was.

But it would.

Oh, it would.

…

The sound of footsteps stirred her from her thoughts—quick and light, followed by the gentle creak of the door.

Tulli returned, balancing a shallow wooden bowl with both hands, her face lit up with quiet relief.

“Mama said to eat while it’s hot,” she said, carefully kneeling beside the bed. “It’s your favorite—root stew with bits of dried sausage!”

She said it with pride, as if offering a feast.

Luna pushed herself upright with effort, the blanket slipping down her shoulders. Tulli quickly tucked it back around her, setting the bowl on her lap with a hand-carved wooden spoon.

Steam curled from the stew, thick with rutabaga, onion, and slivers of something vaguely resembling meat. It was the color of clay and had the consistency of softened bark.

Luna dipped the spoon and brought it to her lips.

The taste struck her immediately.

Bland. Sour. Salty. Somehow all at once, and yet… with no flavor to speak of.

Her brows twitched, ever so slightly. The broth was thin, the salt uneven, and the meat—what little it had— was chewy to the point of fatigue. The vegetables had been boiled beyond recognition. It was food, certainly. It was edible.

But it was not good.

Still, she swallowed and offered Tulli a faint smile.

“…Thank you.”

The girl brightened. “You are feeling better.”

Luna stirred the stew slowly, saying nothing. Her mind was already cataloging its parts.

No oil. No spice. Barely any protein. Herbs, if there were any, had long boiled into obscurity. It was the kind of meal designed for endurance, not enjoyment.

There’s much to be done, she thought, taking another bite with regal grace.

The world she had entered was rough-hewn, yes—but not without potential. Already, her instincts were stirring. Just as she had once rebuilt the ashes her kingdom with diplomacy and care, so too would she elevate this family’s life, piece by piece.

Their clothes, their meals, their health. Their dignity.

She would start small—quietly—but her resolve was iron.

Their small, amicable interaction was cut short by a sudden wave of heat.

It pulsed deep within Luna's chest—violent and raw—like a furnace lit too quickly. Her hands trembled around the wooden bowl, and she barely managed to set it aside before doubling forward, clutching at her ribs.

Tulli blinked, startled. “Myne?”

“I… I need to rest a little more,” Luna managed, voice soft but strained. “Please, I’ll be fine.”

Tulli hesitated, worry furrowing her brow, but nodded and quietly slipped out the door, casting one last glance over her shoulder before it closed.

The moment Luna was alone, she exhaled sharply.

So soon?

She had hoped for more time—more time for the child’s body to adjust to her presence. But her magic—her mana—was vast and old, brimming beyond the limits of flesh and bone. It had no room to settle in such a fragile form. And now, it was surging.

She pressed a hand to her heart, gritting her teeth as another wave of heat rippled through her. It was as if the light of the stars themselves were trying to burst free from beneath her skin.

But this was not new to her.

She had trained for this.

Long before she ever stepped onto Altissia’s altar, she had learned how to harness the unrelenting tide of divine energy through years of meditation, of ritual, of discipline.

Luna closed her eyes and sat upright, steadying her breath despite the pain. Her spine straightened as if she wore her old ceremonial robes once more.

She brought her hands to her lap and began to focus.

Visualize it.

The words of her mentor echoed softly in her mind— her late mother, Queen Sylvia Nox Fleuret.

Give the chaos form. Form brings stillness. Stillness brings clarity.

And so she did.

She pictured her mana as a constellation of light—bright, pure, overwhelming. It flickered like stars scattered across a dark sky. But then, she called them inward, drawing each mote of light into a single glowing crystal, each fragment joining a larger geode—the great Heart of the Crystal, the symbol of Eos’ covenant.

It formed slowly, colorless and radiant, faceted like a memory.

A holy geode suspended within her chest.

Compress.

She tightened her will. The scattered lights obeyed, coalescing with grace and gravity. The pressure in her limbs lessened, the fire dimmed, and the pain ebbed—slowly, but surely.

And when the worst had passed, she allowed her breath to soften.

But she was not yet done.

Her body remained weakened—too frail to bear her will for long. She needed to heal it.

Luna laid her palms over her heart and began to whisper a prayer— a spell. A hymn borne not from this world, but from a life long past.

Her voice was low at first, a reverent murmur. Then stronger. Clearer. She felt her power flow with the rhythm of the words.

“Blessed stars of life and light,

Deliver us from endless night.

By sacred flame and crystal true,

Restore the flesh, renew the hue.

Let pain be washed in golden tide,

Let strength within these bones abide.

In gentle breath and starlit grace,

Return the bloom to pale-lit face.

O spirits kind and heavens wide,

Shine where mortal hope may hide.

Let this child, so weak and worn,

Be healed anew, be now reborn!”

A soft golden glow spilled from her palms—cool and pale, like moonlight reflected on still water. It sank into her chest, not burning but mending. She felt the tightness in her lungs ease. The ache in her joints quiet. The tremble in her fingers still.

She could feel her body knitting back together, cell by trembling cell—not entirely restored, but no longer on the edge of collapse.

And when the light faded, she was left in silence.

Not the silence of the grave.

But the silence of peace.

The prayer left her weary.

Though her magic had quieted and her body no longer ached as sharply, the strain of containing such power—compressing it into crystalline stillness—left Luna breathless. Healing, too, came at a cost. Her limbs grew heavy with the effort, and a soft haze dulled the edges of her mind.

She let herself lie back against the pillow.

The air in the room was still warm, but the light had begun to shift. Outside the window, the sun was sinking behind the horizon, casting the wooden walls in amber hues. Dust motes floated lazily in the beams of light, dancing like the shimmer of fireflies.

Her eyes fluttered closed, and she slept.

She woke again at twilight.

Not the dusky glow of a city with lamplight or the constant hum of magitek pylons. No. This was the twilight of firewood and hearth ash. The faint golden flicker of a clay-oil lantern somewhere beyond the door. Shadows played across the ceiling, and the air carried the scent of damp earth, boiled vegetables, and smoke-dried cloth.

The blanket clung slightly to her skin. The bed was coarse, the straw uneven beneath her back. Her hair was slightly damp with sweat. She sat up slowly, her body lighter now, movement no longer a painful ordeal.

The door creaked open, and Tulli peeked in.

“You’re awake again,” she whispered with a smile, tiptoeing closer.

Luna gave her a small nod, her voice softer now. “Thank you… for checking on me.”

Tulli beamed. “Mama said you could come sit by the fire if you felt better. Papa’s almost home. He just got off guard duty.”

Luna blinked. Papa. Myne’s father.

She hadn’t met him yet, but she could recall impressions—broad shoulders, laughter that shook the floorboards, a smell of iron and leather. Myne’s memories framed him as rough, but warm.

“I’ll join you,” Luna said at last, slowly sliding her legs off the side of the bed.

Tulli helped her to her feet, carefully guiding her toward the doorway like one might with an elderly aunt. “Take it slow, okay?”

Luna didn’t answer. She was too busy observing.

The house was… smaller than she remembered.

The hallway opened into a living space no bigger than a noble’s antechamber in Tenebrae. The hearth dominated the room, with a pot hanging over low flames. Wooden shelves sagged under clay pots and a few woven baskets filled with what looked like dried beans and shriveled herbs. The floor was wood, uneven and coarse, softened only by a few straw mats.

The air held a strong aroma—of smoke, old wood, boiled cabbages, and something faintly sour beneath it. Not foul, exactly, but lived-in. Human.

This was the kind of smell that clung to homes with minimal ventilation. There was a faint tang of sweat and earth, from boots left by the door. The linens drying near the hearth carried the sharpness of lye soap, but not enough to mask the lingering mildew.

It was not dirty.

But clean only in the loosest definition of the word.

Tulli sat her down on a low stool near the fire. The heat from the hearth kissed her chilled skin, and for a moment Luna just listened—to the bubbling of stew, the soft scraping of Tulli tending the pot, the quiet sigh of wind at the shutters.

This was their normal.

No heating. No running water or scented oils. No gilded braziers filled with incense. She was no longer in a land of citadels and palaces.

Here, comfort came from proximity and patience.

She looked around with fresh eyes now—assessing, not judging. The timber walls were solid but rough. There were gaps between the floorboards where cold air might creep in. Their dishes were earthenware and chipped. Their utensils mismatched. A small wash basin sat near the door, filled with grayed water from earlier chores.

There is work to be done.

The thought came with clarity. If she was to live in this life, then she would do more than simply adjust. She would improve it.

A better seal for the windows would keep warmth in. Cleaner water. More balanced food. Even now, her tongue remembered the taste of the stew from earlier—too thin, too salty, and too sour, almost as if the concept of flavor was lost to the cook.

Nutrition. Cleanliness. Warmth.

None of it was impossible. It simply hadn’t been prioritized.

She folded her hands in her lap, listening as Tulli hummed softly, stirring the pot. The girl’s voice was sweet, her movements habitual.

This world does not lack love, Luna thought. Only means.

And where love existed, means could be found.

The door creaked open, and boots thudded against the entryway with the unmistakable heaviness of someone returning home after a long day on their feet.

Tulli perked up immediately. “Papa’s back!”

Luna sat a little straighter.

A tall man entered, with a head full of blue hair, brushed the dirt of his shoulders. His boots were worn, armor scratched from wear but still serviceable. A leather strap crossed his chest, and a sheathed sword hung at his hip. He looked like he belonged on a battlefield—but wore a smile fit for a kitchen.

Gunther.

“Oi! Look who’s up!” His voice boomed louder than necessary for the small space, but it carried an easy warmth. “Our little Myne’s out of bed and not melting into her sheets for once!”

He crossed the room in a few quick strides and knelt beside her, gently tousling her hair with one gloved hand.

“You scared us again,” he said more softly now, meeting her eyes. “Thought we might have to call a priest.”

Luna gave him a faint smile, steady and calm. “Sorry to worry you.”

It felt strange, speaking to him this way. He wasn’t like the soldiers she had once commanded or the nobles she had parried in court. He was simpler, cruder—but not unkind. There was strength in his hands, and yet a gentleness in how he looked at her.

Not unlike Ravus, she thought. Before war hardened him.

Gunther grinned, clearly pleased she was speaking.

“Effa!” he called over his shoulder. “She’s talking just fine!”

A woman emerged from the small side room, wiping her damp hands on her apron. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, fingers stained faintly blue and red—dyer’s ink, Luna realized.

Effa was slender, with a tired elegance. Her expression wavered between maternal concern and exhaustion. Her hair was pinned up hastily, held up by a bandana, and her eyes lingered on Luna for a beat too long—as if expecting her to keel over again any second.

“I thought I told you not to move around yet,” she said, kneeling down and touching Luna’s forehead with the back of her hand. “You’ll make it worse.”

“I feel better now,” Luna replied quietly.

Effa sighed, her shoulders slumping with relief. “That’s the first time in days I’ve heard your voice without a fever behind it.”

She stood again and turned back to the hearth. “I’ll get your dinner. You need something warm.”

As Effa moved, Luna watched her with a quiet reverence. Her hands were calloused. Her steps efficient. The smell of dye clung faintly to her clothes, a mix of vinegar, minerals, and crushed plant matter. She was a woman who worked—not just at home, but in a dye-houses of the lower city. Not out of choice obviously, but necessity.

Commoners, Luna noted, were anything but idle.

Effa and Gunther embodied a kind of nobility she had rarely seen among Eos’ courts—one rooted not in birthright, but in duty. Their love was not spoken in flourished speeches or poetic gestures. It was shown in stew ladled into chipped bowls. In boots kept mended. In rooms warmed by hand-stacked wood.

As the meal was shared and the hearth warmed the cramped living space, Luna allowed herself to listen and observe.

Gunther spoke of a troublemaker boy throwing pinecones at a guard. Effa mentioned a rush order of dyed thread for autumn cloaks. Tulli chimed in with excitement about a neighbor’s dog giving birth to puppies.

To them, this was ordinary.

To Luna—it was profound.

But amid the laughter and clatter of wooden spoons, she couldn’t help noticing more.

The walls of the house were worn. The warmth came solely from the hearth. The oil lamp flickered, its flame guarded jealously by a low glass dome—likely expensive, irreplaceable.

This was southern Ehrenfest.

From the fragments of Myne’s memories—faint and scattered—she understood now: this part of the city was where the laborers lived. The streets were crowded, muddy in spring, snow-choked in winter. Chimneys coughed smoke day and night. Wood was valued more than silver. And life, though full of heart, was never far from hardship.

No noble ever stepped foot here.

Not even their shadows.

In Ehrenfest, even among commoners, there was a hierarchy.

To the north, closest to the noble district and the temple, lived the wealthier commoners—retired high-ranking soldiers, successful merchants, bureaucrats. Their houses were taller, sometimes tiled. They had private wells. Hired help. Perhaps even a door that locked from the inside.

To the east were the craftsmen—masons, blacksmiths, carpenters. Busy, loud, industrious. Their guilds held clout, their workshops expanded with every order.

To the west, the market ruled. Traders, peddlers, shopkeepers. Faces changed by the season. Words flowed in coin and gossip. The river was their gateway to the rest of the country.

And here, in the south—the laborers lived. Dyers like Effa. Guards like Gunther. Millers, potters, dockhands. Every day demanded something of their backs or their hands. And every coin was stretched, bartered, earned.

As for the nobles? They were myth. Names on festival banners. Faces glimpsed in processions. Their world and this one never touched.

But Luna understood power, even unspoken.

Even here, among chipped bowls and firewood, it revealed itself in where someone stood during a market argument. In whose child was first fed. In which path the snow was cleared.

And though she bore no crest here, and wore no circlet of gold, she knew how to climb.

Slowly. Subtly. With intention.

She would not rule them. She would not defy them. But she would lift them—first her family, then perhaps more.

Because in every world, no matter how humble, dignity could be woven into life.

And she—reborn and watching—was ready to begin.

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered through the shuttered window in thin slivers of pale gold, casting long, quiet bars of light across the wooden walls.

Luna—as Myne—blinked herself awake.

The room was empty. Tulli’s side of the bed was already cold, and the muffled hum of movement had begun to stir just outside the walls.

Yesterday was not a dream. It seems this was truly her life now.

She sat up slowly, testing her limbs.

The pain from the day before had lessened. Her chest still ached faintly, like the ghost of a fever lingering in her ribs, but she could breathe without effort. Her body, though small and fragile, no longer felt like it would shatter with each breath.

They had let her sleep in.

She looked to the corner of the room, where a small pail of water had been left for washing and a clean cloth sat folded atop a chipped ceramic bowl.

A simple kindness.

Her parents were already gone. That much was clear.

The door to the house had been pulled shut. The fire in the hearth had since gone cold. Only the faint scent of warmed grain—porridge, most likely—lingered in the air, along with the familiar trace of wood smoke and faint iron from Gunther’s armor.

Effa must have gone to the dye-house again, she thought. And Gunther… the south gate, perhaps.

Memories flickered faintly—not her own, but Myne’s. Blurred impressions from a childhood shaped by long absences. Effa worked in a textile workshop, her hands stained with color and harsh lye. Gunther served the city as a soldier, the captain of the lower gates tasked with protecting the masses from stray beasts and thieves.

They left early. Returned late. Ate quickly. Slept just enough.

That was the rhythm of commoners in Ehrenfest.

In this world, labor was life. And in homes like theirs—where coins were stretched thin and sickness loomed—children were expected to ease the burden. Even from a young age, a second pair of hands could mean fewer errands, lighter workloads, and peace of mind for tired parents.

Children are a blessing, the memory whispered, because they help each other when we can’t.

It was a common sentiment in the southern quarter. But for their family, things had not gone as hoped.

Because Myne—small, sickly, and fragile—had never been able to help.

She had been confined to bed more often than not. Her body weakened by fevers and frailty. Her only sibling, Tulli, had shouldered the burden alone—helping Effa wash clothes, cooking the stew, fetching water, and keeping the house in order.

And yet she had never once complained.

Luna swallowed softly.

That ends today.

She slipped her legs over the side of the bed, moving carefully. Her balance was better now. Her strength was far from full, but her resolve carried more weight than her limbs.

She was no longer the high priestess in alabaster halls, nor the queen cloaked in prophecy.

She was Myne now. A girl of the southern district, she reminds herself.

And she would earn her place in this home—not as a burden to be pitied, but as a daughter and sister who could contribute.

Still, she paused as she stepped barefoot onto the cool floorboards.

She had no idea what was expected of her.

As a princess, she had known little of housework. Her days had once been filled with etiquette training, scripture, and the politics of diplomacy. Her robes had been laid out by handmaidens. Her meals prepared with precision. Even during Tenebrae’s fall to the Empire, her survival had been ensured by the devotion of her retainers.

But that didn’t mean she was helpless.

The Empire had taken much—but not everything. She remembered being twelve and forced to sew her own hems after the court seamstress was dismissed. She remembered scouring the garden floor for edible roots when food was withheld. She remembered her time as a kitchen hand when the Fleuret’s name no longer opened doors.

Those were skills forged in necessity. Not grace, but of need. When things got a tad better, Luna saw no reason not to hone some of those acquired skills.

She moved to the door and slowly pushed it open.

The main room of the house looked much the same as it had the night before—but in the clarity of daylight, the imperfections were more visible.

The hearth was ash-gray and faintly cold. The pail near the door was empty, waiting to be refilled. A few bowls had been left near the basin—washed, but not put away. A basket of laundry sat by the window, half-folded. And outside, beyond the shuttered panes, she could hear the faint voices of neighbors, the bark of a distant dog, and the wheels of a cart rumbling along stone.

She observed all of it quietly.

Tulli had likely gone to fetch water. Or perhaps to run errands before returning to prepare lunch. Myne’s role had never included such tasks.

Until now.

She began with what she could.

She gathered the dry bowls and placed them neatly back on the shelf. She took the laundry basket and folded what little she could, mimicking the way Myne remembered Effa folding tunics—tight and square. She cleaned the basin with a fresh cloth, scrubbing gently but firmly.

The motions were clumsy at first.

But she moved with grace born not from knowing how, but from caring why.

Because this house was her sanctuary now.

And though her hands might tremble, her will did not.

The door creaked open again just as Luna finished organizing the last of the sundries.

“Myne?”

Tulli stepped inside, carrying a small basket under one arm. Her boots were dusted with road grit, and her cheeks were pink from exertion. The moment she caught sight of Luna standing by the hearth—hair loosely tied back, sleeves rolled up, wiping the dust off a low shelf—she froze.

“What are you doing?” she asked, both surprised and unsure if she should be alarmed.

Luna turned toward her sister with a faint smile. “I wanted to help.”

“You’re supposed to be resting!” Tulli set down the basket, stepping forward as if Luna might collapse again at any moment.

“I’m not made of glass,” she said gently. “Not anymore.”

Tulli pursed her lips. “You almost melted two days ago.”

“And I’ll melt again,” Luna replied with a calm certainty, “if I stay in bed and let you do everything alone.”

That gave Tulli pause.

A beat of silence passed between them—one of quiet understanding. For so long, it had been Tulli alone keeping the house together. But now, something had changed. Myne was no longer a sickly shadow of a sister, waiting to be pitied.

She was trying.

“…Fine,” Tulli said with a huff, though her voice softened. “But you don’t have to overdo it.”

“I’ll rest when I need to. But for now, tell me what needs doing.”

Tulli grinned. “You can carry the basket, then. We need to buy turnips and maybe some cheap meat scraps if they’re not picked clean.”

…

Outside, the midday sun was pale and diffused, casting long shadows over the cracked cobblestone roads of the southern district.

Their building stood among others of similar make—stacked wooden homes, close together, with shared staircases and modest balconies. Unlike the noble quarters or merchant squares, this part of the city was utilitarian, made for function rather than beauty. The air smelled of ash, soil, and cold iron.

As they descended the stairs from the third floor, Luna quickly realized how far she had yet to go.

Each step jarred her legs, her breath coming shallower with every landing. Her vision blurred slightly. She clutched the wooden railing and steadied herself.

Tulli, several steps ahead, looked back. “Are you okay?”

“…Just winded,” Luna admitted. “I’ll manage.”

By the time they reached the street, her limbs trembled faintly. Her chest tightened again—not with pain, but with the unmistakable burn of overexertion.

She could feel her magic stirring, trying to push back against her body’s limits. It would become a daily battle, she realized.

This body is too small. Too frail.

I’ll need to heal it every day… until it catches up.

As they walked, Luna took everything in with sharp, calculating eyes.

The streets bustled—not chaotically, but with the measured rhythm of a city used to surviving. Merchants called out their wares from cloth-covered stalls. Women bartered with dried goods or preserved herbs. A few children ran barefoot, giggling, weaving through the legs of adults.

Myne noticed details quickly.

The communal well near the plaza was surrounded by several households at once, each waiting their turn. Young boys hauled up heavy pails of water, splashing half of it on the ground In the process. Women scrubbed clothing on low wooden boards nearby. And above them—stacked in precarious, narrow staircases—were the higher floors of tenement buildings.

“Those who live above our floor… they carry water up every day?” Luna asked.

Tulli nodded. “Yeah. The poorer you are, the higher up you live. Ground floors cost more since you don’t have to walk as much.”

It was a reversal of what Luna had known in Tenebrae, where nobility perched in towers and palaces above the city, looking down at the common folk below.

Here, Luna thought, those nearest the earth held the most comfort.

It was humbling.

It was logical.

The marketplace of the southern quarters was simple—bundles of root vegetables, dried mushrooms, loaves of flatbread, cheap jerky. Nothing luxurious. Everything preserved or rough-cut. Tulli picked through the bins with the practiced eye of someone used to stretching coins, selecting smaller turnips and picking the least-bruised carrots.

Luna watched and memorized.

The way sellers tried to exaggerate quality. The way buyers haggled politely but firmly. The subtle trade-offs between quantity and freshness. It was an economy of necessity, not greed.

She also learned that the currency of this world was called a Lion— which was not that different to the Gil used in Eos, before the advent of banknotes and credit cards.

It actually felt oddly nostalgic, like watching a history book come alive.

The denominations were relatively simple, but the values said a lot about the gap between social classes.

A small copper coin was worth 10 Lions, a medium copper coin was worth 100 Lions, and a large copper coin was worth 1,000 Lions.

For the most part, coppers are the mostly utilized currency for small purchases such as groceries and basic clothing.

Climbing higher up the scale, there were silver coins.

A small silver coin equaled 10,000 Lions, while a large silver coin was a substantial 100,000 Lions.

There are no medium silver coins in circulation, as to keep the math simple for the masses.

Gunther, despite being a guard captain, only earns one large silver coin for an entire month’s work. It was enough to feed and clothe a family of four, but just barely. Any unexpected expense—illness, repairs, a harsh winter—could throw everything into chaos. A few large silvers was probably the highest amount of money that a common laborer would ever hold at a given time.

And then lastly, there were the gold coins.

A small gold coin was worth one million Lions, while a large gold coin was worth a nauseating ten million.

Like its lesser counterpart, there isn’t a medium gold coin to buffer the gap between denominations. Myne can only assume that gold coins were used when buying a property, or when starting a business.

After the purchases were made, Tulli handed Luna the now-full basket. It wasn’t heavy—but Luna’s body disagreed.

The weight pulled at her arms. Her back throbbed. Her knees buckled slightly by the time they were halfway up the stairs again.

By the time they reached the third floor, she was wheezing.

Once inside, she set the basket down and immediately stumbled to the basin. Tulli tried to help, but Luna raised a hand.

“I just need… a moment.”

She sat on the stool by the hearth, eyes closed, hands clasped together.

Calm. Still. Focused.

Once again, she drew on the method she’d honed in Eos. She pictured the surge of magic pooling inside her—restless, uncontrolled. She visualized each mote of light being drawn inward, compressed, condensed into glittering crystal fragments joining the great inner geode.

The light steadied.

Then, gently, she whispered the shortened prayer:

“O blessed stars of life and light,

Mend my form with silent might.

Let gentle warmth and breath renew,

This fragile shell, born ever true.”

Unlike the previous night, there was no magical glow that emanated from her hands. It wasn’t as strong as the full spell—but enough. Enough to stop the shaking. Enough to help her breathe again. Enough to keep the secret of her magic from prying eyes.

She opened her eyes, tired but steady.

Tulli stood nearby, brows drawn, her arms half-lifted as if unsure whether to approach or give space.

“You okay?” she asked finally, her voice soft with concern. “You didn’t look too good for a second there.”

Luna offered a faint smile. “Just winded. I’m not used to carrying that much weight.”

That part, at least, was true.

Tulli seemed to accept it. She glanced toward the basin, then the basket, and finally back at Myne—clearly worried, but not alarmed.

“I’ll help unpack,” Tulli said, already moving to the basket. “You rest for a bit. No point in keeling over after a successful shopping trip.”

“Thanks, Tulli.” Luna replied softly, her hands still resting on her lap, warm with residual mana.

Her sister didn’t press further. She simply nodded and turned her attention to unpacking the basket, humming quietly to herself as she sorted the day’s purchases.

Luna remained seated, letting the warmth of the hearth soak into her bones. Her breathing evened out. The ache in her limbs faded to a distant throb, like the lingering echo of a fading storm.

She stayed that way for a while—still and quiet, letting her mana settle.

A bell passed.

By then, the stiffness had retreated enough for her to rise again. The basin water had gone cool, and the light outside had begun to dim just slightly with the approach of evening.

Tulli was now chopping vegetables, focused and efficient in the rhythm of routine. Luna stood, stretched carefully, and stepped forward. “We should start dinner. Papa will be back soon.”

Luna nodded and stepped toward the hearth. Her limbs still ached faintly from the climb, but the healing had dulled the edge of exhaustion.

“Can I help?” she asked, brushing her hands on her tunic.

Tulli blinked, a little surprised. “You want to cook?”

“I want to learn,” Luna replied, voice calm but warm. “If you’ll teach me.”

That made Tulli smile. “Okay! We’ve got turnips and some carrots. I think I can scrape the fat off what’s left of yesterday’s meat. Mama left some salt.”

As Tulli laid out the ingredients on the low table, Luna gently intercepted the used broth from the night before—thin, salty and sour, and tepid in the corner of an iron pot.

Tulli frowned. “That’s from yesterday’s stew. I was going to throw it out.”

“Don’t,” Luna said quickly. Then more gently, “Let’s keep it. Use a bit as the base.”

Tulli tilted her head. “But it’s all cloudy and …”

Luna stirred it with the ladle. “That cloudiness is flavor,” she explained, carefully avoiding anything too technical. “It’s better than using plain water. Trust me… We’re just trying something new.”

Tulli gave her a skeptical look, but eventually nodded. “Alright. Just don’t make it worse.”

They worked in quiet cooperation, the kind Luna found deeply satisfying.

She showed Tulli how to brown the root vegetables in the bottom of the pot first, letting the edges catch just slightly before adding some of the leftover broth. They added scraps of the tough meat with the last of the marrow bones, simmering everything together slowly.

In her mind, she could still remember pot-au-feu—delicate broths rich with onion and beef, herbs tied in little bundles, fat skimmed patiently. This wasn’t that. Not even close. But the principle was the same: coaxing flavor from hardship.

The house slowly filled with a scent unfamiliar to it—savory, layered, comforting.

Even Tulli blinked in surprise. “It… actually smells good.”

Luna only smiled.

The front door opened just as the sun vanished.

Gunther stomped in, removing his boots by the door. “Smells like an inn in here. Is that meat?”

Effa followed close behind, cradling a wrapped bundle of dyed fabric. Her face sagged with fatigue, but she paused as the scent hit her.

“I thought we didn’t have anything left but salt.”

Tulli beamed. “We cooked dinner!”

Gunther raised an eyebrow. “We?”

“I helped,” Myne said from the hearth, ladling stew into small wooden bowls. “Tulli taught me.”

Gunther clapped a hand over his heart. “Myne’s upright, cooking, and using fire! I’m going to cry.”

“Don’t waste tears,” Effa said dryly, but her smile was genuine. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

They gathered around the table, and for the first time in what felt like an age, it was not a meal of resignation—but one of warmth.

The broth was thin, yes. But rich in flavor. The turnips softened, meat tender, and the vegetables carried more than just texture—they carried comfort. It was a small victory, but to a family used to chewing through survival, it was unforgettable.

“This is… actually really good,” Gunther said, blinking.

Tulli sat up straighter. “Told you!”

Effa glanced at her daughters. “If you two keep this up, I might ask you to take over kitchen duty.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Luna said softly. “I like making things better.”

Later, after dishes had been rinsed with warm water from the hearth and Tulli had gone to her room to fold her clothes, Luna sat quietly near the embers, her eyes fixed on the small flame flickering in the hearth.

This world… Ehrenfest… it was beginning to feel real.

Not like Eos, and certainly not like Fenestela—but tangible.

Here, every stitch of cloth was sewn by hand. Every blanket, every shoe, every bar of soap, every bowl—made, traded, or salvaged by the people themselves. For commoners, survival required creation. Not because it was novel, but because it was necessary.

And as the seasons turned, the urgency only grew.

Autumn was halfway in. The wind held a dry bite now, and neighbors had begun discussing winter preparations in earnest. Houses were patched. Firewood stacked. Food preserved. No one wanted to be caught idle once the snows came. Winter in Ehrenfest was not just inconvenient—it was cruel. Work would dwindle. Hunger would press in.

There was no luxury of rest. Not here.

And even the way time was measured differed from Eos.

She had glimpsed it earlier—a calendar etched into a nearby doorway, marked with strange glyphs and numerical symbols.

420 days in a year, she remembered from Myne’s fading recollections. 12 months, 5 weeks per month, 7 days per week.

An unfamiliar rhythm. A strange elongation of the year.

But it made sense.

In Eos, the 365-day cycle had been inherited from the Astrals and the nations that followed. In Yurgenschmidt, time was kept differently.

Ifrit’s wrath may have erased Solheim’s name from textbooks, but not their teachings.

The past never disappears, Luna thought, it simply reshapes itself.

And now, in this strange, gentle life, she would shape herself too.

Slowly. Intentionally.

One meal. One floorboard. One step at a time.

…

The house was quiet again.

Luna sat near the hearth, her fingers idly tracing the folds of her skirt. Midmorning sunlight slanted through the window in pale gold bars, catching the motes of dust drifting through the air like falling stars.

Tulli had gone to fetch more firewood. Effa and Gunther were at work. And Luna—once Lunafreya of Tenebrae, now Myne of the southern quarter—was left alone with her thoughts.

She glanced at the worn wood floors, the patched curtains, the empty shelves. This family had so little, and yet deserved so much.

I want to help… not just survive here, but truly belong.

Emboldened by her success making dinner with Tulli the night before, Luna had spent the morning racking her brain for anything—anything—that could make life easier for them, even by the smallest measure. The meals she now helped prepare were tastier, the kitchen warmer with company, but she wanted to do more. Something lasting.

Her thoughts drifted to the previous night, when they had washed the dishes after dinner. The soap they’d used—if it could even be called that—had been yellowed and sticky. It clung to fabric, left an oily residue, and stung the small cuts on her hands.

Useful, yes. But harsh. Unrefined. Crude.

We can do better, she thought.

She recalled a memory from her days as the Oracle, perhaps a year or two after she was ordained. Once, she had been sent to the highlands on a healing mission, visiting a small farm nestled in the mist. There, the villagers had gifted her a humble bar of soap made with olive oil, salt, and laurel. It had smelled of herbs and earth and left her hands smooth even after a long day.

Of course, she didn’t have any of those ingredients now—not the laurel, not even the olive oil. But the method… she remembered it. The villagers had told her that salt helped harden and purify both candles and soap, refining their texture and extending their life.

That, Luna thought with renewed determination, is something I can try here.

That was when her plan had begun to take shape.

She rose from her seat and crossed the small room, rolling her sleeves up past her elbows with quiet resolve. On the hearth hung a battered iron pot, already filled with yesterday’s leftover cooking fat and the remains of the crude soap they'd used the night before— bubbling into a happy boil.

Normally, such a mixture would be left to spoil or used for lamps when it turned sour.

But not today.

Today, it would be given new purpose.

Guided by memory and instinct, Luna had scoured their modest stores and gathered what she could: a handful of coarse salt from the kitchen and a small bundle of dried leaves Tulli had collected on a whim during her errands. They weren’t bay laurel—not quite—but when crushed between her fingers, their scent stirred something deep within her. A whisper of Tenebrae’s noble gardens in mid-summer. A reminder of the farm in the highlands.

It should be enough. It had to be.

Luna dumped the salt into the pot. The reaction was immediate: the fat began to curdle and separate as the salt bound with impurities. Grease floated to the top. The rest thickened.

She stirred slowly.

Salting out the soap… the method is simple, if crude. The salt draws the soap out of the mixture and pushes the impurities down. If done correctly, it should harden once cooled.

Still, the mixture was cloudy. Raw.

With a quiet breath, she cupped her hand over the pot and whispered—softly, gently, a spell of Purification.

“O blessed stars of light and life,

Cleanse this form in silver light.

Let impurity fade, let taint be gone,

Mend thine own—so my will be done.”

A faint shimmer passed across the surface of the soap.

Nothing loud. Nothing visible. But the mixture settled. The impurities gone. And the scent—though faint—was no longer acrid.

Myne smiled to herself. Her magic had only hastened what would’ve taken hours.

She folded in the crushed leaves, letting the natural oils infuse the mixture. The scent was mild and green. Earthy. Familiar.

It’s not Hermès Eau d’Orange Verte, she wryly thought. But it’s clean.

She set the pot aside to cool.

When Tulli returned, arms full of firewood, she blinked at the bowl of cooling soap on the side counter.

“What’s that?”

‘It’s soap,” Luna said simply.

Tulli leaned closer and sniffed. “It doesn’t stink.”

“That’s the idea.”

“…Are you sure it’s still soap?”

Luna smirked softly. “Well, there’s only one way to find out, my dear sister.”

By late afternoon, the soap had cooled into a soft, off-white block. It wasn’t perfect—still a little oily to the touch and uneven in shape—but it held together when pressed and gave off a clean, earthy scent thanks to the crushed laurel-like leaves Luna had folded in at the last moment.

She tapped the side of the bowl thoughtfully. “It’s ready.”

Tulli glanced up from the corner where she was patching a worn-out sock. “That quick? It’s already hardened?”

Luna nodded. “It’ll set more overnight, but we can test a piece now.”

Tulli’s brow furrowed in mild suspicion. “We’re not gonna get rashes from it, are we?”

“I used only what we had,” Luna replied calmly. “And I was careful. If it works, it should clean better and smell less like old meat.”

“…Alright.” Tulli stood and stretched, dusting her tunic off. “Let’s give it a try.”

Their washroom was nothing like the polished bathing quarters of Tenebrae or even the famed public baths of Lucis. It was little more than a narrow alcove at the rear of the house, sectioned off with wooden slats for privacy. A single window, half-shuttered, let in dim light during the day. There was no drain, only a slight slope in the floor with a wooden bucket set beneath to catch rinse water.

Water was hauled by hand from the communal well—lukewarm at best, tepid if left near the hearth. On one side sat a worn washbasin. A chipped ceramic pitcher. A wooden ladle. And a small chest with fresh rags, combs, and hair ties. Their chamber pot—thankfully empty—was tucked discreetly under the low bench, and for anything worse, the communal latrine downstairs was the only option.

Still, it was clean. Cared for. Theirs.

Tulli carried in a kettle of warmed water from the hearth, pouring some into the basin and setting the rest aside for rinsing.

Luna took a paring knife and carefully sliced off a small wedge of the soap block, testing its firmness. The texture was soft, but no longer greasy. It had a faint, herbal aroma—not strong, but pleasant.

“Alright,” Luna said, handing the piece to Tulli. “Try lathering it in your hands first.”

Tulli did so skeptically, rubbing the edge of the soap between her palms over the basin. After a few seconds of friction and water—

“Wait,” she blinked. “It’s… foaming?”

A light, creamy lather formed in her hands.

Luna smiled faintly. “That’s what it’s supposed to do.”

Tulli leaned in and sniffed. “It actually smells good. Not like old bacon grease.”

“Rinse and try again. Use it on your hair.”

Tulli didn’t need to be told twice. She splashed her face and hair with warm water, then worked the lather through her dark, shoulder-length strands, scrubbing her scalp with a practiced rhythm.

Luna watched carefully, noting the difference. The soap rinsed out more cleanly than the household lump they’d been using for weeks, which often left a lingering residue. This one… made the water murky, but didn’t cling.

Tulli rinsed with the kettle and ran her fingers through her hair. “It’s softer. Not squeaky like usual.”

“It’s clean,” Luna said. “Without being harsh.”

“…Myne,” Tulli said slowly, turning to look at her. “This is… better than Mama’s soap.”

Luna took the other piece of soap, now warmed by their hands, and began washing her arms. She, too, noticed the difference immediately. The lather was light but consistent. The scent was almost relaxing. She scrubbed away days’ worth of sweat and dust without the sting of harsh lye or the cling of grease.

She rinsed and pressed a cloth to her face, then exhaled softly.

“Not perfect,” she murmured, “but good enough for now.”

They stayed there a while longer, quietly enjoying the small luxury. They combed through their hair, tied it back neatly, and tidied the washroom together—emptying the rinse bucket, folding the used cloths, setting the remaining soap to dry on a little plate by the shuttered window.

As they finished, Tulli stretched again, relaxed and more cheerful than before.

“If we can make soap like this, we should try selling some in the market. Mama’s friends would go crazy over something that doesn’t smell like pig fat.”

Luna shook her head gently. “Let’s make sure we can do it again first. Properly. Consistently.”

“Well,” Tulli said, nudging her shoulder playfully, “I think you’re secretly a genius.”

Luna smiled quietly. “Not a genius. Just… adventurous.”

Dinner that night was a simple barley porridge with wilted greens and turnip slices. But unlike the first night Luna had eaten at this table, the air was lighter, warmer. The food, while simple, was no longer drowned in vinegar and salt in place of flavor. There was laughter—even teasing—as Gunther recounted a story from patrol, and Effa nodded along while sewing under the hearth light.

When the meal began winding down, Tulli nudged Luna and grinned. “Go on. Tell them.”

Luna hesitated, but the curious looks from her parents were enough.

“We made a new kind of soap today,” she said, setting the small wrapped piece on the table. “It lathers. It doesn’t smell like meat fat. And it washes out clean.”

Effa leaned over the table, sniffed the soap, and blinked. “That’s… lauver? Where did you even get that?”

“Tulli picked them a few days ago,” Luna said. “I used the salting out method. It pulled the oils together. The fat was skimmed cleaner.”

Gunther let out a low whistle. “Didn’t think my daughter had it in her to make fancy soap.”

“She didn’t just make it,” Tulli added, a note of pride in her voice. “It works better than anything we’ve used.”

Effa raised her brows but smiled. “If it doesn’t eat through the cloth like last winter’s lye block, I’ll be impressed.”

“It won’t,” Luna assured her. “I’ll make more if we can save enough fat.”

Gunther gave her a proud little nod. “That’s our Myne. Might not swing a sword, but she’s clever with her hands.”

Luna chuckled softly, but didn’t correct him.

She can, actually.

….

Later that evening, the warmth of the hearth hummed quietly in the background. Tulli and Effa sat near the fire, threading worn sleeves and darning socks. The scent of wood smoke and boiled starch lingered in the air.

Luna sat nearby, brushing her fingers through her hair. It clung heavily down her back, slightly tangled. She frowned.

In Tenebrae, her hair had never been an inconvenience. Maids and handmaidens would braid it into elegant crowns or curl it into soft twists, adorned with crystal combs and silver pins. And later, as the Empire tightened its grip and she had fewer attendants, she learned to braid it herself—tight, efficient, elegant.

But now…

There was no time for elegance. No oils. No polished tools. And certainly no maidens to help her dress.

Still, she needed something. The long strands were impractical, falling into her eyes and clinging to her face as she worked.

A simple tie wouldn’t do. She wanted something firm. Useful. But still beautiful.

Her eyes drifted to Gunther, who was oiling his belt knife on the other side of the room.

“Dad,” she said softly.

“Hm?”

“Could you carve something for me? A comb. With teeth on one end, and a flat spine.”

Gunther tilted his head. “Outta wood?”

She nodded. “Hardwood, if possible. Something that won’t split when wet.”

He rubbed his chin. “I’ve got some scrap oak from fixing a stool. That’ll do. What size?”

She held up her hand, estimating. “About this long. A hand span. Wide enough to push into hair and hold it in place.”

Gunther gave her a look. “You’re making something fancy with that?”

“Not fancy,” she murmured. “Just… functional. With style.”

By morning, Gunther had carved the base for her.

It was rough, but well-shaped: a curved comb with ten sturdy teeth, and a wide back flat enough to attach embellishments. He’d sanded it down with leather to avoid splinters and handed it to her with a grunt of approval.

From there, Luna began her true work.

She gathered spare strips of cloth from Effa’s sewing basket—mostly old cotton and linen scraps too short for repairs but not yet discarded. Choosing three of complementary colors—deep gray, soft lilac, and a pale faded blue—she began braiding.

It wasn’t the simple three-strand plait common among commoners. Luna used a four-strand round braid, a technique she’d learned long ago to make fine cords for jewelry and sashes in Tenebrae. The result was more intricate, forming a subtly spiraling cord that caught light at different angles.

She braided six cords in total, each just long enough to wrap across the comb’s spine. Then, using thread and pine glue from the toolkit under the stove, she secured them in elegant overlapping loops along the wooden back—not too extravagant, but undeniably eye-catching.

To finish, she stitched a single tiny patch of woven cloth in the center of the comb—embroidered with a star-shaped flower. The stitching was tight and neat, done with quiet precision as if every pull of the needle was an act of devotion.

When it was done, she tested it in her hair—twisting her locks up and pushing the comb through to hold the shape.

It held.

No tugging. No slipping.

Tulli whistled low behind her. “That’s just to hold your hair?”

“It’s the first,” Luna said. “There will be others.”

“You could sell that,” Effa said, walking over to examine it. “Women at the dye house would line up for one that nice.”

Luna smiled, brushing a hand over the wooden spine. “Then maybe that’s what I’ll do.”

..

In the days that followed, Luna’s place within the family shifted—not drastically, not overnight, but gently. Like mist lifting from the valley, revealing shapes once hidden.

She didn’t need permission to help anymore.

Now, when she walked to the hearth, Effa no longer stopped her. When she offered to stir the pot or chop the onions, Tulli handed her the knife. And when she suggested a new way of folding the blankets or stacking firewood, Gunther listened.

She had earned that trust. Bit by bit.

And so, she began to build.

The following evening, Luna proposed something new.

“I want to try cooking tomorrow,” she said as the family finished supper. “I have an idea. Something simple—but better tasting.”

Effa raised a brow. “We don’t have room for waste, Myne.”

“No waste,” Luna promised. “I promise.”

The next day, Luna gathered their pantry staples: barley, onions, dried root vegetables, and scraps of salted pork. She toasted the barley in a dry pan before boiling it—coaxing out a nutty aroma. She sautéed the onions slowly in a small pot of pork fat until golden, then added a splash of vinegar and boiled water, creating a broth with a sharp tang and lingering depth.

Then, she added the vegetables in stages—so they wouldn’t turn to mush. She adjusted the salt last, letting the natural flavor of each ingredient speak for itself.

Tulli tasted it first, blinking in surprise. “It’s… good.”

“Simple,” Luna said, ladling a bowl for each of them. “But filling.”

Gunther took a bite and nodded. “Taste better than the watery stew we’ve had last week.”

Luna hid her smile. “We’ll experiment with what we can find.”

Each meal from then on became a quiet discovery. A spiced carrot mash one day. A thin gruel with herbs tucked in. Fried flatbread when they could spare the flour.

Nothing extravagant. Just better.

..

Effa often worked long hours at the dyehouse, but on her days off, she sat near the window with a basket of mending and thread. Luna joined her now, offering not only her hands, but ideas.

“You can sew stars like this,” Luna said one morning, drawing a diagram in the ash by the hearth. “Four crossed lines. Then loop the thread through the arms, like a wheel.”

Effa blinked. “I’ve only ever done straight or cross-stitch.”

“This adds more color. And texture.”

Effa watched her needle move for a few moments, then handed her a scrap of cloth. “Show me.”

By the end of the morning, both she and Tulli were copying Luna’s embroidery patterns—looped petals, tiny vines, stars stitched into cuffs. Not overly delicate, but undeniably decorative. It gave their worn clothing a sense of charm.

“This’ll make our clothes stand out,” Effa murmured, running her fingers over one of the finished patterns. “I think both you and Tulli would make amazing seamstresses one day.”

“I only wanted to make ours a little nicer,” Luna said, though she quietly filed away the idea.

One night, when the others were sleeping or resting, Luna braided.

Gunther had given her more scrap oak, and with his help, she shaped two more hair combs—simpler than hers in design, but still lovely.

For Effa, she made a sturdy comb with a wide handle and shallow teeth, better suited for thicker hair. She decorated it with a double spiral knot, using green and gray fabric to match her mother’s mint green hair. In the center, she embroidered a small, four leaf clover—a sign of good luck.

For Tulli, the comb was lighter, more slender. Luna used a six-strand flat braid made from yellow and green fabric strips, forming a pattern like woven ribbon. She wrapped the braid along the spine, then secured a tiny cloth flower at the top, stitched with golden thread.

When she presented them, both women were speechless.

Tulli turned hers over in her hand. “Is this… really for me?”

Luna nods with a teasing smile. “Why, yes! Didn’t you know that sisters should have matching hair combs?”

Effa’s eyes softened. “I’ve never had anything like this. Not even when I married.”

“You do now,” Luna said gently.

They tried them immediately. The combs held their hair with ease, and for the first time in what felt like forever, both Effa and Tulli glowed—not from makeup or magic, but from care.

Luna endeavors to keep that glow for a long, long time.

Chapter Text

Two weeks had passed since Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, Oracle of the Stars and Queen of Tenebrae, awoke in the fragile body of a sickly girl called Myne.

Two quiet, tender, and unassuming weeks.

Life in their household had changed in small, almost imperceptible ways—yet all for the better.

The sour stew that once graced their table had become flavorful broth with roasted root vegetables and tender meat. The soap, once yellow and sticky with grease, now left their skin smooth and faintly fragrant. Their clothes, while still plain, bore modest embroidery that made them feel a touch more dignified. Tulli smiled more. Effa hummed while sewing. And Gunther even lingered longer at the table each night before heading to bed.

And Luna—no, Myne—felt stronger each day.

Her secret healing rituals at dawn and dusk had allowed her frail body to regain a quiet balance. The pain that had once seized her lungs now ebbed like low tide. Her footsteps, once soft and unsure, now had purpose.

Her family noticed. But they didn’t ask.

Maybe it was gratitude. Maybe it was fear. But they accepted her changes the way one accepts a late frost or an early bloom: gently, and without question.

…

Now, fall was deepening.

The southern breeze turned cooler. The leaves around the city had long shed their yellow flecks.

In Ehrenfest, this meant one thing: foraging season had began in earnest.

Most commoner families, especially those living in the southern district, relied heavily on the bounty of the wild forests that lay just beyond the city’s south gates. Wild roots, berries, herbs, nuts, even wild greens were gathered by children and brought home to be dried, pickled, or smoke for later consumption. Every bit helped, especially in preparation for the coming winter.

And children, quick of foot and light of hand, made for the best foragers.

So on that particular morning, Myne found herself walking alongside her sister and a small group of children—all headed to the edge of the forest with woven baskets slung over their shoulders.

Tulli walked beside her protectively, her own basket secured by a cloth sash.

“We’ll go as far as the split boulder,” she said. “Don’t push yourself. If you start wheezing, we go home.”

“I’m stronger now,” Myne replied calmly, adjusting the strap of her own basket. “But I’ll pace myself.”

Tulli squinted at her, cautious as ever—but didn’t argue.

…

At the southern path’s fork, a familiar voice called out.

“Myne! Tulli!”

They turned to find a lanky boy with sandy hair jogging up to them, his sleeves rolled and a bundle of cloth tied over his shoulder. Lutz.

Trailing behind him were his older brother and younger cousin—Ralph and Fey. Ralph, the oldest, gave a small wave toward Tulli and quickly looked away again, cheeks a touch redder than the morning air warranted.

Myne noted the glance. And the way Tulli glanced back—confused, but not displeased.

“Morning,” Lutz grinned at Myne. “Feeling good today?”

“As good as ever,” she said, then nodded at the others. “You’re all foraging today?”

“Yeah,” Fey answered. “Ma wants to dry turnip greens for winter.”

“Lutz is hunting for nuts,” Ralph added with a quick glance at Tulli. “Hoping to find some beechnuts or chestnuts by the ridge.”

“We’ll stay on the low slope,” Tulli said, then added, “Let’s share anything we find near the creek. Last time, those little greens were everywhere.”

“Fair deal,” Ralph said—far too quickly. He rubbed the back of his neck.

Luna said nothing, but couldn’t help the small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Ah, so that’s how it is.

Truly, her sister was too darn cute for her own good!

…

The forest greeted them with that familiar, rich scent of wet soil and falling leaves—cool, earthy, and a little wild. It was not unlike the gardens of Fenestela Manor’s outlying villas, where she once gathered herbs with attendants during her free time. But here there were no marble benches. No sacred pools. Just moss, bark, and the occasional fallen branch waiting to trip the inattentive.

The children split into small groups. Tulli and Ralph veered toward a small thicket near the slope—looking for mushrooms. Lutz stayed close to Luna.

“You sure you don’t need to sit?” he asked.

“I’m not made of glass,” Myne said calmly. “Though I understand why everyone thinks I am.”

Lutz scratched his head and muttered, “Didn’t say that…”

As they began their trek into the forest, her thoughts wandered.

So far, she hadn’t heard anything about structured learning. Not in their home, not in the marketplace, and certainly not by the communal well where most would come to trade the latest gossip.

Most shops had signs marked with clumsy handwriting—charcoal or paint scrawled onto wooden boards, sometimes paired with crude drawings of vegetables or tools. Just enough to get the message across. The name. The price. Nothing more.

There were no ledgers for customers to browse. No posted records. No notices crafted with care or thoughtfulness. Communication here was plain, practical, and almost entirely spoken.

And more than anything, she hadn’t heard a word about schools.

It left a strange hollowness in her chest.

Ehrenfest is uneducated, she thought—not with scorn, but with quiet concern. Or rather, the common folk were. They weren’t taught, not because they couldn’t be, but because no one expected them to be. No system. No access. No opportunity.

Myne’s memories filled in the rest. If a child wanted to learn anything at all, it had to be through an apprenticeship. That was the only path. But apprenticeships weren’t about education in the broader sense—they were about continuing a trade. A child took after their parents, or entered a family friend’s workshop. A baker’s child became a baker. A carpenter’s son, a carpenter. That was how it worked.

There were no options for those who wanted something different. No libraries to explore, no lessons in history or music or writing. And if your family couldn’t afford to send you off as an apprentice? Then you stayed home, and did what work you could. Reading and writing weren’t taught unless your trade demanded it—and even then, just enough to do the job.

It wasn’t cruelty. Just… structure. The kind that locked people in place.

Myne looked back towards the direction of the city, her eyes zeroing on the tall spires that lie beyond the commoner’s district’s.

In Eos, knowledge had been treated differently.

In Niflheim, harsh as the empire was, education was enforced early and strictly. Their methods rigid, state-controlled, but their citizens could read. They could write. They could think.

Tenebrae, though smaller and steeped in faith, still taught its children the stories of the gods, the histories of the land, and how to express themselves with clarity and grace. It was expected of all, even to those who reside in the rural mountains.

Accordo, ever mercantile, made a point of educating its people for trade. Contracts, shipping ledgers, civic laws—literacy was a necessity, and so it was made widely accessible. An appreciation for the arts was highly celebrated.

And in Lucis, the Crown City housed great libraries, open to those with patience and curiosity. Even in the frontiers of Galahd and Duscae, schools existed—not elaborate, but enough to give children the means to read, to write, to rise.

Each nation had its own values. Its own flaws. But none had left their people this… empty.

Here in Ehrenfest, there was silence. No state-mandated education. No temple schools for the poor. No civic duty to teach the next generation anything beyond their parents' trade. If a child wanted more, they would find no hand reaching out.

She thought of Fenestela’s libraries—of priests reading aloud by candlelight, of books passed reverently from one pair of hands to another. The quiet hush that fell when a room was full of people thinking, not speaking. Pages turning like the ticking of a grand clock.

Obviously, Eos’ progress as a civilization was leagues apart from Yurgenschmidt, making any comparison completely skewed.

But. The point is…

Can I change that? she wondered. Not just for her own sake. But for Tulli. For Lutz. For children like them—clever and industrious, but with no way forward. Where would I even begin?

It would take time. Of course it would. Years, maybe more. But the idea took root all the same.

She could not reopen a library. Not yet. She could not rewrite a kingdom’s laws. Not alone. But she could start with what she knew—what she remembered.

One day, learning wouldn’t be something reserved for the privileged.

One day, even commoners would be taught—not just to work, but to think.

The wind rustled through the leaves, cool and sweet, and for a moment it felt like a blessing.

Reality, however, was quick to reassert itself.

A branch snapped nearby, followed by footsteps crunching lightly over the underbrush.

She blinked, slowly coming back to herself.

“You okay?” Lutz’s voice cut in—casual, but edged with a flicker of concern. He was watching her, brows furrowed slightly as he shifted the basket on his hip.

She hadn’t realized how still she’d gone. How long she’d been standing there, staring into the distance—into dreams too big to carry alone.

“Just thinking,” she said, brushing her skirts and steadying her breath.

“About what?”

She paused, glancing up at the stretch of blue sky peeking through the canopy.

“Nothing important,” she lied, voice soft but even.

Before he could press further, she knelt beside a tall plant with delicate blue flowers and slender leaves. She rubbed one between her fingers and breathed in its sharp, minty aroma, letting its familiar scent anchor her back to the now.

She completely missed the suspicious glance Lutz shot her.

“Hyssop,” she murmured. “Or a cousin, at least.”

Lutz stepped closer, eyeing the plant. “Is that good?”

“For colds,” she replied, slipping into a rhythm she hadn’t used in years. “Boil it and breathe the steam. Clears the lungs.”

She plucked a small bunch, tied it with a bit of twine cut from one of Tulli’s old aprons, and tucked it carefully into her pouch.

Further along, she found a patch of bitter leaf—its jagged edges unmistakable from her afternoons spent in Tenebrae’s gardens. A humble remedy for fevers. Near a shallow trickle of water, she spotted creeping lady’s mantle, its scalloped edges heavy with dew, and a blossom that looked like camellia—though this one’s scent had more spice than sweetness.

She gathered what she could, never too much, always just enough.

Each type of herb was bundled in a different cloth strip, color-coded and neatly knotted—just like she once did for the palace infirmary during shortages.

Then she found them.

A patch of tiny, pale flowers nestled beneath a half-shaded rock. They had no medicinal use that she could recall. But their fragrance—light, almost nostalgic—reminded her of the Temple of the Six.

She paused, fingers hovering.

I could dry these. Crush them into oil later. Use it for soap… or maybe perfume.

Not necessary. But precious.

Because sometimes, comfort was medicine too.

..

Her basket was beginning to fill. The sharp tang of herbs lingered on her hands, but now her gaze shifted—not for remedies, but for something that could nourish.

“If we’re lucky,” she murmured, “there might be fruit nearby.”

Lutz glanced up. “Rafels should be in season.”

She nodded. “Let’s look.”

They moved deeper into the forest, the mid morning sun filtering gold through the trees. In a quiet glade, Myne spotted a crooked tree bearing red-skinned, pear-shaped fruit speckled like freckles across a sunburned nose.

“There!” She called out.

Lutz reached up and plucked one. “Sour,” he warned before taking a bite, “but juicy.”

Luna followed suit, biting delicately.

It was sour—mouth-puckering and sharp—but fragrant, with a floral aftertaste that lingered pleasantly on the tongue.

She picked five and wrapped them in cloth, already imagining the skins steeped in warm water for rinses and the flesh sweetened with honey.

The longer she walked among the roots and moss, the more she realized something strange: this world wasn’t foreign to her.

Not entirely.

Ehrenfest, in particular, reminded her of Tenebrae before the war—small, closed off, a little weary but still bore dignity and grace. There was something so satisfying in that simplicity.

They made their way back just as the sun was at its peak.

Up ahead, Tulli was laughing at something, cheeks pink and eyes bright. A few steps behind her trailed Ralph—red in the face, stealing glances and nearly tripping over his own feet whenever she turned his way.

Lutz leaned in with a grin. “He’s about as subtle as a brick.”

Myne stifled a giggle. “And she’s pretending not to notice.”

“…Which makes it worse,” Lutz muttered, watching Ralph nearly walk into a bush. “I almost feel bad for the guy.”

“Don’t,” she said lightly. “It’s entertaining.”

They both laughed, the sound carrying between trees and woven baskets, their fingers stained with herb-sap and dirt, the warmth of the afternoon clinging to their sleeves. The forest had offered more than just medicine or fruit today. It had given them something lighter. Something good.

And judging by the way Ralph just walked into a low branch, very entertaining indeed.

…

A creeping chill had begun to settle over the city—the kind that seeped through the shutters and whispered of winter’s slow approach. The air, once rich with the scent of harvest, now carried the dry bite of desiccated leaves and distant snow.

Inside their modest home, Tulli was just tying off the last braid in her hair when Myne’s eyes flicked toward the empty table.

Isn’t that…

She blinked.

“Wait—Papa’s lunch! He forgot it!”

The bundle sat forgotten near the stove, still warm, wrapped in a square of oilcloth and secured with a simple knot.

“He left in such a hurry again,” Tulli muttered. “Honestly.”

“I’ll carry it,” Myne offered, standing up carefully. “It’s not that far, right?”

“You sure?” Tulli asked, already slipping on her boots.

She nodded. “It’ll be good to stretch my legs.”

Just outside, Lutz and his older brother Ralph were preparing to head out to the woods again, baskets already strapped to their backs.

“Off to forage?” Tulli called.

“Mm-hmm, we’re stockpiling firewood for winter.” Ralph said, then grinned at Tulli longer than necessary.

Myne raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“We’re headed to the South Gate too,” Tulli added. “Father left his lunch again.”

“Come with us then,” Lutz offered. “We’ll split at the guard post.”

The two readily agreed.

The South Gate loomed large, stone and timber pressed together with purpose rather than grace. It marked the edge of the city and the border of their small world.

When they arrived, Gunther was barking orders with his usual flair, directing a wagon to turn around and park along the side of the road. His uniform looked more polished than usual—though his blue hair, as always, stuck out like a rebellious tuft of straw.

“Papa!” Tulli called.

Gunther turned, and when he saw them, his stern face bloomed into a grin.

“Myne, Tulli! What are you doing here?”

“You forgot this,” Myne said, holding up the lunch bundle.

“Ack!” He laughed and ran a hand over his head. “Again?”

Gunther took the lunch sheepishly and tucked it under his arm, then puffed his chest and waved to a few nearby guards.

“Everyone, look here! My daughters—brought their forgetful father his lunch. Aren’t they dependable?”

Myne rolled her eyes playfully. Tully smiled.

From inside the guard post, a voice called, “Boasting about your daughters again, sir?”

A man emerged, carrying a wooden crate. He was younger than Gunther by a decade, brown-haired, with a calm and friendly air around hi.

“Ah! Otto!” Gunther called. “What’s the word?”

“A Count is on his way—Lowenhart’s delegation.” Otto gave a crisp double beat over his chest, hand striking the left side near his heart.

Myne blinked.

That’s different.

In Tenebrae, soldiers placed a closed fist over the sternum and bowed slightly. Here, the salute was sharper—quicker. A culture shaped by sensibility, rather than ceremony.

“Count Lowenhart, eh?” Gunther muttered. “Does he have his papers?”

Otto nodded. “Yes, sir! Everything’s in order.” He opened the crate and pulled free a tightly rolled scroll sealed in wax. “Presented and stamped by the city’s northern registry. Verified with the Temple.”

Myne’s breath caught.

Parchment. Real parchment.

Her eyes followed every movement of Otto’s hand as he broke the seal, unrolled the document, and scanned its contents with the practiced ease of someone who had done it a thousand times.

“You can read,” she whispered, awe coloring her voice

Otto looked up. “That I can, little miss.”

“You can write, too?”

Otto raised a brow, caught off guard by the look of wonder in Myne’s face. “Course I can. How else would I manage the paperwork?”

Myne stepped forward. “I want to learn. I need to learn. But I don’t know where to start.”

She tried to keep her voice calm, but the words poured out like spring water from a cracked pot.

“I want to read things—ledgers, letters, even contracts. I want to know what the parchment says. I want to… understand.”

Tulli looked surprised. Gunther blinked.

Otto set the crate down with a soft thump and leaned against the post doorframe.

“Well,” he said slowly, “that’s a big request.”

Basically asking, what’s in it for me. By now, Luna knew that there was nothing truly free in this world.

“I can work,” Myne offered quickly. “I’ll help carry or organize. I’ll listen carefully. Just please teach me.”

Otto studied her for a moment. Then he reached into a drawer under the desk.

He pulled out a small, scratched-up wooden slate, its surface smoothed from years of use.

“This is my old one,” he said. “ I used it on the road back when I was a traveling merchant.”

“You were a merchant?”

Otto nodded. “Before I married and settled in Ehrenfest. Bought my way into citizenship, too—cost me everything I had saved.”

“Citizenship costs money?”

“A lot. And it matters more than you’d think. Without it, you can’t own a home, get city work, or even attend some markets. Nobles and Temple scribes gatekeep everything from land to learning.”

Myne stared at the slate.

Otto held it out, motioning for her to take it.

“Come back tomorrow,” he said. “Before sunrise, if you’re serious about learning.”

She took the slate carefully, like it was made of crystal.

“I’ll be here,” she promised.

Gunther said little on the way home.

Not until the lanterns were lit, and Myne was inspecting her new slate by firelight.

“You really want to do this?” he asked.

She looked up. “More than anything.”

He sighed and gave her a crooked smile.

“I can’t teach you what Otto can,” he admitted. “But I’ll carry you there every morning myself if I have to.”

She smiled softly.

“But Papa, You already brought me far enough.”

And in the quiet, as the fire crackled and the scent of soup filled the room, Myne traced a single line into the slate with the stylus Otto had left behind.

A letter.

The first of many.

The city was still dark when Myne crept out of bed, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The hearth fire had long since gone cold, and the chill clung to the stone floor as she padded quietly toward the door.

Gunther was already lacing his boots, back straight despite the early hour. The only light in the room came from a small lantern flickering beside him.

“You’re up,” he said, mildly surprised.

“I said I’d go, didn’t I?”

He turned, and something softened in his face. “You’re serious about this learning thing.”

“I am.”

Gunther straightened and fastened his leathers with the dexterity of someone who’d done it a thousand times. “You know… when you were little, we used to think you’d never be strong enough to leave the bed. And now look at you.”

“I’m still weak,” she said with a quiet smile, “but I’m trying.”

He nodded slowly. Without a word, she reached for his hand—small and pale in his calloused grip—and they left together, the lantern swinging between them.

They spent the rest of the walk in comfortable silence.

When they arrived at the South Gate, the guards were just beginning to set up for the day.

Otto was already at his post, black tea steaming in a tin cup, sleeves rolled up, and eyes slightly bleary.

“Morning Captain, Little Myne, ” he called. “Right on time.”

Myne slipped her hand from her father’s and retrieved a small wrapped cloth from her satchel.

“I brought something,” she said. “As thanks.”

Otto raised an eyebrow as she unwrapped the bundle—three small bars of soap, smooth and pale with faint swirls of dried herbs embedded inside. One smelled faintly of bay leaf, another like crushed flower petals.

“You made this?” he asked.

“With help from my sister. It’s… still a work in progress.”

Otto picked one up and gave it a sniff. “You planning to bribe me with scented soap?”

“I’d prefer to think of it as a trade,” she said brightly.

He chuckled. “Well, then. Let’s make it worth your while.”

He cleared a space on the table and brought out a wooden slate and chalk.

“We’ll start with the basics. This is the script used in Ehrenfest. Scribes have a fancier version in the Temple, but for most, this will do.”

He drew the first symbol—a square-like glyph with a tail—and pronounced it clearly.

Myne watched, absorbed. She repeated each letter after him, copying them carefully onto her slate with chalk.

The shapes felt foreign under her fingers. Angular. Simple. Crude.

So different from Tenebraen script, she thought.

When Otto went to handle a cart inspection, Myne took a short break, stretching her cramped hand. Her fingers ached from the unfamiliar motion, but her heart beat fast—thrilled.

She turned the slate over and slowly wrote a more familiar symbol in the corner.

A single character in flowing Tenebraen calligraphy.

Then another.

Her name.

Lunafreya Nox Fleuret

She traced the curves with her thumb, the memory of her brother’s handwriting flickering in her mind. Ravus had always written with sharp, precise strokes—like his speech.

Beneath her name, she added more:

Gentiana. Ravus. Noctis. Regis. Ignis. Prompto. Gladiolus.

Names written in a forgotten language from a world long gone.

I won’t forget you, she thought. For your sake, I too, shall walk tall…

By the third morning, Otto was already waiting with two mugs of tea and a pile of wooden boards.

They had quickly settled into a kind of routine. Myne would arrive with her father at first light, her tiny feet padding across the worn floorboards of the guard post, her eyes still a little drowsy from sleep. While Gunther headed off to his rounds, she stayed behind to help Otto with the morning preparations.

Her duties were small but meaningful— sweeping the front steps with a broom twice her size, refilling the ink pots, straightening the slate boards, and arranging the day’s scrolls into neat piles. Sometimes, Otto would let her fold the scrolls and tuck them into their carved wooden slots for delivery. It wasn’t much, but she took each task seriously, her movements quiet and precise.

Afterward, she would sit beside Otto and learn her letters for a bell— this world’s local measure of an hour. Her slate was always cool to the touch, her chalk too thick for her fingers, but she held it as best she could.

After a short break, usually marked by a slice of dried apple or a shared cup of broth, she practiced reading using old records and invoices. Some of the vocabulary was dry, but she relished deciphering the characters, piecing together meaning from context and memory.

Another short break would follow, and then it was time to serve tea to the soldiers preparing for their breakfast. She’d carry the cups carefully, two at a time, offering shy smiles and a quiet “Here you go” as she passed them out. Some of the them were loud and gruff, others gentle with their thanks, but all treated her kindly enough.

Once the breakfast service was over, and the clatter of dishes had quieted, Myne had the remainder of the morning to herself—often spent poring over notes, scribbling new characters, or quietly observing the way people moved through the station.

“You’ve got quick eyes,” Otto remarked one morning as Myne settled into her usual seat. “Most kids your age still struggle with their strokes by now.”

“My penmanship still looks like chicken scratches,” Myne admitted, holding up her slate. The lines of her letters wobbled like the path of a drunk beetle.

Otto peered at it. “Sloppy, sure. But consistent. You’ll get there.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, willing her small fingers not to cramp from the lack of practice. I was trained to wield a trident, she sighed inwardly, not chalk this thick and blunt.

Still, she copied the characters patiently—over and over, again and again. Progress was slow, but her mind kept pace easily. After all, she wasn’t really five—not entirely. Her body may have been tiny, but her thoughts were still shaped by a lifetime of experience.

The next day, Otto casually dropped a handful of pebbles onto the table.

“Alright, let’s see. I’ve got eleven crates of apples, six sacks of grain, and nine casks of vinegar. That’s...”

“Twenty-six items,” Myne said without missing a beat.

Otto blinked. “That was fast.”

“It’s just groups of ten and smaller numbers,” she replied with a shrug. “You don’t even need to count if you organize them.”

He stared at her for a moment. “You sure you haven’t done merchant work before?”

She gave him a mysterious smile. “Not in this life.”

Otto leaned back and let out a low whistle. “You’ve got a head for numbers. Could use that, honestly. People who can tally accurately are in short supply.”

Myne only grinned and reached for the chalk again, already preparing to copy down the day’s records. Her handwriting still looked a bit like a chicken had danced across the page—but at least now, it was a well-rehearsed chicken.

Later that week, Otto handed her something wrapped in a cloth napkin.

“My wife insisted you get this,” he said, sheepishly.

Inside was a hand-stitched handkerchief—modest, but lovingly made. The hem was embroidered with a green ivy pattern.

“She says she’s never felt so clean in her life. Your soap’s better than anything in the upper market, I swear it.”

Myne held the handkerchief gently. “Tell her I’m honored. I’ll keep this safe.”

“You keep learning like this,” Otto said, “and the world’s going to start keeping an eye on you.”

By the end of the second week, Myne had memorized the entire alphabet. She could write full sentences now without too much trouble—though her handwriting still wobbled like a frightened beetle. Otto, impressed but unsurprised, suggested she shift her focus to expanding her vocabulary and polishing her penmanship.

“You’ve got the basics down. Now it’s just a matter of practice,” he said, handing her another stack of dull, dusty records. “And lucky for you, I’ve got no shortage of paperwork.”

From that day on, she continued as his assistant—unofficially, of course. It was a win-win. Otto got free help, and Myne had an excuse to immerse herself in writing and numbers. She picked things up at a pace that made Otto squint at her now and then, clearly suspicious.

After all, what five-year-old breezes through record logs like they’ve done merchant work before?

She only smiled. The mind of a grown woman in the body of a small child had its advantages.

…

The sun had barely crested over the rooftops when the lower city began to stir. The air was thick with breath and smoke, mist clinging to cobblestone streets as neighbors emerged from narrow doorways with baskets and coin pouches in hand.

Myne tightened her shawl around her shoulders as she stepped outside with her family, the cold nipping at her nose. Tulli walked beside her, hair tied back in a neat braid, while Gunther carried an old woven sack across his back and Effa held onto a small purse with a firm grip.

Pork Day came only once a year—just before the real bite of winter—and for commoners like them, it was one of the most important days on the calendar. A single pig could mean months worth of protein, stretched out in bits and strips, salted, smoked, and stored for when it was coldest.

Luna remembered the preparations from Myne’s memories: families scrimping and saving, collecting copper coin by copper coin, bargaining with farmers, helping neighbors carry their share in return for scraps.

Gunther, as a gate guard, earned enough to afford one whole pig— barely, and Effa with her salary from the dyehouse can add a few more pounds of sausage and bacon.

“Stay close,” Gunther reminded, glancing down at his daughters as they passed through the gates and into the outer fields. “The crowd gets tight near the pens.”

Already, the fields beyond the southern gate had filled with the smell of hay, mud, and animals. Farmers and butchers had set up temporary wooden stalls near livestock enclosures, and families lined up in rows, clutching their coins. The bleating of pigs and the clatter of hooves echoed through the air.

Luna—no, Myne—stared at the bustle in quiet wonder.

It was not unlike the harvest festivals in Tenebrae… save for the lack of incense and finery. Here, the scent of blood and livestock was far stronger. Grit clung to every hem. And yet the excitement, the urgency, the ritual of the day—it was just as sacred.

Still, as they neared the pen and one of the pigs was pulled aside by its hind legs, Myne felt something turn in her stomach.

The animal squealed, a high-pitched, almost human cry.

The butcher moved swiftly— practiced, clean—and in an instant, it was over.

But Myne stood frozen, white-knuckled at the hem of her shawl.

The scent of blood hit her a moment later—thick, coppery—and her vision blurred.

A flash of memory struck her without warning: the battlefield of Insomnia. Steel. Smoke. Nyx Ulric dying in her arms as he paid the blood price exacted by the Ring of Lucii.

She stumbled, her head swimming.

“Are you alright?” Effa asked, catching her shoulder.

“I—” Myne barely managed to nod. “Just… dizzy.”

Gunther quickly reached down and picked her up with one arm. “You’ve seen too much. Close your eyes.”

“I’m fine,” she murmured, voice muffled against his collar, but her body disagreed. Her head lolled as sleep overtook her, the warmth of her father’s chest the only anchor left.

By the time they made it home, the midday sun had risen, pale and sharp through the haze. Myne awoke to the sound of wood creaking and the heavy slam of something hitting the kitchen counter.

She blinked.

The pig had been butchered. Stripped, portioned, and wrapped. Some would go to the communal smokehouse later that afternoon, and the rest would be cured with salt, to be stored in the cellar.

Tulli was already helping Effa clean the larger cuts, her hands red from the cold water and salt rub. Despite the rawness of it, there was a quiet rhythm to it all. No wasted motion. No complaints. This was just life.

“You’re up,” Tulli said, noticing her by the doorway. “Feeling better?”

“I am,” Myne lied gently, pulling her shawl tighter. She crossed the room slowly, sitting near the fire. The image of the pig’s eyes still lingered in her mind—but so did the knowledge of why this had to be done.

As a princess, she had never once seen her food before it arrived on a porcelain dish.

But here, survival was not hidden behind silver trays and courtly manners.

It was raw. Honest. Unforgiving.

And in its own way… noble.

…

It took her a few days to regain her bearings after Pork Day—her fainting spell had left her a bit embarrassed, but also more resolved than ever.

Once her strength returned, Myne threw herself into her work with renewed fervor.

She no longer had the luxury of idleness. Winter was coming—slowly but certainly—and she had no intention of facing it unprepared.

As much as she wanted to continue practicing her budding reading skills at the gate with Otto, and assist him with his work as promised, that would have to wait. There was simply too much to do.

She resumed making soap—her hands now used to the rhythm of mixing, pouring, and drying. She’d refined her recipe further, swapping animal fats for carefully-rendered plant oils that she and Tulli extracted from a fruit called Meryl. Without laurel, she experimented with crushed herbs and dried flowers to give her soaps fragrance and mild medicinal properties.

Tulli, with her steady hands and natural intuition, helped her label each batch with colored threads: blue for body soap, yellow for laundry, and green for hair rinse.

By the end of the week, a sizeable basket of homemade soap was neatly tucked into the corner of their hearth.

They also brewed herbal teas and basic salves. Myne dried leaves and petals between scrap cloth and hung them above the fire on a line. Some teas would be for colds, others for digestion or calming nerves. She even managed to make a salve for cracked winter skin using oil extracted from nuts and marigold petals.

…

One chilly morning, Myne stared down at a pile of shredded cabbage, her fingers red from slicing.

She recalled something from Eos—an old Tenebrean method used to preserve vegetables through fermentation before the advent of electricity.

“You don’t need jars,” she muttered, half to herself. “Just a vessel… salt… time…”

They had ceramic crocks. Clay pots, unglazed but clean. She scrubbed them thoroughly, packed the cabbage tight layer by layer, and salted each layer evenly. Then, she placed a flat wooden disc over the cabbage and weighed it down with a smooth stone, covered it with cloth, and tied it tightly with twine.

Fermentation would do the rest.

Within days, the mixture would release its brine and start to sour. If kept in a cool place like their cellar, it could last well into mid-winter.

Tulli gave it a wary sniff and wrinkled her nose.

“Are you sure this is safe?”

“It’s controlled rot,” Myne said with a small smile. “Nature does the work for us. You’ll thank me when there’s nothing fresh left in two months.”

…

As the days shortened and the morning frost turned blades of grass silver, the mood in the city shifted. Less bustle. More preparation. In the lower city, the sound of hammers and carts was replaced with the clicking of needles, the tapping of wooden looms, and the occasional creak of spinning wheels.

Work done indoors became essential.

Effa had begun bringing home scraps of cloth and thread from the dyehouse, and Myne and Tulli spent evenings beside the hearth embroidering small pieces—gloves, scarves, and simple pouches that might be sold or gifted.

Myne, for her part, taught Tulli new stitching patterns. Some borrowed from Tenebrae’s court fashion, simplified to match the rough cloth they had. She didn’t mention the origin, but the results were beautiful enough to speak for themselves.

They also stitched herb sachets to hang by the bed or tuck into clothing for warmth and scent—another small comfort in a harsh season.

..

Gunther, as a city guard, was assigned winter quarters at the South Gate. He would sleep there most nights, sparing his family the burden of feeding an extra adult when food would become tight. The guardhouse was heated and stocked, and unlike most men in the city, he didn’t have to haul goods or gather firewood in the snow.

Myne understood now that this wasn’t just convenience—it was privilege. A rare one.

But it also meant longer evenings with just the three women at home, huddled close around the hearth.

And she was determined to make those nights as warm and bright as she could.

One night, as the wind howled through the shutters and the fire flickered low, Myne sat alone at the table, scribbling on her slate by candlelight.

She glanced at the shelves—filled now with teas, bundles of dried herbs, bundles of rags waiting to be sewn into something useful. The faint scent of cabbage brine drifted from the cellar.

Winter was coming.

But they were ready.

Or… almost.

With one final glance at her rough list of goals, she set down her chalk.

Tomorrow, she’d resume her work.

But tonight?

Tonight, she was content to rest.

Chapter Text

Winter crept in slowly—first in the morning frost that clung to the windows, then in the way the sunlight never quite reached the corners of their small home. Each breath steamed in the air, and fires needed to be lit just to keep the chill from settling in their bones.

Food was rationed now. The last round of foraging had been done. Tulli's hands were chapped from washing, and Effa’s returns from the dyehouse were less frequent. Work was slowing.

And still… they needed to prepare.

They had the pork from the smokehouse, dried vegetables strung along the hearth, and salves sealed with wax in little ceramic pots. Her introduction of Sauerkraut to this world has been a success too. But Myne knew it wouldn’t be enough—not if the snows were deep and the merchants stayed away.

They would need something to trade. Something useful. Something valuable that they could trade for when needed in an emergency.

And so she thought back.

In her past life, Luna had once woven flower baskets with the nuns in Tenebrae’s garden.

The art was taught not as labor, but as discipline. The fine reeds were soaked until pliant, then woven with graceful hands and intent.

The northern provinces of Tenebrae had woven everything—from bread trays to mourning cradles for the dead. Even the stillborn were cradled in beauty.

It was simple work—but clean, efficient, and satisfying.

She rubbed her palms together and whispered, “I can do this.”

---

She had chosen her corner by the window where the light was best and the air smelled faintly of the firewood Tulli had chopped earlier.

For days now, the cold had deepened. Winter's breath whispered through the cracks of their modest home, making her fingers stiff and raw. But it didn’t matter. Her determination burned warmer than any hearth.

She had been collecting materials quietly, methodically.

Salvaged reed from old baskets, carefully softened in warm water.

Strips of dyed linen in various hues—indigo, sage, umber—braided tightly into cords.

Even some loose threads she had plucked from old cloths and stitched together with care.

No one helped her.

Not because they wouldn’t—but because she hadn’t told them.

This one was hers.

Entirely hers.

The work was slow at first. Her fingers ached from the fine motor control required, and her weaving rhythm was rusty. But her hands remembered.

Over-under. Pull tight. Shift. Breathe.

She added intricate motifs to the sides—braid patterns that mimicked the royal emblems of old Tenebrae, only abstract enough to pass as floral designs. The bottom was tightly woven to be flat and firm. The sides rose in soft arcs, and the mouth curved inward slightly for elegance.

She didn’t want it to be merely functional.

She wanted it to be iconic.

---

She spent twelve days on it in total.

The final touch came in the form of a soft woven flap line with linen—hand-stitched, embroidered with an imitation of sylleblossoms in pale blue thread. Not unlike the flower Luna once wore in her hair. She fashioned a small button from polished wood, carved gently with her knife, and looped it with a plait of cord to fasten.

It was not a noblewoman’s handbag.

But neither was it something a commoner would carry.

It was something in-between—elegant but rustic.

Delicate yet built to last.

She cradled the finished product in her lap and smiled softly to herself.

And just like that, the Ehrkin Bag was born.

---

That evening, when Tulli and Effa returned from their errands, Myne was seated near the hearth, holding the finished bag in her lap as if it were something sacred.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just waited.

Tulli was the first to notice. “Myne… did you make that?”

Effa turned from untying her apron, eyes narrowing. “Is that a bag?”

Myne only nodded and set it gently on the low table, nudging it toward them like a child presenting a gift.

Both mother and daughter leaned over it slowly, almost reverently.

Effa lifted the strap between her fingers. “The weave is tight… but soft. And look at this clasp…”

Tulli ran her fingers over the embroidery. “This pattern… It looks like something I saw on a noble lady’s dress last year.”

Effa gave Myne a look, half-amazed and half-stern. “Where did you learn to do this?”

Myne hesitated. “From… a dream.”

Effa didn’t press further. She never does when Myne does the unexplainable

Instead, she turned the bag in her hands and let out a quiet breath. “This looks like something a merchant’s wife would flaunt at the spring market.”

“It’s not for flaunting,” Myne said with a small smile.

She folded her hands in her lap. “If things get difficult… if we need food or medicine, or maybe for an emergency… this might sell for more than a few silvers.”

Effa looked startled. “You mean to sell this?”

“I mean to save it,” Myne replied. “For when it counts.”

Tulli hugged the bag to her chest like it was a priceless heirloom. “You could sell these in the western quarter,” she said. “I bet some of the merchant girls would fight over one.”

Effa gave a proud little snort. “You’d have to name it. A creation like this needs a name.”

Myne tilted her head, thoughtfully. It already has one. She was just waiting for the opportunity to present itself.

“…Ehrkin,” she murmured. “From Ehrenfest. So we never forget where it came from.”

That night, they placed the bag in a wrapped cloth on the highest shelf—above the hearth, where no soot could reach it. A thing of beauty had no place in such a humble home.

It wasn’t just a bag.

It was hope.

It was a gift from Tenebrae to a world still learning grace.

And it was only the beginning.

…

The second month of winter passed with no small relief.

Despite the biting cold and the shorter daylight hours, Myne’s family had managed surprisingly well so far. They still had firewood left in storage, their preserved was deemed enough to last them through the rest of winter, and the food stockpile—thanks to careful planning and a few experimental recipes—had not yet run dry.

It wasn’t much, but to a poor commoner family, it was a victory on its own.

And so, when Myne awoke one morning to the sound of Tulli and Effa chatting in the hearth room, the tone of their voices was lighter than usual. Almost… cheerful.

“It’s going to be sunny today,” Effa said, glancing out the frosted window. The sky outside was pale and cloudless, the early rays of sunlight casting long golden streaks on the walls.

“You think there’ll be one?” Tulli asked, pulling on her shawl.

“If the sky holds, maybe,” Effa replied. “It’s the perfect kind of morning.”

Myne, still curled under her blanket, blinked blearily. “One what?”

Effa turned toward her. “A Parue tree, dear. They only appear on sunny winter mornings like this.”

That woke her up faster than a cup of black tea.

“Appear?” Myne echoed. “As in… it grows overnight?”

Effa nodded. “That’s the rumor. No one knows where it comes from, but sometimes—just sometimes—when the weather’s right, it’ll be there the next morning.”

“And it disappears the next day,” Tulli added. “Melted by the sun or gone with the wind. You only get a few hours to harvest from it.”

Myne sat up, intrigued. “What kind of tree is it?”

“It’s made of ice,” Effa explained. “But inside its fruit is a kind of milk. You shred the flesh, press it out, and save the milk for cooking. The rest we give to the chickens or livestock.”

Luna stirred beneath the surface of Myne’s thoughts.

A tree that appears for a single day? One that yields milk and is made of ice?

It sounded like something pulled from the story books of Eos. It reminded Luna of Gentiana.

Of Shiva.

Her curiosity was piqued.

“Can I come with you?” she asked.

Effa looked surprised for a moment, then smiled gently. “If you’re feeling well enough, of course. We were planning to stop by the guard post first to tell your father.”

The air outside was bitingly cold, even beneath the sun’s warmth, but Myne wrapped herself tightly in her thickest cloak and followed the winding, slushy roads with her family. A few others were already out, faces hopeful, heading in the same direction.

At the South Gate, Gunther was already manning his post, surrounded by a few sleepy-looking guards and a steaming kettle perched beside a brazier. His face lit up when he spotted them.

“Well, well! What’s this? My girls come to check on me?”

Effa rolled her eyes. “We’re going parue hunting.”

Gunther laughed heartily. “Aha! Smart. Haven’t seen one in two years. But the air smells right for it today.”

Tulli nodded. “We’re hoping it showed up near the forest bend again.”

Gunther looked to Myne. “You up for the hike, little one?”

“I want to see it,” she said simply.

Gunther gave her a fond grin and slung his halberd onto his back. “Then let’s go. Wouldn’t miss it.”

They walked for half an hour through fields of packed snow, past frost-covered hedges and the skeletal remains of autumn trees. The forest loomed just ahead, quiet and glittering in the light. Birds chirped sparsely, their songs thin in the crisp air.

And then, around a bend, they found it.

The Parue tree.

It stood in the clearing like a sculpture of living ice—tall, delicate, and impossibly beautiful. Its trunk was pale as moonlight, smooth like birch but speckled with frost. The branches stretched wide, glittering with dozens of pale white fruits that dangled like ornaments. Each one gleamed faintly in the sunlight, casting rainbow refractions onto the snow below.

Myne gasped softly. “It’s real…”

No amount of description had prepared her for this. It looked like it didn’t belong in this world—or perhaps, belonged only here.

The other families nearby were already gathering beneath the branches, pressing their bare hands to the limbs, trying to coax the fruit to fall.

“Only way to get them down is body heat,” Gunther explained. “The tree’s frozen stiff, but it’s sensitive. Touch the bark long enough, and it loosens up.”

Tulli was already at work, rubbing her palms against one low-hanging branch.

But Myne hesitated.

She stepped closer, reached out, and gently placed her hand on the trunk. The bark was ice-cold—but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she let her mana trickle through her fingertips, the way she did when compressing it into her crystalized core. A faint warmth pulsed through the tree in response.

A soft plink.

The fruit dropped neatly into her waiting hand.

Effa, standing nearby, blinked. “That was quick.”

“Guess I got lucky,” Myne said, slipping the fruit into the basket.

She repeated the motion—touch, sustain, drop—never staying in one spot for too long. She kept her movements natural, careful not to attract too much attention. By the end of the hour, her family had gathered nearly thrice the amount of fruits compared to the others.

Gunther raised a brow at the pile. “My girls are something else.”

The sun began to rise higher, casting stronger rays onto the clearing. The Parue tree began to sway gently, its limbs twitching.

“It’s starting,” Effa warned. “Time to go!”

Just as they were gathering their baskets, one of the higher branches shivered violently—and flung a fruit high into the air, where it arced and splattered in the snow.

They all laughed—Tulli shrieking as she narrowly avoided another flying fruit.

Back home, they set the baskets on the floor and got to work right away. Gunther took a seat by the hearth, charring the end of a wooden stick to pierce the tough bottom of the fruit—the only known way to crack open its hard shell.

Once drained, the fruit’s thick milk was collected in a jug, and the opened husks were passed to Tulli, who began carefully shredding the inner flesh with a knife.

Nearby, Effa took the mound of grated pulp and wrapped it in cloth, pressing it over a clay bowl. Slowly, a cloudy stream of Parue milk trickled out, ensuring that not a single drop would go to waste.

Myne tasted a drop. Sweet, mild, and creamy. Something like almond milk—delicate and earthy.

She made a mental note to try it in soap.

If anything else, it would give her soap a nice moisturizing effect.

The leftover pulp were spread out to dry near the fire, ready to be used for feed. They didn’t keep any livestock, but they can barter it for something else.

As the sky turned orange with dusk, their home smelled faintly of snow, wood smoke, and something faintly sweet.

Myne sat back, her fingers sore but her heart content.

..

The day after their parue harvest, the kitchen still smelled faintly of sweet fruit and wood smoke. Their baskets had overflowed with bounty, and even after pressing out the precious milk, they were left with heaps of the shredded pulp—soft, fibrous, and faintly fragrant.

The frost still clung to the windowpanes when the knock came—a quick triple rap, muffled slightly by a thick wool mitten.

Tulli was the first to react, stepping over a half-filled basin of parue pulp as she moved toward the door. “Coming!”

When she opened it, a gust of cold air swept in, along with two familiar faces.

“Morning,” said Lutz, grinning beneath his wool cap. “We brought eggs!”

Beside him, Ralph held up a small woven basket carefully padded with straw. Six mottled brown eggs peeked through the gaps, still warm from the coop.

Effa emerged from the back, her hands red from wringing pulp over cloth bags. “Oh, you two came at a good time. We’ve got plenty.”

“Too much,” Tulli muttered, gesturing to the stack of drying racks crammed with damp pulp. “We won’t get through it all before it turns.”

Ralph grinned. “That’s what we figured. Care for a trade?”

“Done,” Effa nodded, already reaching for a bowl.

But before the trade could be made, Myne stepped forward, holding up a hand. “Wait. Can I try something first?”

The others paused. “Try what?” Lutz asked, blinking.

“A recipe. I have an idea.”

..

In the cramped kitchen, the hearth fire crackled low and steady. Myne pulled up a stool, her sleeves rolled and eyes sharp with concentration. She’d been thinking about this ever since yesterday, watching the thick milk at the corners of the pots and wondering… what if?

She started with a bowl of the fresh parue pulp, soft and fragrant, still warm from being in close proximity to the hearth. To that, she added a bit of flour, a dash of salt, an egg and enough parue milk to bind it all together. The mixture was sticky and lumpy, but she stirred with practiced hands until it began to smooth.

Tulli watched curiously. “You’re making…?”

“Something like a cake,” Myne murmured. “Pancake, maybe.”

She ladled rounds of the batter onto a greased iron pan placed over the fire, listening for the faint hiss as they sizzled. As they browned on one side, she flipped them gently with a flat spatula carved by Gunther during his off-hours.

Meanwhile, in a smaller clay pan set closer to the flame, she poured the parue milk.

Unlike cow’s milk, it was already sweet—thick and faintly fragrant. She stirred it constantly, adding a bit of honey and letting the natural sugars brown and caramelize. Soon the mixture turned golden, then amber, and began to thicken to a rich paste with a glossy sheen. Its scent filled the room: toasted, nutty, with just a hint of warmth and smoke.

“What is that?” Tulli whispered, leaning over.

“An accident,” Myne said with a sly smile. “A very delicious accident.”

When the first batch of parue cakes were done, she plated them on a warm wooden tray, added a spoonful of the caramel-like sauce on top, and turned toward the boys.

“Well?” she said, offering them each one.

Lutz bit first, out of habit—and immediately his eyes widened.

“It’s sweet! Like candy!”

Ralph, mouth full, could only nod.

“It’s just the parue milk,” Myne explained, suppressing a grin. “No sugar added. Just some honey and cooked slowly until it thickens.”

Effa took one with a raised brow. “This… tastes like something a restaurant in the central quarters would serve.”

Tulli nodded in agreement. “We’ve never had anything like this.”

“I wanted to see if it could work,” Myne said. “If we dry the cakes and save the milk sauce separately, it might even last a few days.”

Ralph immediately reached into his coat. “Here. Take the eggs. Honestly, we should be paying you.”

Effa took them with a soft laugh. “Don’t spoil her too much.”

“I’m not!” Ralph insisted. “But I know a good deal when I see one. You’ve got real merchant talent in you.”

Myne beamed—though a small pang tugged at her chest. If only Ravus could’ve seen this. He would’ve teased her for getting sticky sweet things on her fingers, but he would’ve smiled too.

That night, they kept the hearth burning longer than usual. The heat of the coals made the parue pulp dry faster, and the remaining cakes were wrapped carefully in cloth to save for the coming days.

Gunther returned home just after dusk, stamping snow from his boots and breathing hard from the cold. The scent hit him the moment he entered.

“What is that smell?” he asked, sniffing the air like a hound.

“Parue cakes,” Tulli said, holding out a slice. “With sweet cream. Myne made them this morning! It’s really good!”

Gunther bit in—and visibly paused. “This… this is better than the cakes sold at the bakery!”

As the family sat around the table, sipping warmed tea and sharing quiet bites of sweetened cakes, Myne watched their faces light with the simple pleasure of it.

In Tenebrae, she’d dined in silence, in formality. But here, there was laughter, teasing, warmth.

She glanced toward the drying racks, the string-tied bundles, the bowl of cooling caramel, and the row of eggs now sitting in their straw bed by the window.

Maybe they didn’t have much.

But they had enough. And what they had—they made better.

…

As the final month of winter arrived, a gentle stillness fell over the city of Ehrenfest.

Snow blanketed the rooftops and alleys like wool pulled over the world’s ears, and life in the lower city moved to a slower, more deliberate rhythm. Outside work lessened. Merchants traveled less. The streets became quieter, and even the wind, though still cold, had lost the worst of its bite.

But within the cramped third-floor home of the Gunther family, Myne was anything but idle.

While most commoners passed the season with mending and sewing, Myne had thrown herself into a flurry of preparations—not just for spring, but for a future she could shape with her own hands.

It began with the combs.

Her first creation—the braided, cloth-wrapped piece she’d made for herself—had sparked more than just admiration. She gifted Effa and Tulli their own, and their delighted reactions planted the first seed of a new Idea: if she could make more, perhaps she could sell them come spring.

Some combs were small, crescent-shaped with fine teeth and colored threads woven through tiny holes drilled into the edges. Others were broader, adorned with tiny pressed flowers sealed beneath a thin layer of varnish and resin—an idea she recalled from noble crafts in Tenebrae.

Each comb was unique. Some bore carved patterns inspired by constellations or fey beasts she heard from children’s stories. Others were inlaid with bits of braided thread, or folded flowers made of cloth, pressed flat and dyed with plant extracts.

Every piece felt like a little treasure—something beautiful enough to be a keepsake, but sturdy enough to be used.

She stored them carefully in a small cedar box Gunther had traded for, each nestled in a fold of linen, as she waited for spring and first market.

But she didn’t stop there.

Remembering the ornamental tiaras and hairpieces worn by noble girls in Tenebrae, Myne sketched a simpler design—one her new world could afford: a wooden hairband, lightweight and strong, yet adjustable enough for daily use.

Gunther, eager to help, whittled them with practiced hands. The wood came from leftover firewood scraps and broken handles. He smoothed them with river-polished stones and even added subtle grooves and notches to help with grip.

Myne decorated them with vibrant braids made from discarded cloth and yarn Tulli had dyed with leftover plant matter. The colors—dull rose, leaf green, sky blue—were warm and subdued, the palette of a common born. She also added simple adornments: knots shaped like flowers, tiny carved buttons, even bits of polished seed pods that shimmered like amber.

They were beautiful.

Practical, yes—but beautiful. The kind of thing a merchant’s daughter might wear to a festival, or a bride might pin in her hair before her wedding.

Effa, upon seeing the first completed band, whispered, “These would sell for a silver at least.”

Her soaps, too, had come a long way.

Myne had fully transitioned to using oil rendered from meryl fruits—large, bitter-skinned drupes that was similar to an avocado. It grew abundant on the southern cliffs and could be pressed to extract thick, golden-green oil. It was mostly used for cooking, a thought that tickled something funny in Luna’s mind, as Avocado oil was the latest health trend that she remembered from Eos.

She had crafted three signature variants:

Floral Silk – Soft and light, scented with dried flower petals (rose-like blooms called scentis and the spice-sweet scent of sky bell). It lathered quickly and left the skin faintly perfumed.

Forest Cleanse – Herbal and invigorating, infused with crushed hyssop, dried bitter leaf, and a trace of sharp mint. Meant to wash away fatigue after a hard day of work.

Woodland Balm – Earthy and grounding, made with warm wood shavings from cedar and marama bark. A scent she secretly modeled after her brother Ravus’ favorite incense.

The salting-out process had improved both consistency and storage. She carefully stored the bars in waxed cloth, aging them slightly so they wouldn’t melt or crumble too quickly.

Though Parue fruit was a rare winter gift, Myne had made the most of their harvest.

By slowly heating the extracted parue milk and whipping it with plant oil and a dash of ground herbs, she created a creamy paste that softened hair when applied before washing. It wasn’t perfect—it spoiled if left too long in the wrong conditions—but it was heavenly while it lasted.

Effa swore her hair had never felt smoother.

Tulli called it “miracle milk.”

Encouraged, Myne preserved a small batch by sealing it with wax and storing it in the coldest corner of their home. She’d tinker with it again next winter, but for now, it was a luxury they would cherish while it lasted.

Still, the success of the experiment left her thinking.

Perhaps next year, I can preserve it better. Turn it into a balm, or reduce it to a paste that keeps longer.

Beyond soap and rinse, Myne had begun experimenting with basic herbal salves. With the leftover plant oils and dried herbs, she created soothing mixtures:

One to treat Effa’s irritated hands after dye work.

One for Gunther’s cold-bitten knuckles.

One to soothe Tulli’s aching calves after long foraging days.

Each one was tested carefully, applied sparingly, and improved upon over time. The fragrances were subtle—floral, herbal, or woody— similar to her soap, and mixed gently with emulsified oil to thicken them.

One cold afternoon, when the skies refused to lift and the wind howled down the alleys, Myne and Tulli tried something new: candle-making.

They used leftover fat from winter meals, mixed with salt to purify, and poured the rendered tallow into clay molds. Into some, Myne dropped a few drops of her newly made fragrance oil—pressed from flowers and simmered over days with carrier oil.

They didn’t burn for long, but they smelled like spring.

Effa had cried quietly the first time she lit one beside their bed.

Myne endeavors to improve her skill in this craft .

With the last batch of soap packed away and the new candles curing by the hearth, Myne finally let herself pause.

She sat by the window, shawl tucked around her shoulders, watching soft snow fall like ash through the muted morning light. The city below was slow to stir. Even the wind held its breath.

For the first time since she awoke in this world, she felt… well.

Truly, undeniably well.

It wasn’t just that her chest no longer tightened when she walked up the stairs. Or that her fingers, once weak and brittle, could now braid cord and stir boiling mixtures without trembling. It was deeper than that. Foundational.

Her mana—wild and unchecked when she first arrived—had calmed. The burning fever that used to rise behind her ribs like molten glass now only stirred when she let her emotions get the better of her. A flicker of heat when she was too happy. A spark when she was too afraid.

But no longer a fire.

The clumps… they’re gone, she thought, brushing a hand gently over her chest.

In Eos, they called it mana congestion—the buildup of unchanneled magic within the body. Magic was mostly abundant who descended from the Fleurets and the Caelums, but there were some exceptions.

She had fought to regulate her mana.

She had healed herself.

The energy that once overwhelmed her was now flowing cleanly through the veins of her new body—still small, still fragile, but no longer teetering on the brink.

Now, it could focus on growing, not merely surviving.

For the first time, this body is mine, she thought. And I can shape the life it leads.

The foods she prepared—the soups rich in depth of flavor, the parue cakes packed with milk and fiber, the teas steeped in ginger and hyssop—had all done their part. Her family, too, had changed. Effa’s cheeks looked fuller. Gunther no longer coughed from the cold at night. Tulli’s hair was shinier, her foraging runs more energetic.

Because of me.

And that truth filled Myne with something gentle and fierce all at once. Not pride. Not arrogance.

Gratitude.

She had not been given power in this world. She had clawed her way to it. And now, standing at the edge of spring, she could feel the path ahead opening like the thawing river—slow but inevitable.

Chapter Text

The last week of winter arrived with a literal bang.

Effa jolted upright from their shared bed, startling Gunther so badly that he nearly reached for his sword.

“Dear Gods above!” she gasped, already scrambling to untangle herself from the covers. “I completely forgot to make Tuuli’s baptism dress!”

Gunther blinked at her, squinting one eye against the faint gray of dawn. “It’s still months away, isn’t it?” he mumbled, scratching his head.

Effa was already halfway across the room, pulling on her winter shawl. “Not if you want her to look like she was raised by wolves!”

Gunther exhaled slowly, now fully awake. He sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. “She’d still be the prettiest cub in the forest,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Effa shot him a warning look that said don’t test me, then turned on her heel and began rummaging through her sewing supplies. “We’ll need to find proper fabric, dyed thread, maybe some lace if I can get my hands on it…”

From the side, Myne yawned and sat up, blinking sleep from her eyes. Tuuli, still curled up under their shared blanket, gave a groggy groan.

“Is it morning already?” Tuuli mumbled.

“More like a fashion emergency,” Myne said with a grin. “Looks like you’re about to become a proper young lady, Tuuli.”

Gunther chuckled, standing and stretching with a grunt. “If your mother’s this fired up, I suppose it’s serious.”

He walked over to Tuuli, tousled her hair gently, then bent to speak softly.

“You’ll be beautiful no matter what dress you wear,” he said, his voice low and warm. “But it wouldn’t hurt to let your mom fuss a little.”

Tuuli’s sleepy face lit up, and she gave him a shy smile.

Effa, busy listing thread colors under her breath, didn’t hear the exchange—but Myne did. She tucked the moment away with a soft smile of her own.

The city was still brushing off the last dustings of snow, but the air already smelled different—sweet, hopeful, and sun-warmed. Market stalls lined the streets like blooms unfurling after a long frost, draped in cheerful cloth and overflowing with early wares.

Effa led the way, eyes sharp and determined, clutching a basket as if ready for battle. Myne and Tuuli trailed close behind, their boots clicking on the cobblestones.

“Myne,” Tuuli whispered, fear coloring her voice, as the situation was now dawning on her. “what if the fabric’s all gone?”

“Then we charm the vendors,” Myne replied smoothly. “I have a few ideas in mind.”

The first stall they visited had bolts of dyed wool and spun linen in muted winter tones—gray, brown, dusty plum. Effa wrinkled her nose. “Too dull.”

“Let’s try near the fountain square,” Myne agrees. Those were not her sister’s color. “I think I saw a merchant there who brought silk blends last fall.”

It didn’t take long. At a bright stall beneath fluttering paper charms, they found exactly what they were looking for: an off-white linen, airy yet strong, with a gentle shimmer when the light struck it just right. It was perfect—soft enough for comfort, sturdy enough for embroidery, and elegant enough for a formal ceremony.

“Ooh,” Tuuli gasped. “Can we use this?”

Effa turned the fabric over in her hands, eyebrows raised. “It’s pricier than I expected.”

“I can cover the difference,” Myne said, slipping a few coins into her mother’s hand before she could argue. “Think of it as my blessing for Tuuli.”

It was a good thing she had been saving the tips she received from the soldiers while helping out at the South Gate. Who knew it would come in handy.

Tuuli beamed.

They spent the rest of the morning threading through the crowd, collecting skeins of dyed thread—sun-gold, mint green, and soft sky blue—as well as tiny white buttons and two narrow lace trims. Myne even managed to convince a weaver to part with a leftover strip of satiny blue ribbon—far too short for a sash, but just right for a headband or perhaps a corsage.

When their basket was full and their hands smelled of dyed wool and spice bread, they made their way back home with the sun warm on their backs.

Effa laid out the materials on the table like precious jewels, smoothing the glossy linen with a sigh of deep satisfaction.

“I’ll cut the base pieces,” she said, already reaching for her chalk and scissors. “Tuuli, start soaking the lace so it softens. Myne, can you sort the thread?”

“Already on it,” Myne said, arranging them by shade and sheen.

But she had more than sorting in mind. As Effa cut a simple A-line dress pattern, Myne grabbed her slate and chalk, sketching lightly. The design she drew was simple but graceful—a pleated bodice with two curved darts at the ribs for fit, a full skirt that would twirl gently with motion, and a double tuck hemline for subtle dimension.

“What’s this?” Effa asked, peering over.

“Just a suggestion,” Myne replied with a smile. “If we add lining inside the bodice and a small tuck at the shoulder, it’ll sit better on her frame. And I thought maybe we could do ribbon loops at the back instead of full buttons—it’ll let Tuuli tie it herself.”

Effa studied the sketch, then gave a soft laugh. “You’ve got an eye for this. Alright. Let’s give it a try.”

Tuuli helped where she could, her stitches slow but precise. She embroidered a single daisy just above the hem, careful and focused. Myne took over the detail work, weaving the mint and sky blue thread into a delicate vine pattern along the neckline—nothing flashy, but graceful. There was something soothing in the rhythm of it, grounding.

Five days passed like this: laughter and thread, warm soup and tea breaks, hands prickled by needles but full of joy.

On the sixth day, the dress was ready.

Tuuli stood before the hearth in her new baptism dress, the rose linen glowing softly in the firelight. The pleats fanned just right. The embroidered vines curled like poetry around her collarbone. The tucked hem moved gently as she turned, each motion catching the light in quiet celebration.

“It’s beautiful,” Tuuli whispered, smoothing the skirt. “I feel like a noble.”

“You look like one,” Effa said, misty-eyed, her voice catching.

Gunther, standing near the doorway with arms crossed and feet wide apart, said nothing at first. He had returned from his shift earlier than usual, claiming he had “just enough time to warm his feet”—but really, he hadn’t wanted to miss this.

He took a slow step forward and looked his daughter up and down. “Tuuli,” he said, the name nearly a breath. “You’ve grown.”

Tuuli turned to face him, eyes bright.

“You always looked strong to me,” he continued, rubbing the back of his neck, “but now… you look graceful too. Like someone who’s walking her own path.”

He cleared his throat softly, as if embarrassed by the weight of his own words, then placed a large hand gently on her head. “I’m proud of you.”

Tuuli’s eyes welled with emotion, her hands clutching the skirt. “Thank you, Papa.”

Then, with a grin brimming with mischief and anticipation, Myne stepped forward, holding a small wrapped bundle.

“For you,” she said, untying the cloth to reveal a handmade corsage.

The large flower at its center was formed from the satiny blue ribbon, skillfully pleated and twisted to mimic delicate petals. Around it, smaller braided blossoms in soft whites and pale blues gave it a life-like fullness. A simple-threaded loop at the back made it easy to pin or tie onto her dress or wrist.

Tuuli gasped. “Myne… you made this?”

“Of course,” Myne said, trying not to look too pleased with herself. “You need something extra special. It’s your day, after all.”

Tuuli launched herself into her arms, and for a moment, the little room felt like the center of the world.

…

The following week, spring had finally come to Ehrenfest.

Or at least, that’s what the calendar said.

In truth, the air still bit with winter’s teeth, the wind sharp and cold enough to nip at one’s nose if they lingered too long outside. But the sun stayed up just a little longer each day, and the icicles clinging to the eaves had begun to drip. It was enough to lift spirits.

Inside Myne’s household, warmth filled every corner. The hearth crackled with a healthy flame, and the smell of roasted vegetables, seared sausage, and buttery herb flatbread hung like a blessing over the table.

“Now this,” Gunther declared, dropping heavily into his seat, “is the kind of dinner that makes a man glad to be alive.”

Tuuli giggled as Effa playfully swatted his shoulder. “You say that every time Myne cooks.”

“And I’ll say it again tomorrow if she keeps this up,” he said cheerfully, tucking into his food.

Myne blushed, a little proud and a little bashful. “It’s not that hard, you know. You just have to listen to the ingredients.”

Effa tilted her head. “Listen to the ingredients?”

“Mhm,” Myne said vaguely. “If you do, they’ll tell you what they need.”

That earned a round of fond chuckles.

They ate heartily, and when the dishes were nearly cleared and everyone was leaning back with full bellies and sleepy eyes, Gunther leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.

“Oh. That reminds me.” He glanced at Myne. “Otto asked me about you today. Said he’s got too much paperwork to handle and asked if you could lend him a hand again.”

Myne blinked. “Really?”

Gunther nodded. “He said you did good work last time. Fast, too. He trusts you.”

“But I’m not even baptized yet…”

“You’re not, no,” Gunther said gently. “So it can’t be anything formal. But helping out at the gate as a volunteer? That’s different. You’d just be assisting Otto for now—nothing strenuous.”

Myne chewed her lip, mind already tumbling through the implications. In Eos, the role of a scribe was one of reverence and rank. An Archivist, a Seer, a Recorder of history. Here, it was more humble—pen, ink, and endless logs—but perhaps…

Gunther’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Honestly, I think it’s a good idea. You’ve always been bright, Myne. And given how sick you’ve been, something like a screeniver’s job might suit you.”

Effa nodded in agreement. “It’s honest work. Clean, too. And if you apprentice now, you’ll learn plenty by the time you’re baptized.”

Tuuli leaned across the table, eyes sparkling. “You’d be the first in the family to work in an office, Myne! Isn’t that amazing?”

Myne smiled, but something inside her wavered.

She felt stronger than ever—stronger than she’d ever been in this life. Her muscles didn’t ache the same way anymore, her chest didn’t squeeze so tightly when she breathed. The compressed mana within her pulsed with quiet power, like a spring bubbling just beneath the surface.

Of course, no one knew she was healing herself each night with rituals and resonance—just small nudges of her former magic. Her body was recovering rapidly, aided not just by her will, but by her heritage. She wasn’t just Myne of the southern quarters. She was Lunafreya too—Oracle, Healer, and the mouthpiece of the Astrals. Her mana was growing with her body, more than she ever had during her first life.

She looked down at her hands. Steady. Capable.

“Alright,” she said at last. “I’ll give it a try.”

Gunther grinned proudly, and Effa reached across the table to squeeze her hand. Tuuli beamed.

But even as Myne returned their smiles, something in her heart whispered for more.

She didn’t know what that “more” was yet. But she would find it.

Eventually.

Hopefully.

…

The following day.

Myne awoke early—before Tuuli, before the morning bells, even before the neighborhood dogs began to bark at the bustle of passing carts. The faint light of dawn peeked through the wooden slats of the window as she rose from bed and quietly pulled on her tunic and skirt. Though her movements were careful and practiced, the wooden floor still creaked beneath her bare feet.

Gunther was already up, sharpening his sword with methodical strokes by the fire. His armor gleamed faintly in the light, but his face was soft with fatherly affection as he looked up and saw Myne, dressed and ready.

“You're up early,” he said, wiping his blade down with a cloth.

“I promised Otto I'd be there first thing,” Myne replied with a small smile. She packed a small cloth bundle of breakfast—barley bread and pickled turnips—and tucked it into her satchel along with her writing slate and chalk.

Gunther chuckled, standing to ruffle her hair. “You’re taking this very seriously. I'm glad.”

As they stepped out of the house, the city of Ehrenfest greeted them with a brisk but hopeful energy. Snow no longer clung to the rooftops, and buds were beginning to show on trees lining the stone paths. Spring had officially arrived—at least, according to the calendar. In practice, the chill still lingered, and the fields had only just begun to thaw.

The South Gate was already busy by the time they arrived. Wagons rolled in with spring goods: early greens, smoked meats, cloth bolts from nearby towns. Guilds had begun welcoming newly baptized children as apprentices, as was tradition this time of year. And so, amid the shouts of traders and guards, a few nervous-looking boys and girls, no older than Tuuli, lingered near the edges of the watch post, clutching ledgers or baskets, their eyes wide.

Myne returned to her place beside Otto, who greeted her with a smirk and a flick of his stylus.

“Back to work, huh?” he said, not looking up from his writing. “Hope you didn’t forget how to read while you were away.”

“I’ve improved,” Myne said proudly, slipping into the stool beside him. “You’ll see.”

Otto laughed. “Then show me.”

She did. Within the hour, she’d not only helped record the day’s gate entries and calculated the taxes for incoming wares, but she also helped decipher a barely legible trade receipt from a harried merchant whose ink had frozen the week prior. Otto watched her with growing amusement and pride.

By midday, Myne’s duties had expanded. With the influx of new apprentices in the guards, Gunther had asked if Myne might help them learn to read and write, at least enough to follow orders, track rotations, and fill out supply forms.

It wasn’t hard. Myne—no, Lunafreya—had once memorized and recited ancient rites in tongues long dead, could read glyphs etched into stone and follow the logic of divine magic woven into the air. Teaching children the basics of letters and numbers was… almost too easy.

Still, she approached the task with a gentle thoroughness.

She noticed that each child learned differently. One was fidgety and couldn’t sit still, so she used rhythm and counting games to hold his attention. Another stared at the letters without blinking, overwhelmed and frozen, so Myne patiently let him trace each letter with his finger before writing it herself. She didn’t force the pace. Instead, she adjusted, adapted—instinctively weaving patience with praise.

To make things more engaging, she would hum songs and use familiar objects: drawing a sword beside the letter “S,” miming a guard’s salute when they got something right. Sometimes she’d challenge them with riddles, or make them compete—quietly, of course—to write as many words as they could from memory.

One afternoon, Otto watched this from his desk, arms crossed, leaning back in his chair with a look somewhere between admiration and disbelief.

“She’s got a knack for it,” he said quietly to Gunther, who was watching too, arms folded.

Gunther nodded, a warm pride swelling in his chest. “She does.”

He said no more, but in his mind, he pictured her not as the weak, bedridden child he had once feared wouldn’t live to see her baptism, but as someone steady and shining—someone who could one day stand at the top, no matter which vocation she pursue.

The days passed in this rhythm—record keeping in the morning, literacy lessons in the afternoon. Tuuli, excited about her upcoming baptism this summer, often came to fetch Myne with basket filled with foraged goods in hand. “I’ll be a seamstress soon,” she would beam. “We’ll both have trades.”

Myne would smile and nod, pleased for her sister.

But at night, when she sat alone beneath the window, gazing up at the stars, a feeling stirred within her—soft but persistent.

It wasn’t dissatisfaction, not exactly.

It was something deeper. A yearning.

She had learned the rhythms of this new world, understood its rules, its expectations. She had healed herself to the best of her capabilities. Her mana had stabilized and was still growing—as it would with any child—but her body was no longer the frail thing it had once been.

Yet despite the quiet pride she felt at her accomplishments, there was a hollowness in settling.

Is this enough? She wondered.

That answer would not come in numbers, letters, or practice drills. It would come quietly, on a morning where the world seemed to stretch and yawn in the warmth of a gentle spring.

The next day, with the birdsong still delicate in the air, Myne woke before the sun crested the horizon. Her muscles still held the fatigue of the past week, but her mind—sharpened by purpose and a kind of restlessness—was alert.

Since she was helping Otto only in an unofficial capacity, she wasn’t expected to be at the gate every day. Otto had once joked, “Even unpaid apprentices deserve a day off or two,” before handing her an extra box of chalk to practice to do as she pleases. Gunther had no objections either; he knew his daughter helped around the house when she could, and sometimes the forest offered more than the marketplace.

So, with a satchel slung over her shoulder and her braids still damp from the morning wash, Myne joined Tuuli, Lutz, and Ralph near the bridge that led into the woods.

“Let’s split up,” Ralph suggested, hefting a woven basket. “Tuuli, you’re with me. We’ll gather firewood and check the northern ridge for fallen branches.”

Tuuli nodded, casting a smile toward her sister before disappearing down the path with Ralph.

Lutz stretched, then motioned to the babbling stream nearby. “I’ll try to catch some fish. My brother showed me how to use a willow branch as a makeshift rod. Should work better than bare hands.”

Myne gave him a thumbs-up and headed further into the brush, where the forest floor was still springy with thawed snowmelt and wildflowers peeked out from mossy patches. The sun filtered through the trees like scattered gold, casting dancing shadows that reminded her of Tenebrae's gardens on warm afternoons.

Spring in Ehrenfest was soft and fragrant. The trees wore fresh leaves like new cloaks, and clusters of wild garlic, violet leaves, and wood sorrel dotted the undergrowth. Myne knelt carefully, her woven basket resting beside her, and gently harvested the tender leaves of young nettles, remembering how the kitchen staff in Tenebrae used to blanch them into tonics for strength. She also found horsetail, its spindly stalks rich in healing minerals, and a few sprigs of chickweed, good for fevers and rashes.

“Not bad,” she murmured to herself, brushing a bit of dirt from her hands. “Nature does have her own way of providing...”

By midday, the sun was warmer, and sweat dotted her brow. Her basket was nearly full, and she wandered toward a thick oak tree near the stream where Lutz was sitting, his legs dangling into the cool water.

He looked up when he heard her footsteps. “Catch anything?” she asked.

“Some,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “Not bad, right? Might be enough for dinner if I can catch a few more.”

Myne giggled and settled beside him, tucking her skirt beneath her legs. For a few minutes, they just listened to the stream and birdsong, the quiet stretching comfortably between them.

Then, Lutz cleared his throat.

“Myne…”

She turned, curious at the tone in his voice.

“Do you think... do you think Otto would be okay with me asking questions? About his work?”

Her brow rose. “You want to work at the gate?”

That’s new.

He shook his head. “Not really. I mean—I want to know what it’s like to be a traveling merchant. I want to see more of the world than just these woods and the lower town. I want to... go places. Trade things. Meet other people maybe, or visit other cities.”

Myne tilted her head thoughtfully, the image of a determined little boy facing down the road of the world warming her heart.

“You’ve never told me that before.”

“No one knows. Not my parents. Not my brothers. They wouldn’t like it.”

“They want you to become a craftsman?”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Dad keeps talking about apprenticing me at the workshop this summer. But... it doesn’t feel right. I don’t want to shape wood for the rest of my life. I want to move.”

He looked down at the stream, eyes reflecting the current. “Do you think Otto would let me talk to him?”

Myne smiled. “I think he’d be honored. But he’s a pretty busy man, so I apologize in advance if he says he can’t”

Lutz snorted, then laughed. “Thanks, Myne.”

A few days after their outing in the woods, Myne found herself once again at the gate, sorting through papers beside Otto. The air was crisp with early spring, and the faint scent of damp earth still clung to her cloak. She was quieter than usual, though her work remained efficient.

Otto noticed, of course.

“You’ve got that look again,” he said without looking up from his own stack of documents. “The one where you’re thinking too much.”

Myne gave him a sheepish smile. “I was wondering… if you’d be open to a question or two. Not about work, I promise.”

Otto raised an eyebrow, amused. “Is this about money? Because I’m still not giving you a raise.”

She huffed, cheeks puffing slightly. “No! It’s not about money.” And what pay?

Then she hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “It’s about your past, actually. You used to be a traveling merchant, right?”

Otto stilled, then set his pen aside. “Where’s this coming from?”

“It’s for a friend,” Myne admitted, brushing a bit of dust from the corner of her sleeve. “Lutz. He’s… been thinking a lot about his future lately. He wants to see the world someday, but he’s not sure where to begin. I thought… maybe hearing about your experience would help.”

Otto leaned back in his chair, arms folding loosely over his chest. His expression turned thoughtful—no longer amused, but not guarded either. “Lutz, huh? He’s a good kid. Clever with his hands, and not too proud to listen. Hmph. Alright. I don’t mind sharing.”

Myne’s eyes lit up. “Really? You don’t mind?”

“I said I don’t, didn’t I?” Otto smirked. “But don’t expect it to be a grand tale. I started young, barely older than him. I ran errands for a peddler, helped load wagons, learned the trade bit by bit—how to haggle, how to spot bad goods, how to read maps and track seasons. It wasn’t glamorous. Most days I smelled like horses and old beans.”

She giggled softly at that. “But you traveled?”

“I did,” Otto said, a little more gently now. “From Ehrenfest to Ilgner, to the border towns near Leisegang. Slept under the stars more times than I can count. I even crossed into Ahrensbach once—though I wouldn’t recommend it unless you like sand in your boots.”

He leaned forward a little, resting his elbows on the table. “Then one winter, I stopped by a tailor shop near the Norther Quarter to sell some bolts of cloth. I was cold, half-starved, and probably looked like something a dog dragged in. And she—Corrina—was there, working behind the counter.”

Myne’s breath caught slightly. She’d heard the name before. “Your wife?”

Otto nodded. “She was just fifteen then. Ran the shop while her older brother handled orders. She offered me soup and insulted my hair in the same breath. Told me I looked like a scarecrow that had lost a fight with the wind.”

Myne covered her mouth, laughing. “She said that?”

“Verbatim,” Otto said, grinning at the memory. “And I couldn’t stop thinking about her after that. So I came back the next time I passed through. And then again. Eventually, I realized I didn’t want to keep leaving.”

He picked up his stylus again but didn’t resume writing. Instead, he tapped it lightly against the table as he looked out past the gate, toward the town beyond.

“I saved enough to buy citizenship. Gave up the road, settled down. I was fifteen when I signed the papers. I'm eighteen now. Some days I still miss the road. But I don’t regret staying.”

There was something in his voice—steadiness, not longing—that caught Myne off guard. For someone her age, love had always been painted in broad strokes: tragic, noble, destined. But here was Otto, younger than her true herself, speaking of a love that grew slowly, stubbornly, like moss between stones.

“Thank you for sharing that,” she said softly.

Otto blinked. “For a moment I thought you were going to cry.”

“No,” she smiled, though her voice wavered with something unspoken. “I just think… it’s a kind of story worth hearing.”

He gave her a sidelong look. “You’re too serious for a kid, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

With a sigh and a stretch, Otto nodded. “Tell Lutz to meet me by the fountain on Earthday. I can’t promise I’ll have all the answers, but I’ll give him what I’ve got.”

“I will,” Myne said, bowing her head. “He’ll appreciate it.”

And as the afternoon sun began its slow descent, she remained a while longer at the gate, filing reports with a little more care and a quiet sense of reverence—for stories lived, and stories yet to come.

…

“Wait, Mister Otto agreed to meet?” Lutz asked the next time they saw each other, eyes wide with surprise.

“He did,” Myne replied, pleased. “We’ll meet on Sproutday, near the town square. It’s the only day most people are free, so we have to be on time.”

Lutz straightened up, a nervous energy crackling around him. “What should I say? What if I mess it up?”

“You’ll be fine,” Myne said, patting his arm. “But we will practice your introduction and basic manners before then. You want him to see you as someone serious, not just some kid with a wild idea.”

“Right,” Lutz said, determined. “Serious.”

She grinned. “Then stand straight. Try saying: ‘Thank you for making time to see us, Mister Otto. My name is Lutz. I’m interested in learning about the merchant trade.’”

Lutz recited it stiffly. “Thank you for making time to see us, Mister Otto. My name is Lutz. I’m—interested in learning about… the merchant trade?”

“Less like you’re standing trial, more like you’re asking about something exciting,” Myne teased. “Smile a little. You’re not going to get flogged.”

He made a face. “Easy for you to say. You’re good with people.”

Not always, she thought, recalling memories from a time when her whole world was confined in the limits of her home. But she said instead, “That’s what practice is for.”

The morning of their meeting, Myne dragged Lutz down to the river.

“Sit,” she ordered, rolling up her sleeves and pulling out her herbal soap.

“What? Why?”

“Because your hair looks like a pile of dried straw. You want to look presentable.”

“This feels like sabotage,” he muttered, but he sat anyway.

She lathered the soap and worked it through his hair, scrubbing carefully. “It’s not sabotage. It’s strategy. People take you more seriously when you look clean and smell less like a warehouse.”

Lutz huffed. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I won’t deny that.”

When they arrived at the town square later that morning, Lutz’s hair shone in the sunlight, and the scent of mint and pine clung faintly to him. He fidgeted beside Myne, eyes scanning the crowd until he spotted Otto leaning near a fountain.

“I think I’m gonna faint.”

“You’re not,” Myne said, nudging him forward. “Just remember what we practiced. You can do this Lutz, I believe in you!”

Lutz drew in a breath and marched forward, Myne at his side like a tiny general.

Chapter Text

“There he is!” Myne told Lutz when she picked the familiar figure of Otto from the crowd, for once not dressed in leather but in finely made cotton.

She then noticed that he wasn’t alone.

Clothed in finer fabric with a purple vest and a white coat, the second man stood out from the crowd like a hawk in a field of doves. He was speaking with Otto, arms crossed, posture calm—but there was something piercing in his ruby red eyes. Evaluating.

“That’s not just any merchant,” Myne murmured.

Lutz blinked. “You know him?”

“No. But I know of his type.”

Otto spotted them and brightened. “There you are! Sorry for taking so long.”

Myne shook her head. “No problem!”

Otto turned to the man beside him. “This is the girl I told you about. Myne. And this is Lutz.”

Myne, without missing a beat, gave a graceful nod.

“Good day, gentlemen. I am Myne from the southern quarter. I am most grateful for the opportunity to speak with you today.”

Lutz, to his credit, straightened and introduced himself in a loud—albeit shaky—voice.

“Th-thank you for meeting with us, Mister Otto. My name is Lutz, and I… I’m hoping to learn what it takes to become a traveling merchant. It’s a pleasure to meet you!”

The two olden men nodded before Otto’s companion spoke up.

“Hm. So this is the young lady you spoke of?” His voice was gravel and velvet. “I must admit, I was expecting someone a bit… taller.”

Otto coughed. “Ahaha… Let me do introductions before anyone bites. Lutz, Myne—this is Benno. He owns the Gilberta Company. You can think of him as one of the more successful merchants in the city. He heard about those soap bars you gave me. And he’s curious.”

Benno tilted his head ever so slightly. “Very curious. You see, I’ve never used a soap that cleans as well as yours. And it’s quite fragrant too. How ever did you remove the scent of tallow?”

Myne schooled her features into something neutral. If he thinks he can trick me into giving away secrets, he’s got another thing coming.

“I didn’t. Unfortunately, the method used to make that soap is a trade secret.”

“And that comb that your wearing, did you that too?” Benno pointed at the comb that was holding her braid up.

“Yes, sir. The base of the comb is made of ordinary wood, and I simply embellished it with some spare fabric and thread we have at home.

“I see.” Benno then turns to Lutz. “And you’re the boy who wants to be a traveling merchant?”

Lutz nodded. “Yes, sir!”

“Do you know what that means?”

Lutz frowned slightly. “Well… I’d go from town to town, sell things, and maybe buy goods from other places to sell here?”

Benno raised a brow, but it was Otto who stepped in. “Before you dream too far, Lutz—there’s something important you need to understand.”

His friendly tone grew serious, grounding the air like a drawn curtain.

“Being a traveling merchant isn’t just about buying and selling. You’d have to give up your citizenship.”

Lutz blinked. “Wait—what?”

Myne, already expecting it, kept her expression still.

Otto folded his arms. “You’d no longer belong to this duchy. No right to live here without a pass. You wouldn’t be able to own property, or open a business unless a citizen vouched for you. And if you ever wanted to get married or raise a family here? That gets complicated fast.”

Benno nodded. “It’s like sailing into stormy seas without knowing if you’ll ever dock again.”

Lutz faltered. “…I didn’t realize it was like that.”

He gestured toward the distant gate. “And that’s not adding the fact that you have to deal with the dangers in the forest, bandits on the roads, sickness, bad weather. If your horse dies, you haul your cart yourself. If a rival sabotages your wheels, you learn to fix them or starve. And routes? They’re jealously guarded, often inherited. Families treat them like treasure maps.”

Lutz flinched. “…I didn’t know it was that dangerous.”

Benno nodded. “Then let me ask you this—what do you plan to sell?”

Lutz opened his mouth, then froze. “I… I don’t know yet.”

Otto rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s the problem. You can’t be a merchant without something to sell.”

There was silence. A weight settled in Lutz’s eyes—confusion, frustration, and maybe just a little fear. He had come brimming with excitement, cheeks flushed with hope, but now that fire was beginning to dim under the cold wind of reality. The road to becoming a merchant sounded far more perilous than he’d expected.

Otto and Benno exchanged quiet looks, the kind adults made when they thought children didn’t understand the world.

Myne stepped forward, her voice steady and clear. “Oh, but he does have something to sell.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to her.

She met Benno’s gaze with calm certainty. “You think the soap I made is profitable, do you not, Mister Benno?”

He nodded slowly. “That much is obvious. That scent alone could earn coin.”

“Then allow me to propose this,” Myne said, her voice calm but resolute. “Lutz may not have wares of his own yet, but he has something more important—me.”

Benno raised an eyebrow, but she continued without flinching.

“I have more ideas than I can handle on my own. There’s only so much I can do with two hands and one body. I need someone reliable—someone who’s already proven he can gather materials, test my prototypes, and keep up with the pace I’m setting. But most of all, I need someone I can trust. Lutz is that person.”

She squared her shoulders, stepping beside him and placing a hand on his arm—not for show, but as if to anchor her words.

“What if I told you parchment could be made from plants, not animal hide? That soap could be refined even further, made cheaper or in different scents? These ideas are real, and I’ve barely scratched the surface. I wish to appoint Lutz as my business partner. I’ll develop the concepts, he’ll provide the support—and I will give him the exclusive rights to represent my brand.”

She gave a nod toward Benno, bold but respectful.

Benno let out a low whistle. “Now that’s a convincing pitch.”

Myne gave a little shrug, as if to say I thought so, though her heart was beating faster than she’d like to admit.

“And you plan to keep inventing more of these… wares?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” she said. “Soap is just the beginning.”

There was a moment of silence. This time, it wasn’t filled with doubt—but something far heavier.

Respect.

Benno leaned back, eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the pair in front of him. He didn’t speak right away—clearly weighing something in his head.

Two unbaptized kids. No connections, no store rights, nothing. Any normal merchant wouldn’t even bother.

But Benno wasn’t blind. He could spot talent and gumption when he saw it—and these two had that spark.

And parchment made from plants? That alone could flip the market on its head.

Finally, he gave a short nod, as if settling something with himself.

“Very well. I’ll accept you both as apprentices—on one condition.”

Myne and Lutz leaned in, eyes wide.

“You’ll need to present a working prototype before your baptism next year,” he said. “For your test, I want to see with my own eyes whether you can really make parchment out of plants.”

He looked at them both with a sharp glint in his eye. “Do we have a deal?”

Myne glanced at Lutz, then nodded with steady confidence. “Deal.”

Benno gave a low chuckle, satisfied. “Then it’s settled.”

He pushed back from the bench. “Come to the Gilberta Company tomorrow. We’ll sort out the details.”

Myne blinked. “Wait… Gilberta?”

“You haven’t been there yet?” he asked, a brow lifting.

She shook her head.

“No matter. I’ll send someone to fetch you in the morning. A man named Mark. He’ll be waiting near the well close to your building. Don’t be late.”

…

The two made their way home, the weight of the day beginning to settle in. A deal with a merchant. A test to create parchment. A future that was no longer just a daydream but something tangible—within reach.

They agreed to meet again tomorrow morning, then split ways to tell their families the news.

At the Myne household, excitement filled the air the moment she shared the story.

“You’re going to apprentice under a merchant?” Tuuli lit up immediately. “That sounds amazing, Myne! As long as it makes you happy, I think it’s perfect for you!”

Effa, while stirring the evening pot, paused and looked over with a small smile. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders,” she said gently. “If this is what you want to pursue, then I believe in you.”

Even Gunther, who normally worried himself sick over her condition, let out a proud laugh. “So you’ve found something you’re passionate about, huh?” he said, ruffling her hair. “Just don’t push yourself too hard. If that sickness of yours acts up again, promise you’ll tell us.”

“I promise,” Myne said with a grateful smile. Her heart swelled at their support. After so many days of secretly struggling, it felt like a blessing to be seen—and trusted.

Things were different at Lutz’s house.

He stood before his family, recounting the details: the meeting with the merchant, the test, the chance to become an apprentice.

His older brothers exchanged glances, one of them shrugging. “Sounds tough, but… good luck, I guess.”

His mother bit her lip. “Merchants travel a lot, don’t they? It’s not a stable life, Lutz. I just don’t want you getting hurt.”

His father, arms crossed, frowned deeply. “Merchants,” he muttered. “They’re silver-tongued tricksters. Always looking to squeeze coin out of someone poorer than them. And now they’re putting ideas in your head?”

“It’s not like that,” Lutz said quietly, clenching his fists. “I chose this.”

But his father didn’t respond. Just turned away, muttering again under his breath.

Lutz left the room without another word, his jaw tight but his steps steady.

That night, the two of them, in their separate homes, lay in bed thinking of tomorrow.

For Myne, the path ahead felt warm, like a door finally opening.

For Lutz, it was more like a road he’d have to carve out himself—but he wasn’t backing down.

They would both meet by the well tomorrow morning—ready to begin.

…

The following morning, Myne woke up earlier than usual, a quiet excitement humming in her chest. Today was the beginning of something new—and she was determined to be ready.

After reheating the leftover stew from last night and slicing up some bread for a quick breakfast, she packed her things with care, checking each item twice. Everything she had invented, improved, or carefully preserved was coming with her. This wasn’t just a meeting—this was a presentation of her potential.

First into her bundle were five bars of soap, each with a different scent. The last two were her proudest creations yet—newly made fragrances inspired by her recent trips into the spring forest, where she’d gathered wild herbs and flowers. Their gentle, earthy notes still lingered faintly in the cloth wraps.

Next, she gathered the combs—her own, and the ones she had given to Effa and Tuuli. Both had reluctantly handed them over after much pouting and pleading. Myne had nearly laughed at their dramatic expressions, but deep down, she was touched. Still, she needed to show Benno how the combs could be personalized—adjustable in size, decoration, and even engraving. Made to order.

Then came the scented candle—a modest experiment, still in its early stages. She knew it wasn’t quite ready for market, but perhaps Benno could help her understand its worth or point her toward better refinement methods.

Her tea blends came next: carefully packed samples of both medicinal and fruit-flower infusions. Each blend carried a purpose—soothing colds, easing tension, helping with digestion. She labeled them with chalk, simply and clearly, the way Noctis had once taught her when labeling potions.

Finally, she reached up and took the Ehrkin Bag down from its high shelf. The woven tote—practical, sturdy, and striking in design—had been her winter work. A product of quiet evenings by the fire, stubborn fingers, and a memory of a life once lived. She didn’t know if Benno would see value in it, but it was worth a try.

Satisfied, she bundled everything into the bag and covered it neatly with a cloth. Her steps were light as she walked to the meeting spot. The sky was bright, the air fresh with the scent of budding flowers, and for the first time in a while, Myne felt like she was moving toward something—her own future, shaped by her own hands.

The streets bustled with the usual morning rhythm as Myne made her way toward the meeting point near the central fountain. The bag in her arms was carefully balanced, her steps brisk but mindful. A soft breeze tugged at her hair as the scent of early spring filled the air—budding leaves, bread from distant bakeries, and a trace of the river just beyond the alleys.

She spotted Lutz first, standing a little straighter than usual. Beside him was a tall, well-dressed man with a serious expression and sharp posture, the kind that came naturally to someone used to responsibility. Myne slowed, her breath catching.

For a fleeting moment, she thought of Ignis Scientia—Noctis’ retainer and chosen Hand. He, too, had hailed from Tenebrae. She had seen a picture of him once, and the comparison came naturally: both men stood with calm confidence, every gesture deliberate and refined. Brown hair combed neatly back, eyes sharp and observant, and a cool, professional air that suggested you could trust them in any crisis.

It had to be Mister Mark, the man Benno had mentioned yesterday.

As she approached, Lutz noticed her and waved. “You’re early.”

“So are you,” she replied with a smile, before turning her eyes toward the stranger.

“Mister Mark,” Lutz said, nodding respectfully. “This is Myne.”

Mark’s gaze fell on her, sharp but not unkind. He bowed his head politely—not too deep, but with just enough weight to acknowledge her effort in coming prepared. Myne responded with a gentle nod of her own, both hands still wrapped around the basket.

“Master Benno asked me to escort you both to the northern quarters,” he said without preamble. His voice was smooth and refined, reminding her again of Ignis—someone used to speaking clearly and managing things behind the scenes. Someone extremely competent. “He’s expecting us at the shop.”

With a glance between the two, he turned and began walking, setting a measured pace.

As they followed, Myne took in her surroundings with wide eyes.

The city slowly shifted around them.

The roads grew cleaner, more evenly paved with stone rather than packed dirt. The buildings here were taller and more uniform, with crisp wooden frames and cleanly painted signs swinging from sturdy iron hooks. Windows sparkled in the sunlight, trimmed with polished shutters and lace curtains—clear markers of wealth and stability.

There were fewer street stalls here. Instead, shops were built into the facades themselves, their windows showcasing neat displays of cloth, books, and expensive wares. Customers here dressed differently—long coats, elegant hats, and polished shoes. Even the children playing in the alleyways wore finer fabric.

Myne and Lutz exchanged a look.

“It’s like a different world,” Lutz murmured, awe soft in his voice.

Myne nodded. “It feels like where no longer in Ehrenfest,” she whispered under her breath.

It wasn’t just wealth they were seeing—it was structure. The city’s beating heart was here, and she could feel it in the rhythm of passing carts, the pacing of shopkeepers, the carefully measured life.

Mark said little during the walk, but he didn’t rush them. Every now and then he’d glance back to ensure they were still close, adjusting his pace if needed. He seemed to register their curiosity without comment, and perhaps even approved of it.

By the time they reached the merchant quarter proper, Benno’s shop came into view—its signage polished, its doorway swept clean. Gold-lettered script adorned the wood, and the windows beside the door were lined with glass jars and finery that hinted at the store’s wide inventory.

Mark turned to them. “Master Benno is inside. He’s reserved a room in the back for your meeting.”

Myne adjusted her basket, heart fluttering with anticipation—and a touch of nerves. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Mark gave a brief nod and opened the door. The air inside the shop was rich with the scents of parchment and ink, mingling faintly with the sharper smell of herbs from the apothecary section. Lutz followed close behind, and Myne took a breath to center herself as she stepped in.

The back room was warm, brightly lit with natural light, and just as well-furnished as the storefront. Mark guided them in, his movements precise as he set about preparing tea. Myne quietly took in the small meeting table, the cushioned chairs, and the wooden shelves lined with books, ledgers, and bottles of ink.

“Please have a seat,” Mark said politely, returning a moment later with a tray. He placed cups before each of them and added a small dish of nut biscuits and dried fruit in the center.

Benno, seated at the far end of the table, glanced up from a ledger. His eyes immediately fell on the woven bag resting on Myne’s lap.

“That bag,” he said, setting down his stylus, “you made that too?”

Myne blinked, then smiled. “I did. It’s called an Ehrkin Bag. It’s sturdy, lightweight, and I only made one last winter.” She laid it gently on the table. “The straps are reinforced, and it can carry more than it looks.”

Benno raised an eyebrow. “Looks like a noblewoman’s fancy, not something from the lower city. You’re telling me this is handmade?”

“Yes,” she said. “By me.”

He leaned back, clearly intrigued. “Let’s see what else you’ve brought, then.”

Taking his cue, Myne began setting out her goods. First, the five bars of soap—their delicate, clean fragrances began to fill the room, immediately capturing attention.

Next came the carved wooden combs, including the ones she had borrowed back from Effa and Tuuli. “These are customized based on the user’s hair type. Some are better for holding up textured hair, while others are better for straight hair like mine. I can adjust the design depending on what’s needed.”

Benno picked one up, running a finger over the polished teeth. “Good craftsmanship. You do this by hand?”

“I did the braids and my father carved the comb, but I’m hoping to make more with help in the future,” she replied.

Then came the candle—a single sample, its scent warm, and calming. “This is still a work in progress,” she admitted. “But it can freshen a room and help with sleep when made properly.”

To prove her point, she lit the candle with a match she bought from home. The room was gradually filled with a sweet smell that Lutz immediately recognized as Parue Milk. Benno and Mark was enthralled.

She placed down several packets of her herbal tea blends, labeled with small drawings she had added herself. “Some are for healing, others just for comfort. These are flower and fruit-based infusions, with different benefits depending on the mix.”

Mark, who had been silently observing, leaned forward slightly at the teas with interest. Benno, however, was still eyeing the collection of wares on the table.

“You really thought all of these by yourself?” he asks, jaw slightly parted. He can already see the pandemonium that these products will cause once it enters the market. And she said there was more!

“Yes,” Myne replied calmly, though her heart was racing. Thanks to my memories as Luna, was left unsaid

Benno stood up abruptly, pacing around the table with increasing animation. “Myne. Do you have any idea what you’re sitting on?”

Myne’s smile turned almost foxlike. “I have some idea.”

“This—this is huge,” he muttered, running his hand through his own hair as if imagining the whole scenario already. “The upper city women would eat this up!”

“I believe I can refine the process, still.” she said, “but I’m not looking to sell them just yet. I want your appraisal, and if possible, to discuss a long-term plan. Not a quick deal.”

Benno stopped pacing. His eyes glinted with something close to reverence—and greed. “You want investment. You’ll get it—assuming you keep producing things like this.”

“I plan to,” Myne said. “But I need trustworthy partners. And… extra hands. I can’t do everything alone.”

Benno gave a short, sharp laugh. “You’ve just walked in and turned a quarter of my inventory to junk. Very well, let us talk terms.”

Myne folded her hands on her lap, poised and graceful, Luna’s past life lending her a composure no ordinary child could manage. And so it begins, she thought.

Benno, never one to beat around the bush, leaned forward. “So, Myne, what do you want to get out of this deal?”

Without hesitation, Myne straightened, meeting his gaze. “As agreed upon, I’ll be the creator. The formulas, designs, and production methods will originate from me. Lutz will assist in the manufacturing, quality assurance, and distribution logistics, but he will also have exclusive rights to sell them as my commercial partner. That rights will extend to you as we are your apprentice.”

Benno blinked. “Exclusive rights?”

“In exchange,” she continued, her voice calm but assertive, “we will not disclose or replicate any part of the production to any third party without your consent for the duration of our apprenticeship. And all changes in manufacturing and handling of the product will have to be vetoed by the three of us. Think of it as a limited but renewable licensing agreement with exclusivity tied to our professional relationship.”

What. Lutz stiffened beside her, his brow subtly furrowing. Her words—so mature, so precise—didn’t sit right with him. It was as if someone else was speaking through her. For a moment, he wondered again: Who really is this girl? But he kept his silence, biting the inside of his cheek.

Benno raised a brow, clearly intrigued. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“I’m only being prudent,” Myne replied. “I understand the value of what I’m offering, and I have no intention of giving it away for less than it’s worth. Especially the paper.”

“Yes. You’ve mentioned that you can make paper out of plants.” Benno recounts.

“Indeed,” she said, leaning forward slightly. “I don’t have a prototype yet, but I’ve thought through the method carefully. There has to be an alternative to parchment and vellum. Something cheaper and easier to produce. But for that to happen, I would need equipment and a suitable base to begin production.”

Benno’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. “You’re asking for an advance, then? On a product that hasn’t been made yet?”

“A business investment,” she corrected gently. “You’ll be our sponsor. In return, you’ll receive a cut of the earnings and exclusive access to all our products. We can add a renegotiation clause to the contract, should you wish to purchase the license to a product later down the road, but for now, I'm naming Lutz as the brand representative.”

She turned to Lutz with a soft nod. “Simply put: We’re a package deal.”

Mark had been quietly pouring another round of tea, but even he turned to give her a curious glance.

“Hmm.. I see,” Benno asked slowly, his tone unreadable. “You’re making a contingency to safeguard your positions, once the method behind products are discovered. How… clever.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think,” Myne said smoothly without missing a beat. “I was mostly bedridden until last fall, and I had nothing to fill the time.”

Lutz said nothing, but he glanced at her again—longer this time.

Benno chuckled lowly. “You’re an odd one, I’ll give you that. But your thinking is sound. I won’t invest in a dream—but I will invest in potential. Give me a list of everything you might need, and you’ll have your workshop.”

“I’m glad you’re a reasonable man, Master Benno,” Myne said sotto voce. “Originally, I planned to sell the rights to one of my products to use as capital, but I’m not foolish enough to overlook that you’re amazing at what you do. I look forward to doing business with you.”

Benno broke into a full laugh. “Ha! And here I thought I was negotiating with a naive little girl. Turns out I’m sitting with a damn snake in disguise!”

Myne would’ve flicked her tongue like one, had she not been raised like a proper lady. So instead, she simply raised her cup towards the shrewd man.

That drew another laugh out of Benno. “All right, Myne. I wasn’t expecting this much from a meeting I almost didn’t take seriously. You’ve far exceeded my expectations.”

He rose from his seat and walked over to a locked cabinet in the corner of the room. With a key around his neck, he opened a small drawer and pulled out a rolled-up parchment, along with a quill and a vial of iridescent ink.

“We’ll put your terms in writing,” he said. “Mark, prepare the magical contract.”

Mark stepped forward, his demeanor composed but faintly amused, and began laying out the parchment on the table.

“Magical contract?” Myne echoed, her brows rising slightly.

Lutz looked confused too.

“It’s made from a special parchment and ink developed by nobles,” Mark explained calmly as he uncorked a blue liquid. “Magic-infused, to ensure no clause is broken. It was originally created to keep other nobles from cheating each other—or commoners—from being bullied into unfair terms. If any signer violates the agreement, the magic will activate. The penalties aren’t pleasant.”

Myne kept her expression neutral, but inside, she was rattled. There’s magic here? And I’m not the only one who can use it? Her hands tensed slightly on her lap before she forced herself to relax. I’ll need to ask more… later.

Benno placed the quill down in front of them. “You both need to be able to write your names. If you can’t, the contract won’t accept your mark.”

“I can write,” Myne said evenly, already picking up the pen.

To her surprise, Lutz did too. “So can I. My name, at least.”

Benno gave a small hum of approval as he signed his name. “That’s rare. Most kids in the southern quarter can’t even read, let alone write.”

Myne signed first with slow, practiced strokes. She made sure her writing was clean and deliberate—not too perfect, but precise enough to suggest a studious child.

Lutz followed, a little clumsy but legible enough to pass.

Mark took the parchment and scanned it for a glow. “You’ll each need to seal it with a drop of your blood,” he added, retrieving a silver dagger from the case beside him.

Again, Benno went first. Making a practiced incision that he had, no doubt, performed countless of times in the past.

Myne went next, pricking her finger without hesitation and letting a single drop fall onto her name. The ink shimmered in response. Lutz followed suit as he did the same.

The contract glowed briefly—then, with a sudden whoosh, the parchment caught fire in a swirl of violet-blue flame. It burned clean through, leaving no ash behind. The faintest trace of mana hung in the air like distant thunder.

“It’s done,” Mark said, his voice calm despite the lingering spark of magic.

Benno clasped his hands behind his back, giving both of them an appraising look. “Congratulations. We’re officially business partners. I’m expecting great things from you both.”

…

Lunch was served the moment the last ash from their signed contract vanished into the air, leaving behind a trace of mana like the scent of ozone after lightning. A quiet awe lingered on Myne’s expression as she watched the last flicker of flame disappear. Lutz blinked several times, still wide-eyed from the spectacle.

“Magical fire,” he muttered. “That was… wow.”

Myne hummed, fingers still brushing her lap as if grounding herself. “Quite the spectacle, wasn’t it?”

“It’s meant to be,” Benno replied, already sitting at the table that Mark had set with care. “Once sealed in ink and blood, it’s not just a contract—it’s a binding oath. It won’t allow either party to back out without consequence.”

Mark returned shortly with a bundle of polished wooden slates and a stylus. “Here you are, Miss Myne. Once you’re done eating, you can start on the order form.”

Lunch was filling yet bland. Myne had forgotten that the culinary techniques in Ehrenfest—perhaps in the country as a whole—were severely lacking. She wondered if Benno would be interested in opening a restaurant, or even in publishing a cookbook.

As the plates were cleared away, Myne dipped the stylus into the inkwell and began writing. The stylus glided smoothly across the slate, the etched words catching the afternoon light filtering in through Benno’s windows.

The contract had thankfully covered not only her current products but any she would invent in the future. It was an open-ended clause—bold, perhaps, but Benno had agreed. It meant she could include everything: soap, combs, tea, candles, paper, and the mysterious projects still simmering in the back of her mind.

First, she listed the supplies for soap.

“A larger cauldron,” she murmured as she wrote, “one big enough to handle a proper batch—not just the tiny ones I’ve been making at home.” She added a custom mold for shaping the mixture evenly and efficiently.

As for ingredients, she deliberately kept them out of the order form, making a mental note to buy them herself at a later time.

She tapped her stylus against her chin.

“These tools should also work for candle-making experiments,” she added to the margin. She requested a small order of beeswax and wick.

The combs were her made-to-order line. She didn’t need too many pre-made parts; customization was the selling point. So she only requested small amounts of specific wood types, along with a decent supply of tree resin she could use for varnish or adhesive.

“Let’s see… fabric, thread…” she scribbled next, carefully noting color variety and material quality.

“I’m going to need embroidery thread too,” she said. “Some linen, some cotton, and maybe a bit of silk blend for premium designs.”

With the tea, the problem was never ingredients. Ehrenfest had an abundance of herbs and fruit all year round—plenty to work with. The issue was elegance.

So she sketched out a rough concept for an elegant container. Something charming and practical—maybe a carved wooden box with compartments and a sliding lid. Something gift-worthy.

Then came the most important section: paper. Myne’s stylus slowed as she carefully wrote each item.

“A steamer,” she said.

“A hand mallet.”

“A clothesline with thick ropes for drying.”

“A proper strainer…” She paused.

Finally, she added a deckle—a wooden frame for shaping the wet pulp into sheets.

Benno watched her scribble line after line with a mixture of skepticism and admiration. “You’ve certainly been busy,” he said once she handed him the slate.

He reviewed every detail with the eyes of a merchant, tracing each line with the pad of his thumb. “You’ll need custom carpenters for some of this. We’ll source the rest from my contacts.”

She nodded. “I expected as much.”

“As for your workshop,” he added, passing the slate to Mark, “we’ll start searching tomorrow. It’ll take a few days, but once we find a place, you can move in immediately.”

The sun had dipped past the rooftops by the time they stepped outside. The sky was painted in hues of burnt orange and mauve, the day giving way to twilight.

Myne walked a little ahead, animated and glowing from the excitement. “We’re actually doing it, Lutz! A workshop of our own! Orders placed, contracts signed. This is really happening.”

Behind her, Lutz walked in silence, gaze downturned.

She didn’t notice.

Not the tension in his brow. Not the questions swirling behind his eyes.

Because even as the day closed with success, Lutz had begun to harbor doubts. About her knowledge. About her behavior. About who Myne really was.

He said nothing.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

For all her grace and brilliance, it took Myne several days before she even considered the thought that something had changed with her friendship with Lutz.

It was… jarring.

Lutz was still just as kind and patient as ever. They still went out to the forest to forage. They still talked about soap and tools and wood types and their plans for the business. But something had shifted. There was a space between them now—small, quiet, but undeniably there.

She couldn’t quite put her finger on it at first. He hadn’t said anything cruel. He hadn’t pulled away from their work. But he no longer laughed at her little jokes. No longer poked fun when she became too absorbed in her scribbles. When she spoke, he listened—but she could feel that his heart was elsewhere.

The realization finally struck her when she found herself standing in front of his building, staring at the stairs that led to the fifth floor.

She had never needed to come here before.

Ever since she woke up in this world, Lutz had always been there—at her door, at the gate, waiting under the shade of an awning by the well every morning with a grin and his foraging basket. He had been her companion from the start, her confidant in frustration, and the one person who kept her tethered to this strange new life.

And now, she had to fetch him.

The building was narrow and tall, built of uneven stone with creaking wooden steps that spiraled dangerously upward. As she climbed, the scent of boiled greens, wet timber, and faint traces of wood varnish clung to the air. It was a working-class building, but not the worst she had seen. She remembered that Lutz had three older brothers and that his father was a craftsman of sorts, while his mother earned coin doing laundry for single men who either didn’t know how or didn’t care to do it properly.

She clutched the small basket in her arms a little tighter, balancing the weight carefully. Inside were a few bars of hard soap and two tightly wrapped bundles of her tea blend—gifts for the family, as was only proper.

Or at least, that’s what she remembered from her old life in Tenebrae. It was customary to bring something when visiting another’s home, especially when you were there on personal matters. It softened your intent and reminded the host that this was a visit born of respect.

Hopefully, her intents would he well received.

She rapped her knuckles gently on the door.

It was Lutz’s mother who answered, wiping her hands on her apron. “Oh, Myne! What a surprise! Lutz is just finishing his lunch. Come!”

She offered the basket with a small bow. “Just a little something I thought you might enjoy.”

The woman beamed and took it without protest. “Ara, is this the soap that Effa can’t stop talking about?”

Inside, the apartment was warm and a little cramped, but well-kept. There were signs of masculine chaos—a shoe out of place, scuff marks on the floor, a stack of laundry left in a corner—but also signs of care. The kitchen was spotless. The kettle on the stove hissed gently. From the small window, golden light filtered through the muslin curtain, giving the whole place a soft glow.

Lutz looked up from the low table where he sat cross-legged, a plate half-cleared in front of him.

“Myne?” He blinked. “Did something happen?”

She smiled and tried not to look too stiff. “Nothing urgent. I thought we could go over the order list again before Mark finds the workshop. There’s a few adjustments I’d like to make.”

A half-truth, which wasn’t quite a lie.

Lutz nodded slowly and rose to his feet, brushing crumbs from his shirt. “Sure. Let me get my things.”

She waited patiently by the door, letting her eyes wander across the walls and floor, searching for anything familiar, anything grounding. But it wasn’t the apartment she needed to read—it was him.

Once they stepped outside, she waited until they reached their usual spot in the forest before she spoke again.

“…You’ve been quiet lately.”

Lutz didn’t look at her right away. “…Just thinking a lot.”

“About?”

He hesitated, and for a moment Myne wondered if he would dodge the question. But then he let out a long breath, the kind that people take before pulling a thorn from their skin.

“…You,” he said.

The word stopped her mid-step.

She turned to face him, but he didn’t meet her eyes.

“You’re different, Myne. You talk different. You act different. And I get it—we’re growing up. You’ve been through a lot. But sometimes it’s like you’re… not you.”

There it was. Gently said. No anger, no accusation. Just confusion. Worry. Hurt.

Myne felt her breath catch in her throat. So he had noticed. The things she had tried so hard to keep under control—the elegance in her words, the knowledge that didn’t belong to a sickly girl from a commoner’s family, the memories she carried like secret letters locked in her chest—they had begun to show.

“…Lutz,” she said, her voice soft. “I am still me. I promise you that.”

He looked at her then, and the doubt in his eyes pierced deeper than she expected.

“But which ‘you’ am I talking to?”

That was what made it worse.

He just stood there, arms folded, lips drawn into a thin line—not scowling, not frowning, just… waiting.

Waiting for her to explain.

Myne opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No words came out.

“I—I didn’t mean to lie to you,” she finally blurted out, the words tumbling past her lips before she could stop them. “I just… I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Lutz’s eyes didn’t soften, but he did tilt his head slightly. “Tell me what, exactly?”

“That I’m not the real Myne.”

Silence.

The kind that doesn’t echo—it absorbs. Heavy. Flat.

“I figured,” Lutz said at last, voice steady. “You’re way too weird to be the same girl who collapsed every other week.”

Myne blinked.

“You stopped getting fevers, you started using words I’ve never heard before, and you act like someone who’s lived three lives already.” His arms dropped to his sides. “But I didn’t say anything because I thought maybe I was wrong. That maybe… you were just getting better. Stronger.”

She winced. “I’m sorry.”

Lutz looked at her then, properly, and this time she couldn’t read his face. “Then who are you?”

Myne’s lips parted before she could stop herself.

“I… I’m not Myne,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “At least, not the one you grew up with.”

Lutz blinked. “What?”

She looked down at her hands, the palms that had once held a trident, had once glowed with divine magic. Now they trembled.

“My name is Lunafreya Nox Fleuret. The 112th Queen of Tenebrae. Oracle of Eos.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Wind stirred in the distance, but it did nothing to soften the sharp tension between them.

Lutz’s brows furrowed, his lips parting slightly as he stared at her in disbelief. “W-What kind of joke is that?”

“It’s not a joke,” she said, eyes steady now. “I was supposed to die. I did die. I remember the moment I passed. But then—I woke up here. In Myne’s body. Her life… became mine.”

“You’re saying…” Lutz stepped back a pace. “That you took over her body?”

“No!” Myne reached out but froze midway. “I didn’t choose this. I didn’t want this. All I know is, when I opened my eyes, I was her.”

Lutz’s voice dropped. “Then where’s Myne?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly, the words hitting him like cold water. “But I suspect… I suspect she died from her fever. And that I—replaced her.”

For a moment, Lutz looked as though the world beneath him had shifted.

“No,” he said, voice hoarse. “No, you’re lying. That’s not true. Myne wouldn’t just disappear. She was sick, but she always got better.”

“I tried to save her,” Myne said, feeling the lump in her throat swell. “Her body was being destroyed from the inside by something nobody could see—mana. Too much of it. I recognized it instantly. I tried to heal what I could… I even thought maybe she and I could coexist. But…”

She didn’t finish.

Lutz turned away, fists clenched. “Lies! You killed her. You must have! That’s the only explanation.”

“No, Lutz—”

“Then bring her back!” he snapped, whirling on her. His eyes were wet now. “If you’re some kind of queen or oracle or whatever—you can bring her back!”

Myne recoiled. “I can’t.”

“Then what good are you?!”

The words struck like arrows, clean and cruel. She didn’t answer for a moment.

“…I don’t know. But I do know this—if nothing had happened, Myne would have died. Alone. Without anyone realizing what was really wrong.”

The silence dragged.

“I tried,” she whispered. “And I’m still trying. I’ve been keeping her body alive, stabilizing the mana that should’ve destroyed her by now. That’s all I can do. I’m sorry.”

Lutz’s shoulders shook, but his face remained turned away.

“I can prove it,” she said softly, rising to her feet. “Just… come with me. Somewhere no one can see.”

They moved in silence to a quiet grove nearby, nestled beyond the line of sight of the other children. The trees were taller, but dappled gold poured in through the canopy, lighting up patches of grass and dandelions.

Myne stepped forward and took a breath, drawing on power she had tried not to use. But now, it felt like the only way.

She clasped her hand to her heart and whispered the words she hadn’t spoken out loud since her last life.

“O’ blessed stars of light and life, deliver us from the darkness’ blight.

Under thine brilliant wings, the weary soul takes refuge.

Let thine mercy fall like rain upon parched earth.

Let thine grace flow where pain has taken root.

Cleanse the wounds unseen, and breathe warmth into still hearts.

By thine sacred radiance, awaken what sleeps and restore what withers.

So I beseech thee—answer my prayer.”

A golden aura bloomed from her being, warm and steady. The grass around her shimmered. Buds that had not yet opened sprang into full bloom. The trees themselves swayed in reverence, and for a moment, the whole grove felt alive with some divine breath.

Birdsong stilled. The air turned sweet and sacred.

Lutz took a step back.

“…You’re glowing,” he whispered.

She met his gaze. Her golden aura slowly faded, and the grove fell silent once more.

“That’s what I am,” she said, her voice quieter than ever. “That’s who I was.”

The spell faded, but its presence lingered.

The trees overhead looked greener than they had any right to be. Wildflowers bloomed where none had been moments before—soft purples and white blossoms dancing gently in a breeze that felt warmer than it should have been. Lutz stared, mouth slightly open, a hand half-raised as if he could physically touch the golden air that had surrounded her.

“You weren’t lying,” he said at last, voice quiet.

Myne—Luna—looked at him, unsure what she wanted to see reflected in his face. There was awe there, yes. But also grief. Loss. A wariness that hadn’t been there before.

“So,” he said, swallowing. “You were a queen?”

A soft, bittersweet smile played at her lips. “Yes… once.”

He sank to a nearby rock, unable to quite meet her eyes. “And the real Myne… she’s gone?”

Luna sat beside him, folding her hands over her knees. Her voice was gentler now, quieter than before. “I believe she is. I think… I think she died from her fever. Her body couldn’t hold back her mana anymore, and it was tearing her apart from the inside. I only woke up after.”

He rubbed his face with both hands. “I don’t want to believe that. That she’s just… gone. That you’re here because she’s not.”

“I know.” Luna’s voice cracked softly. “I didn’t ask for this either. But I am here, and I’ve tried to protect what remained of her. Her family. Her dreams. Her bond with you.”

Lutz looked at her again, the shine still in his eyes from the miracle he had witnessed. “And… you don’t seem like a bad person. You care, even if it’s all confusing. Even if you’re not… her.”

Myne breathed out slowly and gazed upward. The sun was filtered through golden leaves, just as it once had been in Tenebrae’s gardens. “Would you… like to know who I was? Who I still am?”

He nodded, quietly.

She began.

“I was born Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, the one-hundred and twelfth Queen of Tenebrae. But more than that… I was the Oracle. My duty was to commune with the Gods—the Astrals—and to guide the Chosen King to his destiny. My world, Eos, was… magnificent. But it was dying.”

She looked down at her hands. “The darkness began to grow… swallowing towns, lands, even time itself. Days shortened, and night stretched endlessly across the sky. And with the darkness came daemons—monsters born from corrupted souls. They thrived in the long night.”

Lutz sat perfectly still, his small fingers curled in the fabric of his pants. His mouth had parted slightly. Even his breathing was quiet, as if afraid to break the spell of her words.

“We fought to resist it. My mother… my people… and him—Noctis. The true king chosen by the Crystal. He was prophesied to end the darkness. But every prophecy has a cost.” Her voice tightened. “Mine was to give my life to awaken the Astrals. And to prepare the way for Noctis’ sacrifice.”

Lutz’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “He had to…?” His voice was small.

“Yes,” she said gently. “He would’ve to give everything to bring dawn back to our world.”

A silence fell between them.

“…Did you like-like him?”

Luna blinked. The question hit deeper than she expected. She gave a soft, quiet smile.

“I did. Not in the way the media described our friendship—there was never time for that. But I had loved the boy who wrote me letters since we were young. I believed in him. I believed in our cause. In our people. And in the light that would return, even if we had to give our lives for it.”

She looked at Lutz then, her gaze steady and warm. “So even if I’m not Myne… I’m still someone who would give everything to protect the people I love.”

Lutz didn’t say anything at first.

His lip trembled a little, then he wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. He looked like he didn’t quite understand everything—but that didn’t matter. Children didn’t need to understand every word to feel the weight behind them.

“You’re like… a real queen?” he asked, his eyes wide. “Like in the stories?”

“I was,” Luna said softly. “But not the kind who sat on a throne. I walked among the people. I prayed for them. I guided them. And when the time came, I gave my life for them.”

Lutz’s mouth opened, then closed. His eyes shimmered. “That’s really sad… but kinda amazing,” he whispered. “You really fought monsters and saved the world?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but I tried to do what I can.”

He rubbed his eyes, sniffling again. “I miss Myne. But… I think she’d like you. You’re not scary, even if you're weird.” A pause. “You’re kinda like a hero.”

Luna blinked, caught off guard. “I… thank you.”

“But I still want her to come back…” Lutz mumbled, his voice barely holding together. “Even if I know she probably can’t…”

Luna reached out, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “I know,” she said. “And I’m sorry. But I promise—I won’t let her life be for nothing. I’ll protect the things she cared about. I’ll protect you.”

“…Okay,” Lutz whispered. “But you gotta promise not to leave too.”

“I promise.”

…

They didn’t get much work done after that.

The revelation of Luna’s past—the truth that once lingered like a thorn in her throat—had now been spoken aloud. And with that truth, something subtle but profound shifted between them. The distance that had grown between Luna and Lutz, quiet and unspoken, threatening to pull their bond apart, dissolved. In its place was the fragile but hopeful beginning of something new.

A promise of trust. Of a shared future. Of understanding.

Luna hadn’t realized just how heavy the burden had become—keeping her true identity secret, masking her memories behind polite smiles and evasive words. Now that it was out in the open, the weight lifted from her chest, leaving her feeling lighter, freer, even a bit giddy. Like she could finally breathe again.

Lutz didn’t say much at first. He simply sat there with his knees drawn to his chest, wide eyes still fixed on her like she might vanish if he blinked too hard. After a long moment of silence passed, he rubbed his nose and asked, in a voice hushed with awe, “So… when you had to go places… how did you even get there? Did you walk?”

Luna chuckled, the sound delicate and warm. “Not usually. I was often escorted by car. It was a gift from Lucis—the kingdom of the King—to my mother back when she was alive.”

Lutz tilted his head. “What’s a car? Is it like a carriage?”

“Something like that, but without horses,” she said gently. “It moved with the power of science—or, more specifically, a form of oil that we called fuel. It was very fast. We could travel from city to city in just a few bells.”

His jaw dropped. “That’s amazing!”

She smiled at his enthusiasm. “When I traveled for healing missions, especially to cities near the frontlines, I was usually driven in that car. Sometimes I rode trains, too—those were long metal vehicles that ran on rails and could carry thousands of people at once. Then there were airships, which flew through the sky, and chocobos—large birds you could ride like a horse.”

Lutz’s eyes were practically shining. “Flying ships and giant birds?! That’s like something out of a story!”

“Eos was a world of many wonders,” she said, wistfully. “But even those wonders couldn’t save us from the darkness.”

Lutz grew quiet again, the awe in his face giving way to thoughtfulness. “Was your kingdom… was it happy?”

“It was beautiful,” Luna said softly. “But not always happy. Tenebrae was annexed by the Empire when I was very young. We lost much of our freedom, though we regained a little autonomy in later years. Even so… we were watched, controlled. My role as Oracle made me useful to them, so they let me live… for a time.”

He frowned. “That’s not fair…”

“No, it wasn’t. But I had my duties. I focused on healing others, on bringing hope where I could.”

“You must’ve been lonely.”

Luna hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Yes. But I had my friends, and the people who believed in the light. That gave me strength.”

Lutz sat quietly, the thoughts stirring in his young mind more complex than he could name. But he didn’t need to. His presence beside her, his interest, his quiet kindness—they said more than words ever could.

And for the rest of the day, he kept asking questions.

“What was your house like?”

“I lived in Tenebrae’s seat of power, similar to the duke of Ehrenfest. Fenestela Manor is built on top of a mountain, though truly, it was more like a castle.”

“What kind of food did you eat?”

“Oh, it depends on what the cooks planned for day.”

“Did the chocobos really have feathers like sunshine?”

“Yes! And I’ve heard that their feathers can change color depending on their diet. The stable hand back in Tenebrae once swore he saw a pink chocobo!”

“Was it scary, when the daemons came?”

“They are. Some daemons like goblins and bombs, were small and they’re not very bright. But Iron Giants truly live up to their name. They’re about as tall as an apartment and a had a giant sword!”

“Woah!”

And Luna answered them all, her voice gentle and serene, painting a picture of her world as best as memory allowed—reminding him, always, that her “normal” had once been extraordinary, and that she had learned to let go of it.

But not forget.

By sunset, they had done no crafting, no gathering, no business talk at all.

But somehow… they had built something much more important.

Trust.

Before going home, Lutz said something that Myne would never forget.

“You know, now that I think about it, I realized I spent more time with you than the real Myne. Well, see you tomorrow!”

…

With their friendship on the mend, Myne and Lutz threw themselves into their work with renewed vigor—this time, bolstered by a deeper understanding of one another. Lutz no longer questioned where Myne got her knowledge. Or rather, he asked in a new way, with gentler curiosity.

“Is this how it’s done back in Eos?” he’d ask, eyes wide with genuine interest.

Sometimes she would smile and nod, and other times, she would say, “No, but it’s close. We had more tools, more metal and something called plastic. But the principle is the same.”

Their days became a routine of steady labor and quiet companionship.

First, Myne would come up with the design of a tool—often sketching it quickly with a piece of charcoal on a scrap of cloth or chalk on her slate. Lutz, being the son of a craftsman, would take those drawings and turn them into simple, functional prototypes using planks of wood, nails, and sometimes rope.

If the design was too complicated, the two would agree to set it aside for the time being, jotting it down into their growing list of commissions for the future—a list they would eventually present to the craftsman’s guild once their workshop was finalized.

Since the location of their workshop was still being processed by the Gilberta Company, both Myne and Lutz focused on what they could do in the meantime.

Stockpiling raw materials became their main task.

For soap, they ventured deeper into the southern forest, beyond the usual path, until the trees thinned into a steep ridge overlooking a narrow valley. There, near the cliffside where the wind carried a faint scent of earth and salt, they harvested meryl— the bitter avocado like fruits that was rich in oil.

Some days were spent gathering herbs for scent blends.

“Eucalyptus keeps bugs away, and rosemary keeps the skin clean and the hair, thick,” Luna said while weaving the plants into a bundle. “And if you mix a bit of mint and citrus peel, it’ll feel refreshing on the scalp.”

Lutz would trail behind her with a basket, nodding here and there as he committed everything to memory.

In the evenings, they returned home to tend to smaller tasks. Myne gave Lutz scrap pieces of wood and had him practice his carving techniques—focusing on combs. She taught him the concept of shaping the teeth so it wouldn’t scratch the scalp, how spacing changed depending on hair type, and how to sand the wood so it wouldn’t splinter.

“For your mother,” she explained one night, “this type would be better—longer teeth, wider gaps. Her hair’s thicker than yours.”

He gave her a look. “How would you know?”

“I don’t know, maybe because we’re women” she said, smirking. Silly, boy.

At home, she trained her own mother and sister in embroidery and braiding techniques—most of them simple, but elegant. In her previous life, she had her seamstresses and attendants. Now, she leaned into the comfort of family.

“Please,” she told them, “I want this to be worth your while. Once we start making coin, I’ll compensate you fairly. I promise.”

Her sister rolled her eyes, but smiled. “Fine, but you’re cooking dinner tomorrow.”

Five days passed in this rhythm—of planning, gathering, carving, and preparing. The ache of secrecy no longer weighed her down. Lutz worked beside her with renewed spirit. Even when he muttered under his breath or complained about a thorn scratch, the bond between them felt steady, real.

And then, on the sixth morning, there was a knock at the door.

Effa opened it, surprised to find two finely dressed men standing just outside the threshold. One was Mark, composed as ever, while the other—

“Myne!” he called, that unmistakable grin stretching across his face. “Hope you haven’t been slacking while I was gone.”

It was Benno.

Myne nearly stumbled down the stairs as she rushed to greet them, heart pounding in her chest. Lutz, who came over to talk shop with Myne was startled, dropping the finished comb he bought for inspection, his eyes already gleaming with anticipation.

“The workshop?” he asked, barely containing himself.

Benno nodded, satisfaction in his voice. “It’s ready. Figured I’d come straight to you before you two drove someone else crazy with your pacing.”

Mark gave a polite bow, then added, “The keys have been handed over. You can move in today.”

“We can see it now?” Myne gasped, a hand to her mouth.

Benno smirked. “Of course. Come on. Let’s go see the place where you’ll build your little empire.”

They didn’t even bother to clean up their tools. Lutz grabbed his satchel, Myne tied her hair with the nearest ribbon she could find, and together, they bolted out the door.

Excitement coursed through their veins, every footstep echoing with promise.

Their new chapter had finally begun.

Chapter Text

True to form, their workshop was smack dab near the edge of the southern quarters—close enough to the bustle of the city to be accessible, yet far enough from prying eyes and nosy neighbors. The building stood modestly tucked between a narrow tannery lane and a grove of weedy trees.

“It’s not pretty,” Benno admitted as he unlocked the door with a heavy iron key, “but it’ll get the job done.”

Lutz didn’t care. “This is perfect!” he said, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “From here, it’ll only take us half a bell to reach the forest. That’s so much better than the two bells we usually walk!”

Myne beamed, her eyes already drifting across the wooden exterior and moss-flecked tiles of the roof like she was sizing up a treasure chest.

The inside was dusty, a bit musty, but it was theirs.

At the farthest corner of the room was a massive stone hearth—its fire pit wide enough to line up several cauldrons in a row. A thick iron rod hung overhead for suspending kettles or drying herbs, and there was even a small pile of chopped wood stacked neatly beside it.

To the left stood a worktable so long it could fit four apprentices shoulder-to-shoulder, with deep scratches and burn marks to prove it had lived a full life. The wood was sturdy, solid—just begging to be put to use again.

To the right was a shelf tall enough to reach the beams, stocked with neatly arranged jars, boxes, and bundles of parchment. Some of the supplies they had commissioned—yards of fabrics, rolls of thread, drying racks, and various odds and ends—had already been delivered and were tucked away waiting for them. Even their deckled had arrived, leaning proudly like an imported mat from Ahrensbach.

“Someone’s been busy,” Lutz muttered, grinning as he peeked into a wooden crate marked with his name. Inside were the carving knives they had ordered, gleaming and newly whetted.

Benno watched them poke around with a smirk. “You’ve got until next week to make it look like someone’s working in here. After that, I start charging rent.”

“Understood!” Lutz said, giving an enthusiastic salute.

Myne twirled in the center of the room, skirt flaring around her ankles. “It’s not much,” she said, “but it’s perfect.”

Mark handed Benno a small stack of parchment. “The records and inventory. You’ll need these to track commissions and costs.”

“Right,” Benno muttered, already tucking them into the small drawer of the lone desk near the entrance. “But don’t worry about paperwork today. Just get used to the place.”

And get used to it they did.

For the next few hours, Myne and Lutz explored every creaky floorboard and dusty drawer, drawing up ideas on where to hang baskets, how to section off space for ingredients, and where to place everything for maximum efficiency.

By midday, they’d opened the shutters wide, letting sunlight pour in and fresh air sweep out the old. Dust motes danced in the golden light as Myne traced her finger along the windowsill, humming a little melody to herself. The space, though worn, was brimming with possibility.

It wasn’t the grand palace Luna had once lived in. Not even close.

But it was warm. It was promising.

And they weren’t about to let the excitement go to waste!

With the rest of the day still ahead of them, Lutz and Myne wasted no time. They dashed back and forth from their homes like little work ants, carting their stash of carefully gathered materials—herbs, dried peels, bits of cloth, and even the bits of scrap wood they’d been hoarding “just in case.”

Myne clutched a basket filled with bundled spices and dried orange peel. “Handle this carefully,” she told Lutz, passing it over with all the solemnity of a noblewoman handing off a sacred relic. “That willow bark is precious.”

“Got it,” Lutz said with a grin, though he wobbled theatrically just to make her shriek.

“Lutz!”

Benno passed them once with a raised brow. “You two better not burn down the place on day one.”

“We won’t!” they chorused—then immediately bickered over where to put the box of kelp.

They spent hours reorganizing the shelves, sorting jars by size and smell, repacking everything into labeled crates with little sketches Myne had drawn by hand. Lutz insisted on setting up a corner specifically for tools and drying racks, while Myne staked out her preferred window spot for grinding and mixing—“It has the best light for reading fine measurements,” she insisted.

By the time twilight rolled in, the workshop was no longer just an empty room with potential.

It was alive.

Jars gleamed in neat rows. Ropes of herbs dangled from beams to dry. A clean rag hung beside the hearth, ready for the first big spill.

They sat on the doorstep, breathless and sweaty, sharing a small loaf of bread and some leftover broth Lutz had packed.

“It’s really happening,” he said quietly. “We have our own place now.”

Myne leaned her head on his shoulder, tired but grinning. “It’s not just a place. It’s the beginning of everything.”

And for once, the stars didn’t feel so far away.

…

Now that the final piece of their plan was in place, Myne wasted no time.

Benno, ever the shrewd businessman, had given them an advance—and while generous, it was not charity. He had expectations. He’d invested in them, and in return, he wanted results. Myne, once a queen and now a child gifted with that wisdom, understood the nature of debt better than most. One way or another, debts had to be repaid. And repaid quickly.

The sooner they turned that advance into profit, the sooner they could call their business theirs.

That evening, she called Lutz over and spread out a sheet of rough parchment on the worktable. By the soft light of a makeshift oil lamp, she began to outline their course.

“Benno entered a deal with us,” she began, voice steady, eyes serious. “And though he promised to take us in as apprentices after our baptism next summer, we shouldn’t rely on just that. His advance—it’s more than a gesture. It’s a loan, one given in good faith. That kind of trust is rare. Let’s not waste it.”

Lutz nodded with a serious expression, his face illuminated by the flickering flame. “So what do we do?”

“We move fast. We build momentum. We use every single material and every grain of knowledge we have to make sure this workshop turns a profit.”

She drew five small circles on the parchment—soap, paper, candles, combs, and a fifth labeled only later. Then she tapped each one in turn.

“Soap comes first,” she said. “It’s the most straightforward to produce with what we have. The ingredients are cheap, and now that we have proper cauldrons and molds, we can make hundreds of bars in a week—if we work smart.”

Lutz brightened. “It’s good that we’ve a stockpile of herbs!”

“Exactly. Let’s start with that. We’ll perfect the basic formula, keep some variety, and start marketing it as an easy-to-use bath soap— clean and fresh.”

She then tapped the second circle.

“Paper comes next. Our latest round of commissions is still in the works, so while we wait, we can experiment. Wood pulp, plant fibers—anything soft and fibrous. We start basic, with what we can source ourselves.”

“I can ask around,” Lutz said quickly. “There’s a carpenter who knows where the softwood groves grow. He might tell me what trees are best if I help him out.”

“Good. We’ll need bark from younger trees—nothing too dense. I’ll give you a list of traits to look for.”

True to her word, Myne spent nearly an hour walking Lutz through the paper-making process again—step by step. Soaking, pulping, pressing, drying. She described the weight and feel of a finished sheet, the way light passed through it when held up, and how grain could affect ink flow. It wasn’t just about making paper. It was about making quality paper.

Next, she pointed to the third circle. “Candles. I think we can revive the ones we gave to Benno. He keeps asking if I have more.”

“But Parue oil’s hard to get,” Lutz frowned. “It’s not the season.”

“I know. So we pivot. We use citrus peels, mint, and eucalyptus bark. During the rainy months, people will pay a premium for anything that keeps insects away.”

She even taught him a method from her past life: the salting-out technique, a way to recover more tallow from their soap batches and reuse the clean fat for candle-making. It saved money. It cut waste. And most importantly, it made sense.

The fourth circle, combs, was less urgent—but still vital.

“We’ll take these slowly,” she said. “One or two at a time, made to order. Commissions only. We’ll stockpile good base wood when we can, and build a collection of decorations—colored thread, cord, maybe pressed flowers or painted buttons.”

Lutz was clearly excited about this part. He’d taken a liking to carving, and she could see the gleam of pride whenever he sees his early work.

“We could try using varnish this time,” he offered. “It’ll protect the surface and make them smoother.”

“Exactly. Once we refine the formula, maybe we’ll make our own polish.”

The fifth and final circle, she left mostly untouched.

“The tea blends and the Ehrkin Bag,” she murmured. “Those will take more time. The bags are labor-intensive and meant to be rare—limited pieces. And the tea is already there; we just need to make it look expensive.”

Lutz stared at the name Ehrkin Bag scribbled in Luna’s careful lettering. “That’s the one you said should be auctioned off, right? Only a few a year?”

Myne smiled faintly. “Yes. Exclusive. Handcrafted. A luxury item. That will come once we’re stable.”

Her faint smile twisted into something more vicious—sharp. “In fact, I’m toying with the idea of making just one every year and letting the buyers duke it out amongst themselves.”

Lutz blinked. “You scare me sometimes.”

She arched a brow, utterly unrepentant. “Do I?”

“Only when you smile like that,” he muttered, half amused, half serious. “It’s like you already know how the rich people are gonna eat each other alive.”

“For an Ehrkin Bag?” Myne said lightly. “Oh, believe me. They will.”

He made a show of scooting his chair just a little farther away. He can imagine Myne holding an Ehrkin Bag from above a pedestal, while ladies in fancy dresses are fighting over it.

He shuddered.

…

The next day, they moved.

Two cauldrons bubbled side by side in the workshop—one for Lutz, one for Myne. The smell of heated oil and ash filled the air as they got to work, sleeves rolled up and brows already damp from the rising steam.

“Just keep it stirred and don’t let it burn,” Myne instructed, nudging Lutz’s elbow gently. “You’ve got the temperature steady, that’s good.”

It wasn’t anything hard, Lutz had to admit. Messy, maybe—but not complicated. Now that he was in it, he could see why Myne had picked this as their first real product. The oil only needed to be heated with their scent blend and the wood ash they’d collected earlier. After cooking it for a few hours, they would add mineral salt, pour it into molds, and let it cure.

Easy enough. It felt like making stew—if stew could polish your skin and leave you smelling like herbs and citrus.

“What about all this gunk?” Lutz asked, eyeing the clumps and pulp floating around the edge of the mixture.

“Leave it,” Myne replied breezily, giving her cauldron a slow, deliberate stir. “It helps with exfoliation.”

Lutz stared. “With what?”

“It scrubs the skin, helps clean you better” she clarified, lips twitching. “People will pay extra for that.”

He didn’t know if she was messing with him, but he left the gunk in.

Once the mixture reached the right consistency, they poured it into the wooden molds they had on hand. As they were using the hot process, the soap didn’t need to cure for weeks like the cold kind did—just a few days of drying and they’d be ready to wrap and sell.

They repeated the process in batches until they ran out of molds. Myne eyed the remaining space in the workshop and made a mental note.

“We should order more,” she said, brushing oil-slicked hair from her forehead. “There’s still room for another row or two.”

Lutz examined the shape of the molds—just a plain rectangle with smooth edges. “I’ll make some myself,” he offered. “Doesn’t look too hard. I can squeeze it in after work.”

“Perfect,” she said, already thinking of scent combinations for the next round.

Once the cauldrons were scrubbed clean, they left the soap to cure.

…

The following day, while Lutz busied himself making more wooden molds for their next batch of soap, Myne sat cross-legged nearby, deep in thought.

Lutz glanced up briefly. “If you’re just going to sit there, at least prep the ash water.”

“I will,” she murmured, distracted. Her fingers were idly tracing a spiral into the dirt. “But I was thinking…”

“That’s never good,” he muttered.

She ignored him. “We’re only making hard soap for now, right? But what if we try making liquid soap too?”

Lutz looked up from his work, knife still in hand. “Liquid?”

“Yeah. Something softer. Easier to use for hair. Maybe even for clothes if we get the formula right.”

He frowned. “Wouldn’t that just melt in water anyway?”

“Not exactly.” She tapped her chin. “Hard soap is made by mixing oils with lye and letting it cure into bars, right? But if we increase the water content and tweak the oils, we might get a gel-like result. Something pourable.”

“Sounds messy.”

“It is messy,” she agreed brightly. “But if we get it right, it’ll be useful in the winter when the water’s cold and oils would tend to harden.”

Lutz scratched the back of his head. “Alright… so what do we need?”

“Well, we have wood ash for lye, and I still have some oil—though we’ll need more soon to replenish our stock. But we need something to help thicken the soap without letting it separate…”

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “We could try adding boiled flaxseed water. It makes a natural gel.”

Lutz blinked. “Wait, you want to mix flaxseeds into soap? Isn’t that used for baking?”

“Not if you boil them in water. It turns gooey—like a natural thickener. We can strain out the solids.”

“…That’s weird,” he said, but he was already setting aside his knife.

“It’s innovative,” she countered.

“You always say that when you’re doing something weird.”

She grinned. “And I’m usually right.”

Once Myne decided on something, there was no stopping her.

“We’ll need to go to the market,” Myne said, already dusting herself off and rising to her feet. “I think the baker sells it, right? They use it in bread sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Lutz nodded, grabbing his pouch. “Come on. If we’re quick, we can make it back before the sun gets too high.”

The two darted through the streets, narrowly avoiding carts and weaving between stalls. The scent of freshly baked rye wafted out from the bakery by the plaza as they arrived, breathless but grinning.

“Myne, Lutz! What brings you here today,” the baker’s wife called out cheerily.

“We’re here for flaxseed!” Myne beamed. “Do you have some?”

The woman raised a brow. “That’s a strange thing to be excited about. How much do you need?”

“A handful’s fine,” Lutz said, offering a few copper coins.

With the flaxseed secured in a small cloth pouch, they raced back to their workshop, their steps light with anticipation. Myne wasted no time.

She set a small pot over their fire pit, adding water and tossing in the seeds. “We’ll need to stir it constantly so it doesn’t burn.”

Soon, a thick, translucent gel began to form, the consistency similar to runny honey.

“That’s…gross-looking,” Lutz muttered as he peered in, nose wrinkling.

Myne beamed. “Which means it’s perfect. Hand me the cloth—we’ll need to strain it while it’s hot.”

They filtered the mixture carefully, catching the slippery seeds in the cloth while collecting the hot gel below in a small clay bowl. It wobbled slightly when stirred, leaving long threads of goo behind the spoon.

“Okay. Moment of truth,” Myne said, pouring a small amount of oil and lye into the still-warm gel over a small pot. “Let’s see if it blends or separates.”

They watched, wide-eyed, as the concoction began to change.

“It’s…kind of working,” Lutz said, disbelief creeping into his voice.

“Not bad for a first try!” Myne laughed. “We’ll need to let it cool and check the texture later.”

She glanced at the leftover gel still in the bowl—and paused.

“…Actually…”

“Oh no,” Lutz groaned. “I know that look.”

“I just had an idea,” she said, practically glowing. “What if we turn the leftover gel into a hair product?”

Lutz blinked. “A what?”

“A styling gel!” she said, already reaching for their stash of materials. “You apply it to your hair to shape it. People could use it to flatten frizz, hold curls, or keep bangs from sticking up.”

“You want people to smear that on their heads?”

“Mixed with the right stuff! Meryl oil for moisture, a bit of our scented oil for fragrance, and maybe a pinch of salt to help define waves!”

Lutz opened his mouth to protest—but curiosity won. “…Alright. That sounds kinda cool, actually.”

Together, they mixed the ingredients into the remaining flaxseed gel. The final product shimmered faintly, golden and fragrant, like morning dew.

“Let’s test it,” Myne said, scooping a little into her fingers.

She dabbed some into her own hair, smoothing down her bangs. The hair stayed flat, gently scented and shining.

Lutz hesitated, then scooped some too. He ran it through his fringe, which had a habit of falling in his eyes when he worked. It swept neatly to the side.

“…Whoa,” he breathed. “This might actually sell.”

Myne clapped her hands, eyes bright. “We can offer it in little jars! I bet Tuuli would love it. Maybe call it ‘Styling Dew’ or something—wait, no, something fancier…”

Lutz grinned wide. “You really don’t stop, do you?”

“Not when we’re on a roll!”

They shared a loud laugh, the workshop echoing with the joy of discovery. The air smelled of herbs, heat, and hope.

And for once, the future felt as smooth as flax gel through hair.

…

It was a double win.

On the third day, Myne and Lutz returned to check on the hard soap they had set the day before.

It had settled beautifully. What greeted them was a solid, smooth slab with a verdant sheen that looked almost too perfect to touch. When Lutz tapped it with his knuckle, it gave a hollow tok, like a dry brick.

They cut off a small piece and tested it with water. The moment it hit their skin, a rich, creamy lather formed—thicker and silkier than either of them expected. There was no irritation, no sharp sting and no leftover scent of lye. Just bubbles and relief.

The scent was, as promised, both delightful and refreshing, with hints of pine and something sweet that clung faintly to the skin after drying. Even better, there was no oily residue left behind when they rinsed—it was clean in every sense of the word.

Myne beamed like a sunbeam breaking through storm clouds. “It worked!”

“And no burns,” Lutz said, inspecting his hand, half-joking. “That’s always a plus.”

Their next experiment, however, would require a bit more courage. Or at least a willing victim.

So of course, Myne volunteered Lutz.

“Why me?” he cried, wide-eyed as she held up the small bowl of their liquid soap from last evening.

“If it works, then great!” she chirped. “And if not... well... hair grows back eventually.”

“Eventually?!” Lutz clutched his head. “You’re terrifying.”

“Brave,” she corrected.

“To yourself, maybe!”

Despite the complaints, he let her drag him to the riverside, mumbling something about not getting paid enough for this—never mind that he wasn’t getting paid at all!

They filled a bucket with river water, then knelt on the pebbled bank. Myne wet his hair carefully before pouring a small amount of liquid soap into her palm.

She worked it into his scalp, gently massaging it in. The soap lathered easily, bubbling up into a thick foam that clung to his hair and fingertips. It smelled fresh and sharp.

For all her shenanigans, she did warn Lutz to alert her if he felt any stinging or burning sensation.

After a thorough rinse with cool river water, Lutz gave his head a quick shake and ran his fingers through his damp hair.

Then he froze.

“My hair’s... soft?” he said, blinking in disbelief. “Softer than when we used the hard soap.”

“Really? Let me feel!” Myne leaned in, hands already reaching before Lutz could stop her.

She tugged a few strands between her fingers, grinning. “It is soft!”

Lutz sighed, but even he couldn’t hide his smile. “Alright, alright. You win. The soap’s a success.”

“Of course it is,” Myne said, puffing her chest. “We’re geniuses.”

“We’re lucky,” Lutz corrected. “And reckless.”

With their formulas now secured, Myne and Lutz created another batch of hard soap. This time, they experimented with a new scent blend—citrus and herbs. The invigorating sharpness of lemon peel mixed with the clean, herbal aroma made the entire workshop smell like a summer breeze rolling through a hillside.

They took it as a good sign.

“If we keep this up, we might be able to earn sooner than we thought,” Lutz said as he poured the soap mixture carefully into the new set of wooden molds. His fingers moved deftly, guided by routine and practice.

“Benno’s eyes are going to bug out when he smells this,” Myne added, grinning as she prepared the lids. “I bet he’ll ask if we’ve been sneaking around the noble quarter.”

Lutz snorted. “If he does, I’m going to lie and tell him that you did."

She stuck out her tongue but didn’t argue.

They also made a small barrel of liquid soap, this time tweaking the water-to-oil-to-gel ratio and adjusting the heat just a touch. It had become a careful balancing act of observation and instinct. Though it still needed fine-tuning, the batch held together well—smooth, glossy, and properly blended.

“It’s still a little too runny for my liking,” Myne admitted as she checked the viscosity. “But at least it doesn’t separate.”

“It works, and it smells nice. That’s good enough for a prototype,” Lutz said. “You can refine the process later.”

Myne sighed, brushing a stray bang from her face. “I suppose. I just want it to be perfect.”

Lutz gave her a sideways glance. “Uh, we have a list of products to go through, remember? The one we just discussed last week?”

Myne blinked. Then remembered. “Oh—! Right. Right. The list. Yes. Of course.”

“Sometimes I think you get carried away too easily,” he muttered.

She didn’t deny it. She couldn’t.

Myne was, at least, grateful for Lutz’s temperament. He was even-keeled, persistent, and practical. He was… grounding. Yes.

As for the Styling Dew, the experiment with the flaxseed gel mixed with oil, salt, and their signature scent blend had gone surprisingly well. Myne had taken notes on the consistency and dry time, but it was too early to tell.

Their verdict?

“It works, I guess… but it makes my hair crunchy after several hours?” Lutz explained.

They agreed to present the idea to Benno, but only as a concept still in its early design stage. Myne already had suspicions that meryl oil, while versatile, was not the cure all be all that she was hoping it to be. There had to be a better base somewhere in the market for hair products.

She made a note to ask Benno for his advice

By the end of the week, their soaps were cut, wrapped in plain cloth, and labeled with handwritten notes describing the scents. The liquid soap was bottled in ceramic jars with cork stoppers, and the gel was tucked in a sealed jar.

As they stood back and looked over their display, Lutz let out a low whistle.

“We actually pulled it off.”

“That, we did.” Myne whispered with a proud smile.

…

With a borrowed cart rattling behind them, the two children made their way to the northern quarters where the Gilberta Company was located. The cart—comically large compared to their small frames—drew curious stares from passersby. It wasn’t every day you saw two pre-baptism kids hauling something that looked like it belonged to a vendor's stall or a moving day.

They arrived without any incidents, unless you counted their sore arms and wobbly legs. By the time they reached the back entrance of Gilberta, both were panting like dogs in summer, hair plastered to their foreheads and clothes clinging with sweat.

Benno opened the door just as they were about to knock, took one look at the two flushed, breathless kids—and promptly bonked them both on the head.

"Ow!"

"Hey!"

“Next time, you ask for help,” he scolded with a scowl, arms crossed. “If you’re lifting something heavier than your combined weight, you come get someone with a back that isn’t still made of jelly.”

Despite the sting on their heads, Myne couldn’t help grinning. It was worth it. Because Benno’s face—his wide-eyed, flabbergasted expression when he saw just how much product they’d brought—was absolutely priceless.

They wheeled the cart to the side, proudly unloading their soap slabs, small bottles of the liquid soap, and even a modest presentation jar of the Styling Dew.

Myne took the lead, carefully explaining each product. They made sure not to spill anything about how it was done—no mention of their method or their experiments with flax gel. But they were honest about the results, noting what worked, what still needed refining, and the properties they had observed along the way.

Benno didn’t interrupt. Not even once.

But Myne could feel it. The gleam in his eyes. The subtle tightening of his lips as he ran a hand along the smooth surface of the soap. He was holding back an evil cackle, she was sure of it. He was already doing mental math on profits, manufacturing cost, and how to lock this down before another merchant caught a whiff—literally and figuratively—of their idea.

Then, as expected, he turned on his heel and shouted, “Mark!”

Mark appeared from the front of the shop, brisk as ever. “Yes, sir?”

“Try this.” Benno handed him the bottle of liquid soap. “And this.” He passed him the Styling Dew. “Tell me what you think.”

Myne raised a hand quickly. “Wait! The Styling Dew isn’t ready for—”

Benno waved her off with an infuriating smirk. “If it explodes, I’ll bill you for Mark’s treatment.”

Mark, ever the consummate professional, didn’t hesitate. At Benno’s nod, he took the bottle of liquid soap and fetched a basin of water along with a clean towel. Rolling up his sleeves with quiet precision, he knelt beside the basin, dipped his hands into the water, and wet his hair at the edges.

“This should be enough for a small demonstration,” he said calmly.

He poured a modest amount of the soap into his palm and began to work it into his hair. Almost immediately, the room filled with the light, clean scent of citrus and herbs. A thick foam began to form under his fingers, and even Myne looked on in awe at how well it lathered with just a bit of water.

“This lathers better than some of the premium bars in the market,” Mark observed, his voice carrying a rare note of surprise. “The scent is subtle but refined—no sourness, no oiliness. Clean and professional.”

He rinsed thoroughly using the basin and dried off with the towel, running his fingers through his hair once.

“The finish is smooth, not waxy. My scalp doesn't feel stripped either,” he concluded with a short nod. “This is suitable for both high-end personal use and general household demand. Versatile.”

Benno’s eyes gleamed, clearly trying to hold back a grin. Myne, on the other hand, was biting back a smirk of her own.

Then Mark turned to the small jar labeled Styling Dew. He eyed it for a long moment as though calculating the risks of handling an unknown experimental product. Still, without a word, he dipped two fingers into the translucent gel and rubbed it between his hands to check the texture.

“It’s… slimy.”

“That’s because it’s a styling gel!” Myne chirped, unable to hide her excitement. “It dries clear and helps define curls and tame frizz. I like to think that it’s a good alternative to pomade, depending on the kind of look you’re going for.”

Benno raised a brow. “Frizz?”

“Er—unruly hair,” Lutz translated helpfully.

He applied it through his damp hair, smoothing it back with swift strokes. To everyone’s surprise, his hair fell neatly into place, holding shape without looking greasy or overly stiff.

Benno raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

“It defines without clumping. The hold is light, but present,” Mark said, glancing at his reflection in a polished metal plate Lutz handed him. “This could be a hit—especially if the formula can be adjusted to suit different hair types or climates.”

“I still think we can find a better base oil,” Myne added, thinking aloud. “The one that we’re using now is versatile, but it’s not suited for this particular product. I was hoping you might know of an alternative, Benno.”

Benno didn’t answer right away. He was too busy holding up a bottle of liquid into the light, admiring it like it was an artifact uncovered from the ruins of a lost civilization.

“You’re going to make me rich,” he murmured under his breath.

“Sorry?” Myne asked, pretending not to hear even though she absolutely did.

“Nothing,” he said, far too quickly. “We’ll talk oils later. First, I want a full list of what you can make, how often, and how soon we can move these through the shop. And I want a name for this line. A good one.”

Lutz and Myne exchanged a look.

“Oh, he’s hooked,” Lutz muttered.

“Like a fish on a shiny bar of soap,” Myne whispered back, grinning.

After a sumptuous lunch— still bland for Myne's taste, she really need to do something about that and fast— they moved on to negotiations.

The two reported that they could produce around 200 bars of soap a week with their current setup. More, if they had extra molds.

“Also,” Myne added, “while it’s not necessary, the hard soap should ideally be cured for at least a week to improve quality. Ours is ready to use, but if we had more time—”

Benno’s eyes slid sideways to Mark, who was already scribbling into a wooden ledger before she even finished.

“Yes, yes,” Benno muttered. “As expected, you two are learning at a quick rate.”

“The liquid soap is more straightforward,” Lutz continued. “With enough budget for materials, we can make a barrel a day.”

Benno raised an eyebrow at that. “A barrel? Per day?”

“Yes,” Myne added quickly, “There’s no curing involved for the liquid soap, so it’s ready to use once it has cooled enough.”

“Noted,” Benno said, fingers steepled. “And the Styling Dew?”

“We’re open to suggestions,” Myne admitted. “We’re still looking for a better base oil.”

Benno hummed. “Try Rio oil. It’s from central Ehrenfest. Costs more than Meryl, which I assume is what you’re using, but the quality is leagues above. Your dew might turn into gold with that.”

Lutz whistled. “Figures you’d know something rare like that.”

Benno smirked. “I’ve been doing this before you were even born, you know.”

Then, in a surprising turn, he began listing prices. Not inflated, not gouged. A fair markup, accounting for labor, ingredients, and novelty. He didn’t try to cheat them—on the contrary, he emphasized the need to maintain trust, even when one had the upper hand in a situation.

“Never take advantage of a good partner,” he lectured. “It burns bridges. We’re building something long-term, not a one-time score.”

Lutz nodded, thoughtful. Myne, though already aware of the concept, still took the words to heart.

Finally, Benno leaned forward with a glint in his ruby red eyes. “Now—how much money do you need?”

When Myne and Lutz merely blinked in response, shocked from the sudden shift in question, Benno slammed a hand on the table. “I want as much as you can, as quick as you can. Tell me what you need—now.”

Myne and Lutz scrambled to gather their notes, hurriedly flipping through their slates as if war had just been declared.

Mark, of course, already had several wooden slates prepared

..

In the end, Myne and Lutz walked out of the Gilberta Company with their pockets heavier—and their heads spinning.

For safety reasons, Benno had the small gold coin for materials broken down into smaller denominations. Lutz tucked the coins into a pouch hidden inside his jacket, while Myne carefully tied hers under her sash. On top of that, they each received a large silver coin. A whole large silver coin. Just for them.

“It’s already growing late,” Lutz said, clutching his coat tighter. “We should head home. We can buy the materials tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Myne said, still a little dazed. “I don’t think I could carry anything more right now, anyway. My soul is heavy with joy.”

Lutz barked a laugh. “Same!”

As they walked down the street together, their minds turned toward the numbers Benno had rattled off.

“Three small silvers for ten bars of hard soap,” Myne murmured, counting on her fingers. “Five small silvers for a large jug of liquid soap… and a whole small silver for the styling dew? That’s practically robbery.”

“Legal robbery,” Lutz corrected. “With a pretty bow on top.”

They both snickered. Myne's pace picked up a bit, her energy starting to return.

“Gilberta said they’d handle the packaging,” she said. “Since it’s going to be marketed as a luxury line.”

“Yeah, makes sense,” Lutz replied. “If the price is that high, it better look like it.”

“We’ll need proper names too,” Myne said thoughtfully. “Can’t just sell them as ‘Soap A’ and ‘Soap B.’ That’s boring.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lutz said, grinning. “How about ‘Bubbles of the Gods’? Or ‘Clean Supreme’? Maybe ‘Stink-B-Gone’?”

Myne gave him a sidelong glance. “Stop. Before I actually let you name something.”

He snickered. “You got any better ideas?”

“As a matter of fact,” she said proudly, “yes.”

Hard soap would be Ehrenfest Spring—named for the soft, clean scent that reminded her of the southern forest.

The liquid soap: Lox, borrowing the old Eosian name she’d once used for something similar.

And the styling dew? Why not O’real? A playful nod to a brand she’d loved once, in another life.

Fun fact: When she was young, she actually appeared on the telly to advertise that particular brand.

“Because you’re worth it,” she added, smirking to herself.

Lutz raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing.”

They eventually reached the well near their respective homes. With a grin and a cheerful wave, Lutz said, “Don’t float off into the clouds, alright?”

“No promises!” Myne called back.

When she got home, her family was still gathered around the hearth, sorting vegetables and chatting about dinner.

“Welcome back,” Effa said. “You look like someone stuffed your shoes with feathers.”

“I feel like it too,” Myne said brightly, pulling out her pouch. “Here.”

She placed the large silver coin on the table. It gleamed in the dim light, drawing gasps.

“Wha—Myne, where did you—?”

“A small cut,” she said proudly. “from the products we made. The materials were already covered, so this is mine. But I want you to use it for the family. For whatever we need.”

Gunther gawked. That was his entire salary for a month. “That’s—Myne, this is real money.”

“I know,” she said, beaming. “And it won’t be the last.”

Effa covered her mouth with one hand, while Tuuli leaned in for a closer look, wide-eyed.

“Are you sure, Myne?” Effa asked softly.

“I’m sure,” she said. “You took care of me when I was sick. Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”

Gunther puffed up, clearly torn between pride and the urge to ruffle her hair. “My sweet girl!”

Tuuli hugged her tight. “You’re amazing, Myne.”

Myne laughed, cheeks pink with warmth.

This time, she came home not just with coin—but with promise.

And that was worth more than anything.

Chapter Text

The following day, Myne and Lutz set out bright and early for the market, ready to put their hard-earned coin to good use. For good measure—and with some pleading eyes—they managed to convince Effa to come along. Given how much they planned to spend, having someone experienced to watch their backs felt like insurance.

As they weaved through the crowded streets, dodging carts and calling vendors, Myne couldn’t help but reflect on how far they’d come. Just a few weeks ago, they were foraging ingredients from the forest with dirt under their nails and sacks too heavy for their size. Now? Now they were outsourcing.

They were entering a new phase—one where time was more valuable than money. It was daunting, sure. But also strangely satisfying.

Luna, tucked in the back of Myne’s mind, felt that familiar fire spark to life again. They weren’t just surviving anymore—they were building something. And if they were serious about mass-producing their products, they needed a reliable supply chain. One strong enough to keep up with their ambition.

First stop: the bread and butter of their operation. Meryl.

Thankfully, the fruit was common in this part of the duchy. It didn’t take long to find a vendor, a wiry old man with a sun-leathered face and sharp eyes. But when they asked the price and he quoted 50 lions a piece, Myne nearly choked.

“That’s robbery,” she muttered under her breath. “You can literally pluck them from the hills.”

The vendor’s ears twitched. “Then you’re welcome to do just that, lassie,” he said with a too-sweet smile that was all teeth.

Effa stepped forward before Myne could dig herself deeper. “Fifty lions is steep,” she said smoothly, resting one hand on her hip. “Especially when we’re looking to purchase a hundred a week. Regularly. Why don’t we talk wholesale, hmm?”

The vendor raised an eyebrow. “A hundred? Every week?”

“Delivered,” Effa added casually, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “To the Gilberta Company’s workshop.”

That got his attention. He scratched his chin. “Well… for a long-term client, I could do thirty-five lions.”

“Thirty,” Effa replied without missing a beat. “And if you're late, we only pay twenty-five that week. Naturally, if you give us the best of the lot, we'll order more.”

The man hesitated—pride and profit at war. Effa lifted an eyebrow. He cracked.

“Fine. Thirty a piece. But if I’m too swamped, you carry the baskets.”

Effa grinned, victorious. “Deal.”

Myne stared up at her, awestruck. “Mom,” she whispered, “you’re terrifying.”

Effa ruffled her hair. “That’s how you raise two daughters and keep a roof over your head, sweetie.”

Next stop: salt.

A vendor near the eastern fountain was selling coarse sea salt by the sack—each one about as heavy as Myne herself. Two large copper coins a sack. Steep, but salt was essential for several of their recipes.

Effa didn’t even try to haggle.

“This is already a fair price,” she told them. “Better to build trust here than squeeze every coin. We’ll need this vendor more than once.”

Three sacks went on the delivery list—Myne estimated it would last them a week, maybe a little more if they were careful.

Then came the search for the elusive Rio.

Rio wasn’t rare, technically—not in this region where the fruit thrived in the temperate hills. But without proper trade networks or processing centers like the ones Luna remembered from Eos, even common things could become a logistical nightmare.

They scoured the western quarter.

Nothing.

Eastern quarter?

Still nothing.

Myne sighed. “If this keeps up, we should consider investing on a wagon, or a carriage.”

Their last hope was Othmar’s in the northern quarter—a higher-end food shop known for its imported and uncommon goods.

As she stepped inside, Myne braced herself for what this stop would do to their budget.

The shop was immaculate: shelves lined with neatly organized grains, jars of preserved herbs, wax-wrapped cheese wheels, and polished baskets of fruit. It felt a world apart from the chaotic bustle of the common market.

A clerk in a crisp apron greeted them with a practiced smile. “Good day. How can I help you today?”

“We’re looking for Rio,” Myne replied.

“Of course. Right this way.”

To her surprise, the clerk brought them to several baskets filled with small, dark fruits. Round, slightly wrinkled. Familiar.

“Oh,” Myne blinked. “These are—”

OLIVES!!

“Rio, yes,” the clerk nodded. “We sell them by the basket. Five large copper coins each.”

Five large coppers—for an entire basket. Not even pressed. Myne blinked again.

“…Is something wrong, miss?”

“Well,” she began carefully, “I don’t need the fruit. I need the oil.”

“Ah. We have that as well.” The clerk led them to a sealed barrel. “Cold-pressed. Four small silver coins per barrel.”

Myne winced. Fair price or not, it still stung.

“Four small silver coins,” she muttered. “Oof.”

Effa stepped forward again. “Do you have a smaller option?”

“We carry jugs,” the clerk said. “A quarter of a barrel. One small silver coin each.”

Myne perked up. “That’s perfect!”

Effa nodded. “Pressed Rio isn’t easy. You’re paying for labor, not just fruit. Still,” she turned to the clerk, “can your deliver two jugs every fortnight to the Gilberta workshop by the South Gate?”

The clerk paused thoughtfully. “It might take a few days to arrange it, but yes—we can manage that. Shall I prepare a receipt for the first two?”

Effa handed over the coins without hesitation. “Yes. And please send the jugs tomorrow, if possible.”

When they finally stepped back onto the street, their bags were lighter—but thankfully empty. Everything was set to be delivered. Myne and Lutz both let out a deep breath.

“That was a lot,” Lutz admitted, raking a hand through his hair.

“But we did it,” Myne said, practically glowing. “We’re actually managing a supply chain.”

Effa gave them both a fond, sideways smile. “You two are growing up too fast.”

…

The days that followed were defined by rhythm and purpose.

As part of their agreement, Lutz handled the suppliers, managing deliveries and negotiations with a growing sense of confidence. Myne, meanwhile, took charge of organizing their workspace, refining it little by little based on their needs.

Their mornings began with tending the fire, preparing the lye solution, and warming the infused oils—tasks that once felt rushed now slipped into routine. They no longer needed to pause and think about the next step; their hands moved with practiced ease.

They learned to streamline.

Instead of crushing meryls each morning, they now processed enough oil for several days at a time, storing it in sealed barrels to reduce prep work. Their herb infusions were grouped and brewed in larger batches, stored according to scent and use. With careful planning, they found they could now manage three cauldrons at once—one for Myne, one for Lutz, and a shared one they rotated between, depending on who had a spare moment.

Once a soap batch was mixed and set into molds, they’d clean up and move on to Lox. They’d wait for the mixture to thicken, take a bell’s rest, and resume just as the consistency turned ideal.

In one such batch, Myne experimented with an entire jug of their newly acquired Rio oil—a luxury they could now afford in small doses thanks to Effa’s skillful haggling. She noted how the oil gave the soap a richer texture, turning the slightly runny liquid into velvet.

Benno will be pleased.

The work was hard, but no longer chaotic. Where once they were exhausted by midday, they now found the time—precious pockets of it—for trial and refinement.

And so, Myne began her real project: the flaxseed gel.

O’real.

Unlike soap, which now followed a rhythm, the gel demanded study. She took her time, experimenting with different proportions and boiling times, observing how it thickened with heat and how it dried on skin and hair. She tested variations with added herbs, oils, and even cooled it in different ways to alter its consistency.

She began to imagine its uses across climates and cultures.

Colder regions, she noted, would benefit from formulas that gave hair volume and bounce—something soft and airy to counteract the flattening effects of heavy layers and cold air.

Warmer regions, by contrast, would need something lighter with stronger hold—firm enough to tame sweat-damp hair, but not so heavy as to feel greasy.

Each version was tested, adjusted, recorded. Slowly, she built a portfolio of recipes—not just for one product, but for future markets.

For Lutz, he used his time wisely to begin studying his letters and numbers, expanding his vocabulary of written words day by day.

Through it all, the routine remained the same. Days of brewing, curing, and batching. Nights of charting, cleaning, and collapsing into sleep.

Time passed like oil poured through a sieve.

The workshop, once a humble corner of their ambition, now hummed with the quiet rhythm of a business taking shape.

…

The last week of spring saw Myne and Lutz summoned to the Gilberta Company. After weeks of delivering goods, nearly everyone in the store knew them by name—if not by face.

When the door to Benno’s office clicked shut behind them, the air changed.

Benno stood by the window, arms folded, his milk-tea blond hair catching the afternoon light. He didn’t look angry—exactly—but that faint twitch in his brow said something was up.

“Sit,” he said, jerking his chin toward the chairs across from his desk.

Myne obeyed instantly, hands folded neatly in her lap. Lutz followed suit, but his shoulders were tense. She could feel the anxiety radiating off him like heat. If she was honest, her heart was pounding, too.

“You’ve both done well this season,” Benno began, pacing behind his desk with slow, measured steps. “The batch you finished at the start of spring? Gone. Every last one.”

Myne blinked. “Wait—sold?”

Benno nodded once. “I held back the ones you sent after. Didn’t sell it right away. Let the rumors build. Created scarcity. Our regulars were frothing for it by the time I opened the shelves.” His mouth curved into a sharp, satisfied grin. “We sold out yesterday.”

Myne’s lips twitched despite herself. Lutz glanced at her, then back to Benno, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Benno tapped a thick ledger on his desk. “Now comes the part that separates clever craftsmen from actual merchants. Estimate.”

“Estimate?” Lutz echoed, frowning.

Benno leaned forward, bracing both hands on the desk. “Tell me how much you think you earned.”

“…Huh?”

Myne blinked. That wasn’t the question she was expecting.

Benno waved a hand. “Make a guess. Factor in the stock I held—the Ehrenfest Spring, the Lox Shampoo, the O’real Hair Gel you sent every week. Subtract the cost of your materials, your workshop rent, the equipment, and the advance I gave you for setup. And don’t you dare forget my cut.”

A heavy silence fell.

Lutz opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Uh…”

“This is your training,” Benno said coolly. “You want to run your own shop one day? Handle your own trade deals? Then learn to think like a merchant. Know your numbers. Project your future.”

Myne narrowed her eyes slightly. This wasn’t a test of facts—it was a test of judgment.

There had been clues all along: the expense report Benno left on their first day, the way he asked for their monthly summaries, even the quiet warnings about market price fluctuations. He’d been laying the groundwork for this very moment.

She inhaled through her nose, thinking quickly. They had sent around two hundred bars of Ehrenfest Spring, five barrels of Lox Shampoo, and two barrels of the new O’real per week. Multiply that over two months... Estimate sales—ten soap bars for three small silver, a jug of Lox for four, O’real for three—factor in discounts, spoilage, demand spikes, Benno’s cut...

“Seven small silvers, Three large silvers and one large gold,” she said finally.

Lutz’s head whipped toward her.

Benno arched a brow, impressed.

“…Four large silver and one large gold,” Lutz guessed with a little more confidence.

Benno gave a crooked grin and reached under his desk. Two pouches landed on the table with a satisfying clink.

“Not bad. You only overshot by a bit, boy,” he told Lutz. “But you, Myne…” He tossed her a pouch. “Close. Accounted for market scaling, too.”

Myne caught the pouch, startled by its weight.

“To be exact: six large bronze, seven small silvers, three large silver and one large gold,” Benno confirmed. “Each.”

Lutz made a strangled noise at the back of his throat not unlike a dying cat.

“But,” Benno added dryly, “next season, I won’t be so generous. Guess low, and you short yourself. Get it wrong, and that’s your loss.”

“So you were testing us,” Myne muttered.

“Of course I was. What kind of master doesn’t test his apprentices?”

“But why give us the full value?” she asked. “You could’ve paid a fixed wage.”

Benno’s grin faded into something more serious.

“Because you’re not laborers. WE’RE partners. If I wanted workers, I’d hire any street rat who can follow a recipe. But you two? You’re building something with me. And that means owning your earnings—and your mistakes.”

He straightened, then walked to the cabinet in the corner and yanked it open, pulling out a sealed scroll.

“And speaking of mistakes... let’s talk about your legal status.”

“…What now?” Lutz muttered.

Benno sighed. “You’re both unbaptized. Which means no rights. No protections. If someone from another company gets greedy, they can claim you—and there’s nothing I can legally do to stop it.”

Myne felt a chill crawl up her spine.

Lutz looked ill. “Claim...?”

Benno’s tone sharpened. “I already heard someone in the south quarter asking questions about that ‘brilliant blue rinse.’”

Myne’s stomach dropped.

“I’m not letting anyone snatch you out from under me,” Benno snapped. “Which is why I’m filing for merchant registration under Gilberta. The moment the Summer Baptism Festival ends, we’re heading to the Guild.”

Myne blinked. “We’re really joining the Merchant’s Guild?”

“Yes. With your own cards, rights, and protection under my name.”

Lutz stared. “But that’s… so soon!”

“Yes, so soon,” Benno barked. “Before some nosy old fart with a nose for profit and a face like boiled leather gets it into his crusty head to file a claim.”

Myne snorted. “Boiled leather?”

Benno shot her a glare. “Don’t tempt me to name names.”

…

After their meeting, Benno treated them to lunch and a few sweets—a reward, he said, for a job well done. The restaurant he chose was tucked into one of the quieter corners of the central plaza, with polished wood beams, curtained booths, and just enough clamor to feel alive without being overwhelming.

Lutz dug into his meal like a starving wolf, tearing through a seasoned meat pie and downing soup between bites with his sleeves rolled up and grin wide.

Myne, meanwhile, poked at her plate with the caution of a cat sniffing something suspicious. She sampled the soup first—thin, oily, and painfully over-salted. The pie’s crust was decent, but the filling was aggressively seasoned, trying far too hard to be impressive. Her palate, sharpened by the refined tastes of another life, sighed in protest.

If it’s not bland, then it’s drowning in salt. Not that I expected anything else...

Still, she gave Benno a warm smile and said, “Thank you for the meal!”

She didn’t complain—not today. She’d been too busy all season to even think about improving this world’s cuisine, and she decided right then that she will include food in her agenda. After all, she had the means to buy the proper ingredients now.

As they finished their meal, Benno leaned back with a satisfied grunt, his arms folded behind his head. “You’ve both done well this season. Enjoy the rest of the week—you’ve earned it.” He cast a meaningful glance at the two of them. “Especially with your siblings’ baptisms coming up.”

Lutz sat straighter at the mention of Ralph’s ceremony. Myne blinked, surprised. She’d nearly forgotten Tuuli’s was just around the corner.

Benno stood and tossed a few coins onto the table for the server. “Celebrate a little. You deserve it.”

Outside, with the sunlight filtering down in soft golden hues and the market beginning to bustle with early summer trade, Myne lingered. After a few beats of silence, she cleared her throat. “Benno… do you mind holding on to most of my earnings for the meantime?”

He paused and turned, one eyebrow arching with curiosity.

She fidgeted with her pouch. “I don’t… feel safe carrying this much coin around. I’ll just take one large silver, the small silvers, and the bronzes. Enough to treat my family, that’s all.”

Lutz perked up. “Same here. I’ll keep one large silver to give to my folks for the house, and use the rest for gifts.”

Benno studied them both with a glint of amusement. “Good,” he said at last. “You’re learning when to spend—and when to save.”

Their pouches were lighter as they left the store, but their steps felt lighter still. Myne and Lutz chatted as they walked through the market, weaving between vendors and dodging carts, the scent of early summer fruits mingling with grilled skewers and baked breads.

Lutz was the first to dart toward a confectioner’s stall and a booth filled with hand-made trinkets. “Ralph’s gonna apprentice under Dad after his baptism,” he explained, holding up a well-crafted leather tool pouch. “This feels right. Maybe I’ll add a carving knife, too.”

“That’s a great idea!” Myne said, eyes sparkling. “Maybe I should find something Tuuli can use for her sewing…”

Their next stop was the fresh produce stalls. Myne moved with quiet purpose, selecting root vegetables and firm potatoes with discerning hands, until her eyes landed on a slab of fresh beef, marbled just enough to promise tenderness. Her heart did a little leap. Finally, beef!

She bought a hefty stick of butter, a few bulbs of garlic, a bottle of wine, and—at a fruit stall—spotted fresh berries and tart citrus. There was no sugar to be had, but that didn’t matter. The berries were sweet enough on their own, and she could brighten them with a hint of citrus and mint. A proper meal... it's been so long.

At a small merchant’s stall tucked beside a pottery stand, she found it: a polished sewing basket lined with soft linen, compartments for thread, and a built-in pin cushion. Simple, but elegant. Perfect for Tuuli.

By the time they parted ways, their spirits were soaring. Myne carried her goods with both hands, a triumphant glow on her face. She’d spent her money not on luxury, but on love—and it filled her with a quiet joy that had no coin could buy.

When she reached home, it was empty. Effa was likely still at the dye house, Tuuli was probably foraging in the forest, and Gunther was on duty. The timing was perfect.

Rolling up her sleeves and tying her hair back, Myne moved into the kitchen like a conductor stepping onto a stage. Every motion had purpose. She rubbed the meat with herbs and coarse salt, seared it to lock in the juices, then slow-cooked it in a cast iron pot with onions, carrots, and garlic until it turned tender enough to melt. The wine was used to make the gravy. Potatoes were boiled and mashed with butter and chopped herbs until silky. Vegetables were blanched and sautéed just enough to keep their bite. The fruit was washed, sliced, and tossed with mint leaves and a squeeze of citrus, bright and fresh.

The aroma crept through the house slowly, curling through the rafters and spilling into the street.

Effa arrived first, her arms full of dyed fabric. She paused at the door, sniffing the air like someone who had stumbled into a dream. “Myne?”

Tuuli followed soon after, her braid fraying from the wind. “Are we… celebrating something?” she asked, eyes wide.

Even Gunther, strong and stern, approached the door like it might vanish. He stepped inside and froze. “Is someone visiting?” he asked, nose twitching.

“No visitors,” Myne said gently as she turned from the hearth, wiping her hands on her apron. “Just a small party for the four of us.”

The table was already set. Four wooden plates, four clay cups, a bowl of fresh fruit in the center, and the pot roast still steaming, center-stage like a royal feast.

They all sat, stunned for a moment, and then slowly, with disbelief and awe, dug in.

Effa wiped her eyes discreetly between bites. Gunther grunted in appreciation. Tuuli hugged her sewing basket to her chest, speechless.

And Myne, sitting there with her chin in her hands and a quiet smile, let herself simply be part of the moment.

…

The rest of the week unfolded with gentle warmth, each day slipping into the next like pages in a well-loved book.

Every morning, Effa left for the dyeing workshop with her sleeves already rolled, a determined glint in her eyes. Gunther followed not long after, his boots thudding against the floor, armor clinking softly as he gave a gruff—but always affectionate—farewell. With their parents away at work, Myne and Tuuli had the days to themselves, and they made the most of them.

Now that money was no longer such a pressing concern, Myne gently encouraged Tuuli to take a break from foraging in the forest. “Just for a few days,” she had said with a hopeful smile, tugging at her sister’s sleeve. “Let me do something for you, big sister.”

Tuuli, though hesitant at first, eventually agreed. From then on, the sisters spent their days arm-in-arm, weaving through the marketplace like a pair of bright blue ribbons dancing in the breeze. Together, they browsed the stalls for ingredients to use in whatever culinary masterpiece Myne had planned for dinner. Tuuli would point out the freshest herbs and produce, while Myne carefully examined spices, cheeses, and the occasional novelty she remembered from a distant life.

There was joy in the routine—mundane to some, but miraculous to her.

Each evening, Myne cooked for the family with the same care and reverence she once reserved for sacred rituals. Meals became offerings of love: simmering stews that soothed away weariness, golden-crusted pies with warm, spiced fillings, and breads so soft they barely needed butter. Around the dinner table, laughter flowed freely, and Myne watched her family with quiet gratitude, committing every moment to memory.

And yet, beneath the contentment that warmed her chest, there remained a deep and lingering ache—a quiet sorrow that surfaced when the house grew still.

In those quiet hours, Myne—Luna—found herself reflecting.

Why couldn’t I have had this before?

This feelings were not born of resentment, but from wistful longing.

As Lunafreya, she had lived in castles and ruins, spoken to gods, and shouldered the weight of prophecy. Her days had been filled with duty, her voice a vessel for the Astrals, her hands constantly raised in supplication or sacrifice. People revered her, needed her—but rarely, truly, knew her.

Here, though… here she was just Myne. Just a girl. A sister. A daughter.

Why hadn’t she and Ravus shared a bond like this? Why hadn’t their childhood been filled with laughter and teasing, with hair braiding and shared secrets, the way she now shared so easily with Tuuli?

Why wasn’t her father as warm and protective as Gunther, who always checked the lock twice before leaving and never failed to ruffle her hair?

Why hadn’t her mother lived long enough to see the woman she had become—strong, capable, and still gentle in spite of everything?

Why had her life in Tenebrae been so quiet, so restrained? Why had her every gesture been treated as sacred, yet never truly cherished?

Why hadn’t she had a neighbor like Lutz, someone so honest and grounded, who spoke to her without fear or reverence, who treated her not like an icon, but like a person?

And in the stillness of those musings, the question that echoed loudest of all:

Why did I have to die to truly live?

She closed her eyes, letting that thought settle into her bones.

The ache didn’t vanish. But it softened, tempered by the laughter from earlier, by the warmth of Tuuli’s arm looped through hers, by the smell of roasted carrots and thyme still lingering in the air.

This life might have come too late to heal the wounds of her past, but it was still a life—a new beginning. And for now, she would fill it with warmth, memory, and meaning.

Whatever time she had here, she would live it fully. Not for the anyone but herself.

Chapter Text

The morning of Tuuli’s baptism dawned bright and cheerful, with the scent of summer wafting in from the open windows. Myne and Effa were the first to rise, tiptoeing around the kitchen with quiet efficiency while letting Tuuli sleep in until the last possible minute.

After all, it was her big day.

The night before had been a spontaneous “girls’ night,” as declared by Myne with a gleam in her eye and a flurry of last-minute preparations. Compared to the modern comforts of Eos, it was admittedly rustic—but Myne had made it work, and honestly? It turned out lovely.

They had snacks—a huge bowl of dried fruits and roasted nuts, lightly salted—and a much-needed grooming session. Effa gave Tuuli a gentle trim, cleaning up the ends of her hair with practiced hands, while Myne whipped up a face mask using mashed Meryl fruit, ground oats, and a dab of honey. For the hair spa, Myne brought out her carefully saved concoction from last winter: a creamy mask of parue milk, meryl oil, fragrant herbs, and a pinch of salt. Tuuli had dubbed it Miracle Milk, and the name stuck.

To top it all off, Effa retold the story of the star children before bedtime, her voice soft and melodic as the three of them curled up together in the flickering light of a lantern. Myne couldn’t help but think that it had been one of the happiest nights she’d had since arriving in this new world.

Now, bathed and glowing, Tuuli would take her first steps toward adulthood.

After breakfast—some salty butter croissants, lightly sweetened porridge, and some fruit—Effa brought out the baptismal dress they had all worked on at the beginning of spring. Myne helped Tuuli into the dress, gently tying the back while humming softly. Her hands moved with ease as she styled Tuuli’s hair, her memories of Luna’s elaborate hairstyles guiding each twist and braid. The final touch was the embellished comb Myne had made last fall, carefully fastened into place with pride.

To complete the look, Myne tied a corsage around Tuuli’s wrist—a delicate arrangement of fabric fashioned into a flower and blue ribbon, crafted last spring for this very moment.

Meanwhile, in the corner of the room, Gunther was putting on an award-worthy performance.

“I don’t think I can make it to work today,” he mumbled dramatically, hand to his forehead. “My stomach hurts. Or maybe it’s my chest? No, no—wait, it’s both.”

“Gunther,” Effa said flatly.

“I just think it’s important for the whole family to be together on this sacred occasion.”

Effa gave him a look. “You’re escorting us to the temple and then heading straight to the gate. Don’t think I don’t see through you.”

Gunther sighed, defeated but not entirely disappointed. “Fine. But I’m walking her there at least.”

Before leaving, the family gathered for a small exchange of gifts. Effa handed Tuuli a wrapped bundle—her first set of sewing tools. Tuuli’s eyes lit up as she carefully opened the cloth, revealing polished needles, pins, a primitive version of a measuring tape, and a pair of scissors. She placed them proudly in the sewing basket Myne had gifted her the week before.

Then, to Myne’s surprise, Gunther turned to her with a small, leather-wrapped bundle. “This is for you.”

“For me?” Myne blinked. “But it’s Tuuli’s day.”

“Exactly,” Gunther said, placing it in her hands. “Tuuli’s moving on to her apprenticeship, which means you will be holding down the fort. Think of this as your inheritance.”

Inside was a simple but well-made utility knife—perfect for foraging, slicing ingredients, or carving wood in her workshop. Myne held it like it was something sacred.

“…Thank you.”

“Use it well,” Gunther said, ruffling her hair fondly. “And try not to lose a finger.”

Once dressed and ready, the family stepped out into the bustling streets. Tuuli looked radiant, and it didn’t take long for the neighborhood mothers to swoop in with squeals and praises.

“Oh, look at her hair!”

“That comb—where did you get that? It’s stunning!”

“Oh, Tuuli, you’re like a noble lady today!”

Tuuli flushed from head to toe, ducking shyly behind Myne, who only giggled. “You’ll have to get used to the spotlight, big sister.”

Soon, the group of baptismal children began gathering at the square, each wearing their finest. An adult volunteer took charge, gently organizing the excited cluster of boys and girls as onlookers showered them with summer blossoms from windows and balconies above. The petals floated like confetti, and laughter rang through the cobbled streets as the children followed the small parade route toward the temple.

Effa and Myne watched from the sidelines, waving and calling out encouragement. Gunther lingered beside them, clearly reluctant to leave.

“You’ll be late,” Effa reminded him, nudging him with her elbow.

“One more minute.”

“Gunther.”

“Fine, fine. I’m going!”

He jogged off down the road, but not without glancing over his shoulder a dozen times.

Effa chuckled and shook her head. “That man. You’d think Tuuli was going off to war, not to a ceremony.”

Myne laughed, looping her arm through her mother’s. “At least he cares.”

“Too much sometimes,” Effa replied, but her smile was fond.

Together, they waited at the temple steps, hearts light, proud and joyful as the morning sun glistened off the petals still fluttering in the summer air.

Following Tuuli’s baptism, the warm glow of spring gradually gave way to the preparations of early summer. With the season turning, Myne and Lutz finally found a quiet afternoon to sit down and discuss their next big step.

“In a year,” Myne murmured, fingers tracing circles in the dust atop the worktable, “we’ll be baptized too.”

Lutz nodded. “And when that happens, we’ll need to present our paper prototype to Benno as part of our apprenticeship test.”

The reminder settled between them with the weight of responsibility. The soap and hair gel venture had been a remarkable success—lucrative, even beyond their expectations. With their families taken care of and their pockets lined with savings, the two children had every right to feel proud.

But they were also realists. That had only been the beginning.

“We’re grateful for what we’ve made,” Myne said, echoing Lutz’s thoughts, “and we’ll keep selling, obviously. But we can’t let ourselves slow down. If we lose momentum now…”

“It’ll all slip away,” Lutz finished, his tone firm.

And therein lay the problem: How could they juggle both?

The last season had been a whirlwind of mixing, molding, refining, and selling. It had consumed nearly every waking moment, even with help from their families. Yes, they had earned enough to support their households in moderate comfort for a few years—but the time cost had been tremendous.

“How are we supposed to squeeze in paper making?” Lutz asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “We can’t just drop soap and hair gel now. But paper’s not gonna make itself.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, each trying to calculate an impossible balance. Ideas began trickling out.

“We could hire people,” Myne suggested tentatively, though her lips twisted with uncertainty. “But it’s risky. What if they forget a step in the soap-making process? The product quality might drop. Even if we teach them, it still depends on their memory and diligence.”

Lutz frowned. “Yeah. If someone forgets to stir the oil before mixing it with the lye, or lets the fire burn too hot and ruins the batch… we’d lose a lot more than money. Our reputation could take a hit.”

Myne nodded slowly. “And teaching takes time. Time we don’t have.”

More silence followed—until a flicker of realization lit in Lutz’s eyes. He snapped his fingers.

“Wait! We’re thinking about this all wrong.” His face brightened with the clarity of an epiphany. “We don’t have to teach them how to make the soap. Just... parts of it.”

“Huh?” Myne tilted her head.

“We do the mixing ourselves—that’s the most important part, right? That’s where the magic happens. But everything else?” Lutz began counting on his fingers. “We can have people extract the oil from the meryls, make sure the firewood’s stocked, tend the flame, even pour the mix into the molds and cut the bars once they’ve cured.”

Myne blinked in surprise. “That could work. It’s like breaking the job into safer pieces.”

“Exactly. No one touches the actual formula. Just the prep and cleanup. That way, we protect our recipe and our quality.”

Now energized, the two began making a mental list of people they could trust with such tasks. They would need strong hands, reliable tempers, and ideally, someone who wouldn’t go blabbing to the wrong person.

“I can probably ask Ralph,” Lutz said, tapping his chin. “He’s going to do his apprentice under Pa, so I bet he wouldn’t say no to a bit of coin. And maybe Fey too—he’s a year younger than us but pretty dependable.”

Myne smiled. “Tuuli could help, at least on her free days. New apprentices only work three days a week anyway. The rest of the time, she’ll probably help with chores. I’m sure she’d love to earn a little of her own money.”

They both paused to consider the salary.

“One medium bronze coin a day?” Lutz proposed.

Myne nodded. “Fair, and manageable. It’s enough to be meaningful without draining our profits.”

With their plan roughly sketched, the next step was clear: speak to their families. They needed permission—not just for formality’s sake, but because involving family meant building deeper trust into their budding business.

They stood, excitement bubbling just beneath the surface.

For once, it felt like the path ahead wasn’t an uphill battle.

It was a careful climb, yes—but one they could now make with support.

The very next day, Lutz and Myne made their way to speak with their chosen recruits.

They approached Ralph first, catching him as he was returning from the plaza. Lutz, with his usual straightforward tone, explained their plan and what kind of help they needed. Ralph raised a brow at first, skeptical, until he heard the pay.

“A medium bronze a day?” he repeated, clearly surprised. “For chopping firewood and pressing oil out of fruit?”

Lutz nodded. “It’s simple work, but we need people we can trust. Someone who’ll show up on time and not skip corners.”

Ralph grinned and crossed his arms. “If you’re paying that well, I’ll take it seriously.”

Next was Fey, Lutz’s cousin, whom they found foraging at the woods. At a year younger than them, Fey had a quick mind and strong arms, and after a brief moment of disbelief, his eyes lit up.

“I’ll do it! I’ve always wanted to earn my own money,” he beamed, already asking questions about the job.

Finally, they brought the offer to Tuuli over dinner that night. Effa looked a little concerned at first, but Myne assured her it wouldn’t interfere with Tuuli’s apprenticeship. Since new apprentices only worked three days a week, Tuuli would still have time to help during her free days.

“And the pay is the same?” Tuuli asked, wide-eyed.

Myne smiled. “Of course. Fair work, fair pay.”

Tuuli turned to her parents. “Please, Mama? Papa? I want to help too.”

Gunther chuckled, ruffling her hair. “If it’s Myne’s business, I trust you both. Just don’t overwork yourself.”

With everyone’s enthusiastic agreement, the plan was set in motion.

The first week was spent under close supervision. Myne and Lutz carefully explained each task—how to sort the meryl fruit, the proper way to press the oil, how to manage the fire’s heat, and when the soap had to be molded or cut. There were a few mistakes, but none too serious, and both Ralph and Fey picked up the rhythm quickly. Tuuli, ever careful, followed instructions to the letter.

By the second week, Myne and Lutz were confident enough to let them handle the tasks on their own. They still checked in throughout the day and did the actual soap mixing themselves, but everything else was handled smoothly by their tiny workforce. They

It wasn’t perfect yet, but It was working—and for now, that was enough. With their time freed up just a little more, they could finally shift focus toward the heart of their dream: the paper.

Finally, after weeks of preparation and delegation, Myne and Lutz had enough time to turn their attention back to their original goal: making paper from scratch.

Recounting a conversation they had at the start of spring, Lutz made a trip to the carpenter’s guild to seek advice. He was looking for a type of wood suitable for paper—something soft, fibrous, and easy to break down. A grizzled veteran had pointed him toward pine, fir or birch, all of which were relatively common in Ehrenfest. In exchange for a few copper coins, the man had even provided Lutz with several small samples to work with and where he could find more.

Their custom-made equipment—wooden tubs, a simple wooden press, mesh screens fitted into frames—had already been delivered back in the third month of spring. With everything ready, the two made their way to the riverbank near the south gate, where they could experiment away from the bustle of town.

The first task was to steam and soak the wood to soften the bark. They filled a barrel with river water and placed it over a fire, letting the logs steam in batches before leaving them to soak in cold water for several more days. Once the bark was pliable, they peeled it away by hand or sliced it off with knives.

The stripped wood was then chopped into small pieces and brought back to their workshop. There, the real labor began: pounding the wood into pulp using large mallets. It was slow, exhausting work, but the sight of fibrous slurry beginning to form made it all worthwhile.

Next came boiling the pulp with a lye-like solution made from wood ash, which helped dissolve the remaining lignin. After rinsing the mushy fibers clean, they mixed in a bit of rice starch to act as sizing—helping the final product hold ink without smudging.

Then came the most delicate part: molding the paper. They dipped their mesh frames into the pulp mixture and gently shook them to spread the fibers evenly. Once the water drained, the wet sheets were laid between cloth layers and pressed to squeeze out any remaining moisture.

The final step was to air-dry the sheets, a process that took another two days depending on the weather.

It was far from perfect—some sheets came out too thick, others too flimsy—but they were learning.

It was a step towards the right direction.

The following weeks passed in a steady rhythm of bubbling pots and soaked bark. Between long hours of stirring oils and perfumes for their soap business, Myne and Lutz carved out every spare moment to refine their papermaking method. What had once taken them days now only took half, and with each batch, they drew closer to consistency.

It was on one cloudy afternoon, deep into the second month of summer, that they were at the riverside again. Myne and Lutz knelt in the grass, processing a new batch of bark. The fibers were steeped just long enough to soften and separate, and they had altered the boiling time to give the pulp a smoother consistency. With a bit of luck, this batch might even look like paper and not a soggy mess.

The process was still repetitive, yet that didn’t dim their enthusiasm. Lutz hummed while stirring the pot. Myne, feeling the strain in her back, stood and stretched before announcing she’d take a short walk to gather her thoughts.

“Don’t wander too far,” Lutz called without looking up. “We still need to mash those fibers.”

“Five minutes,” she replied, waving as she walked into the woods.

She didn’t intend to go far—just enough to clear her head. But as she wandered beneath the canopy, her eyes caught sight of something strange. Half-buried in the ground, nestled beneath a patch of weeds, was a bright red fruit. Its shape was uncannily familiar—oval with thick, spiny skin like a dragon fruit from Eos. But something was off.

It was hollow.

Frowning, Myne grabbed a fallen branch and gently prodded it. Nothing happened. Cautiously, she dug it out and held it in her hands.

The reaction was instant.

A surge of mana slipped from her fingers like water through a sieve. The fruit grew hot—painfully so—and she gasped, hurling it away. The fruit hit the ground with a heavy thud and exploded. From the cracked husk, vine-like tendrils burst out, wriggling with unnatural life.

Myne stumbled back, heart pounding.

“LUTZ!” she screamed.

The vines twisted in the air, groping blindly for something—anything—to latch onto. They slithered across the forest floor like snakes, splitting and multiplying.

Lutz came crashing through the brush, knife drawn, eyes wide. “What the hell—?!”

He didn’t waste time asking questions. He lunged forward, slashing at the vines. The blade bit through the growth, but more sprang up in their place. He gave a sharp whistle—loud, piercing—hoping the foraging kids would come running.

None came.

“Ralph and the others are at the workshop!” he realized aloud, panic starting to creep into his voice. “We’re on our own!”

“Go get the soldiers!” he shouted. “Now!”

But Myne didn’t move.

“No,” she said, trembling. “I won’t leave you.”

She reached for her knife—Gunther’s gift from Tuuli’s baptism ceremony—only to find nothing. She’d left it by the river. Her stomach sank. She clenched her fists, heart pounding, as the world slowed to a crawl.

Everything—the sound of Lutz yelling, the vines twisting, the wind in the trees—froze into an eerie silence.

Then came the voice.

“…It would seem that her Grace had found herself in a bit of a pickle, no?”

It was older now—wiser—but unmistakable. A teasing lilt that used to frustrate her to no end, and now hit like a blow to the chest.

Her breath caught. “Noctis…?”

The forest around her dissolved. The light dimmed and reformed, reshaping the world around her until she stood not on moss and soil, but smooth white marble. Above her rose the vaulted halls of the Citadel of Insomnia, shining with the otherworldly glow of the Astral Realm. Stained glass cast shards of gold and sapphire across the floor. Time felt both infinite and weightless.

And at the far end of the hall, upon a throne of light and crystal, sat Noctis Lucis Caelum.

Older. Serene. Wearing his crown, yet at peace. His eyes, once so heavy with fate, now burned clear and unwavering.

Behind him stood three familiar figures, each bathed in the same quiet light. Gladiolus Amicitia—arms crossed, unyielding. Ignis Scientia—composed, his hands clasped behind his back. And Prompto Argentum—smiling softly, indigo eyes shining with warmth.

“My King…” Luna—no, Myne—whispered, overwhelmed. She took a step forward, a thousand memories surging all at once. “You’re…”

“I’m here,” he answered gently, standing from his throne. “Just for this moment.”

Tears stung her eyes. “Noctis, I—”

“There’s no time for apologies,” he said, closing the distance between them with slow, steady steps. “And no need. You did more than enough. You gave everything… Luna.”

She flinched at the name. “It’s Myne now.”

He smiled. “I know. You chose life. And I’m glad you did.”

“But I left you—” she choked, her hands trembling. “I should’ve stayed, should’ve found a way to help you finish it. I—”

“You helped more than anyone ever could,” Noctis interrupted, his voice firm. “You paved the road that let me walk to the end. Without you, none of it would’ve been possible. Eos is healed. The Starscourge is gone. And Ardyn… is at rest.”

She gasped, and he nodded.

“It’s done, Luna. It’s really done. You can let go of that weight.”

Her eyes burned. “But why now? Why are you here?”

Noctis gave a wistful glance to his friends behind him before turning back. “Because I wanted to see you one last time. To give you something. The gods may not speak to this world the same way, but their light still lingers. And you—” he reached out and placed his hand over her heart “—you still carry their blessing.”

She lowered her gaze. “I’m not her anymore. I’m not the Oracle. I’m just… a girl trying to live her life.”

“And yet,” he said softly, “you still run toward danger. Still refuse to leave someone behind. Still give even when you have nothing left.”

He stepped back, raising a hand, and the hall around them began to shimmer.

“Then let me give something to you, Myne. Not for duty. Not for fate. But for the life you chose.”

From above, a shaft of golden light broke through the ceiling. Within it, the familiar shape of a trident—her trident—descended slowly, encased in glimmering crystal and light.

“For your service to the Astrals,” Noctis intoned, his voice echoing with royal authority, “to me, and to the Lady of Dawn—”

The Trident spun, fragmenting into a halo of ethereal blades.

“—I bequeath to you thine sacred armament. Let it be your sword in the world. A beacon not of sacrifice, but of hope.”

Her lips parted, stunned, the radiance washing over her like a tidal wave.

Noctis smiled one last time.

“You’ve walked tall, Luna. Now go. Live freely, as you were never allowed to before.”

The image of the throne room began to dissolve, golden shards drifting into the void.

“And, Luna,” he said, softer now. “Thank you. For everything.”

And then he was gone.

The world snapped back.

Time rushed forward.

Lutz cried out as a vine wrapped around his arm and yanked him to the ground. His knife clattered to the dirt, and he struggled to keep the tendrils from wrapping around his throat.

But Myne was no longer afraid.

Her breath steadied. Light flared around her, not blinding but warm. She raised her hand, and the sound of shattering crystal echoed like thunder.

From her being erupted the Armiger: luminous tridents of pure light, spinning in orbit like a divine halo.

Lutz turned, eyes wide, breathless. “Myne…?”

Without hesitation, she pointed forward.

The tridents shot out like comets—slicing through the vines, cutting them into ribbons of ash and smoke. The forest was filled with motion, the golden blades dancing like ribbons in a gale.

The trombe shrieked—a soundless, alien scream—before collapsing into writhing tendrils that quickly stilled.

And then silence.

Lutz lay panting, staring at her, his shirt torn and arm scraped—but alive. The last of the tridents faded, their light retreating back into the quiet.

Myne lowered her hand, chest heaving.

He pushed himself to sit up, still watching her with awe. “So… that’s what it looks like when an Oracle fights.”

She laughed breathlessly, on the verge of tears. “That one’s new, actually.”

He reached for her hand, gripping it tightly. “Thanks, Myne! I thought was a goner back there.”

She smiled at him, then swayed slightly.

“Cool,” she muttered, dizzy. “Because I think I need to sit down now.”

And then she did—softly, as if gravity had finally remembered her.

…

Myne stirred to the sound of quiet voices and the gentle clatter of bowls being placed on a tray. Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting slowly to the golden morning light filtering through the window.

She was in her bed.

Home.

Tuuli was seated beside her, gripping her hand tightly, while Effa hovered nearby with a cool cloth. Gunther was pacing at the foot of the bed like a restless bear, arms crossed, but his stern expression melted the moment he saw her eyes open.

“She’s awake!” Tuuli cried, eyes brimming with tears.

“Thank the gods,” Effa whispered, placing a gentle hand on her forehead.

Gunther, uncharacteristically emotional, huffed and knelt by her side. “You gave us a scare, little one. Lutz said you collapsed near the river. What were you thinking, working yourself to the bone like that?”

Myne blinked, processing the scene, and only then did she realize how many pillows were propped behind her. The warmth of a hot towel had been placed over her neck, and a bowl of steaming soup sat on a tray, flanked by sliced fruit and a delicate herb tea.

Ah, she thought, inwardly smiling. So that’s what Lutz told them.

She gave them a sheepish grin, playing into the role. “I guess I got a little carried away… Sorry for worrying you.”

Effa tutted, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders. “Carried away? You fainted! That’s not something to take lightly, Myne.”

“She’s not going back to that river anytime soon,” Gunther declared with finality. “Whatever you two were working on, it can wait.”

“But Papa,” Tuuli protested, “she looked so happy doing it…”

“That doesn’t matter. Nothing is worth her health.” He looked at Myne again and sighed. “If you really want to help, rest. Just rest for now.”

Tuuli nodded in agreement. “We’ll do all the chores. Mama made soup with those dried herbs you like. And I made sure to fluff your favorite pillow.”

“And you’re not lifting a finger!” Effa said firmly.

Myne reclined into the covers, completely cocooned in comfort, her heart warm with the attention. In all honesty, she felt more alive than she had in months. She had used up all her unspent mana, her trident was back, and well, what else could she ask for?

But she wouldn’t dare ruin the moment.

“Alright,” she murmured, eyes twinkling. “If you insist.”

Tuuli giggled and spooned some soup for her, like an attentive nurse. “You’re going to be spoiled rotten.”

“I think I already am.”

And for once, she let herself bask in it.

It had been a week of pampering, coddling, and warm soup every day.

At first, Myne had relished the affection. Every little groan summoned Tuuli with a cup of tea. Every sigh brought Effa bustling in with another cushion or blanket. Gunther had even taken to carrying her from her bed to the dining table as if she were made of glass.

But by day seven, Myne had had enough.

She sat by the window, drumming her fingers on the sill, watching the clouds drift by with all the languid indifference of a cat on a rooftop. Her legs bounced with pent-up energy, and the craving to do something—anything—had reached a boiling point.

When the door opened, she perked up immediately.

“Lutz!” she practically shouted, scurrying over before remembering she was supposed to be fragile. She settled for walking like a dainty maiden, but the grin on her face ruined the act.

“Looks like someone’s back from the dead,” Lutz teased, setting down a small bundle.

“Oh please. I’ve never felt better.” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “But if I said that out loud, Mama would tie me to the bed.”

Lutz chuckled and handed her the bundle. “Well, I’ve got good news. Everything’s still on schedule. Our soap quota for the month? Finished. I kept the mixing simple while you were out, stuck to our usual blends for Ehrenfest Spring.”

Myne nodded, impressed. “Smart. No need to gamble with new scents without supervision.”

“And the bark we soaked last week? It’s drying now,” he added. “I built some additional drying racks behind the workshop since we’re running out of space. We’ll be able to test the fibers in a few more days.”

Myne clutched the bundle to her chest, elated. “You’re amazing, Lutz. Really. I thought everything would fall apart without me.”

“Nah,” he said, scratching his cheek and looking a little bashful. “We’ve got a good rhythm now. Still… it’s not the same without you yelling about starches and pH levels every ten minutes.”

She laughed.

Then he reached into his satchel and pulled out a small cloth-wrapped pouch. “Also—while I was out checking the bark near the riverbank… I gathered these.”

Myne’s breath caught as he gently unwrapped the pouch, revealing a bundle of knotted, blackish-green vines.

“The trombe,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Lutz confirmed. “It’s the one you hacked and slashed with your awesome divine queen magic. I figured you’d want to experiment when you’re back on your feet.”

Excitement surged through her. Trombe vines for paper making! Now that was something novel. She had heard of its existence from the boys a month ago. She just hadn’t seen one in person yet, or that it grows from the red fruit she saw. And boy, wasn’t that a nasty surprise.

Still…

“I knew I kept you around for a reason,” Myne said, eyes gleaming.

Lutz smirked. “Gee, thanks.”

“I’ll rest another day or two to keep up the act,” she whispered conspiratorially. “But then? We’re going back to full throttle.”

“Just don’t faint again,” he said. “Or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

They shared a grin, one that only co-conspirators and dreamers understood. Outside, the sky had begun to clear—sunlight breaking through, illuminating the path ahead.

Myne was ready.

Chapter Text

After the incident with the Trombe, Myne was finally allowed to rejoin Lutz in their shared workshop. The week-long delay hadn’t slowed them down much—on the contrary, it seemed to renew their determination. Their latest batch of paper, though it had taken an extra week to finish, came out noticeably better than the last.

Of course, it still paled in comparison to the smooth, feather light sheets of modern paper Myne once knew. But by medieval standards, their product was practically revolutionary.

Where Yurgenschmidt still relied on parchment made from animal hide—thick, yellowing, and expensive—or porous wooden slates that absorbed ink too easily and wore down styluses, what Myne and Lutz had produced was a marvel. Their handmade paper was thinner and more pliable, soft to the touch yet firm enough not to crumble. The surface held ink well with minimal bleeding, and while the pages weren't perfectly even or crisp, each sheet had a rustic charm—slightly textured, delicately ridged, and infused with the faint scent of boiled pulp and forest wood.

The real surprise, however, came from the Trombe vines. What had initially been a terrifying magical threat now proved to be an unexpectedly useful resource. The paper made from the Trombe’s fibrous remains turned out whiter, finer, and smoother than any of the others. It took to ink with almost no spread at all and dried faster on the surface. The finish was soft and velvety—closer to linen than bark. It was far too tedious to ever be produced in bulk, but as a special, limited-edition product? It would make a luxurious and rare collectible item.

Neither Lutz nor Myne imagined anyone in their right mind would willingly hunt Trombes just to gather vines. But it was satisfying to know they’d found another use for the otherwise dangerous plant. The current samples made for an ideal working prototype, and Myne couldn’t wait to present them to Benno. Their growing stock of wares was expanding faster than anticipated, and with this new addition, their catalog would look much more impressive.

By the end of summer, they had a decent number of completed batches: paper made from pine, fir, spruce, birch, and of course, Trombe vine. Each wood type gave their product a unique color, texture, and weight. Pine produced a pale yellow paper with long, flexible fibers. Fir yielded a slightly coarser texture but was durable. Spruce had a pleasant softness, almost cotton-like when dried. Birch gave them their smoothest finish—until the Trombe outshined them all.

They juggled this alongside their soap production, barely finding time to rest—but neither of them complained.

…

Like the season before, Lutz and Myne’s summer drew to a close with a scheduled meeting at the Gilberta Company. They arrived with their samples tucked carefully in waxed paper bundles, ready to be judged, berated, or—if they were lucky—praised by Benno.

But something was different this time.

The moment they stepped into his office, Benno looked like he’d aged a decade over the summer. His sleeves were rolled, collar askew, and there were dark circles under his eyes. A stack of correspondence sat on the desk behind him, sealed in expensive wax—none of it addressed to mere commoners.

“About time you two showed up,” he muttered, though his voice held no real heat. “You wouldn’t believe the storm your soap stirred up.”

Lutz blinked. “The orders?”

Benno snorted. “The nobles.”

Apparently, the merchant had spent most of the summer fending off noblemen and women from the Noble’s Quarter, all vying for exclusive access to the now-coveted item. What began as a modest hygiene product had turned into a trend. An obsession, even.

“They started sending invitations,” Benno said, rubbing his temple. “Not for business meetings—tea parties. ‘Oh, Master Benno, please bring a sample for the ladies,’ they’d coo. Like I’m some glorified peddler.”

He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with both weariness and amusement. “You have no idea how desperate they are to get a whiff of that floral rinse.”

“They’re using it as currency,” Myne said knowingly. “Trends are like that in high society.”

Benno raised a brow. “Oh? And how would a pipsqueak like you know that?”

She merely smiled.

Benno shook his head, muttering about strange kids with stranger brains, while Lutz—ever the practical one—perked up with a more grounded concern.

“If the nobles like it that much,” he said, “does that mean we can charge them more?”

Benno grinned. “Now that’s the right way to think.”

They went over their earnings next. Lutz took out a crumpled ledger he’d practiced with in his free time, and together, they calculated what they were expecting:

“One large gold coin, nine small gold coins, and five large silvers,” Lutz recited, “minus production and loan…”

Benno waved his hand. “Don’t bother with the loan anymore. That’s paid off. Equipment, workhouse—all done.”

Myne and Lutz exchanged a glance, stunned into silence.

Benno chuckled. “Look forward to Fall. From now on, every coin goes straight into your pockets—or your projects. If you’ve got more schemes like this, keep ’em coming.”

With the mood lifted, they proudly unwrapped their paper prototypes. Five kinds of handmade sheets, neatly stacked: pine, fir, spruce, birch, and the rare trombe.

Benno stared at them.

Then he stared some more.

And for a terrifying second, Myne thought he’d stopped breathing.

“You—five? FIVE? You made five different prototypes?! And you still kept the soap business running?!”

Myne tilted her head. “Well, we had help… and a system.”

“We outsourced help by hiring our relatives,” Lutz offered. “And we made them do the grunt work.”

Benno slumped back into his chair like he’d just been punched in the stomach.

“You little monsters.”

He eventually composed himself, swept the papers into a protective binder, and stood.

“Right. Enough delays. I’m locking this down before someone else gets their claws on you.”

“But we’re still dirty,” Myne said, looking down at her mud-stained hem.

Benno barked a laugh. “I’m not dragging you to the guild looking like beggars.”

He stepped out briefly and returned with two simple but well-tailored sets of work clothes. Myne was handed an olive-colored dress, modest but sleek, while Lutz received a sturdy green tunic and slacks. There was even a set of soft leather shoes for each of them, replacing the wooden clogs they’d worn through the summer.

“Go change. You’re presenting yourselves as merchants now. You represent me. And I want those nobles to see you shine like polished coins.”

They hurried to the washroom to change. And when they stepped out, freshly scrubbed– with their own soap, no less— and dressed, Benno gave a short nod of approval, then clapped each of them on the shoulder.

“Let’s go make it official.”

Together, the three made their way to the Merchant’s Guild.

…

The sun had just started to dip when the three of them arrived at the Merchant’s Guild in the western quarter. The building stood proud and imposing, its broad stone façade etched with symbols of prosperity—wheat stalks, weighed scales, and a large golden coin set into the arch above its grand doors.

To the average citizen, it was merely the administrative heart of commerce in Ehrenfest. But for aspiring merchants like Myne and Lutz, it was the gate to legitimacy.

As they walked past the threshold, Myne took a moment to glance around, taking in the polished stone floors, high vaulted ceilings, and rows of bustling clerks behind counters. A strong scent of ink and old paper lingered in the air.

It feels like the post office back in Tenebrae, she mused. Orderly, formal, a bit too rustic for the modern world ruled by computers—but efficient.

Benno, without wasting a second, approached one of the reception counters. “I’m here to register two apprentices under my name,” he declared. “Myne and Lutz. And I’d like Guild Cards issued.”

The clerk nodded, adjusting his monocle. “Please wait while we process your request.”

As the paperwork was being prepared, Lutz nudged Myne and gestured toward a large framed map hanging on one of the side walls.

The two of them quietly approached it.

Drawn with immaculate precision and inked in striking hues, the map depicted the continent of Yurgenschmidt. At the center lay the Sovereignty—an emblem of the royal family’s power—surrounded by a ring of duchies arranged like petals around a flower’s heart.

“There’s Ehrenfest,” Lutz murmured, pointing to one of the outer duchies.

“It’s so small compared to the rest,” Myne replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t realize our duchy was only a fragment of something much larger…”

“Think we’ll ever get to see the other places?” Lutz asked, his voice filled with wonder.

Myne stared silently for a moment, recalling how her life once demanded travel from one city to another, always as a tool of peace or for the Gods, but never truly hers. “I hope so,” she simply says, quiet and sincere.

Their moment was shattered by a sharp voice echoing from the reception area.

“What do you mean you can’t process it?” Benno barked, his tone tight with fury. “You’ve got the paperwork. You’ve got the names. Are you telling me the Merchant’s Guild is now turning away successful apprentices?”

“We’re sorry, Master Benno,” the clerk stammered. “There’s been a directive passed down—apprentice registrations tied to new goods must be reviewed by upper management…”

Benno’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Gustav.”

He turned to glare at the hallway leading deeper into the building. “That old fart planned this.”

With a clenched jaw, he snapped toward Myne and Lutz. “Come with me. Now.”

Confused but compliant, the two children followed him past the main reception and toward an unassuming stone wall. A circular rune, faintly glowing, had been etched into the surface like a magical crest carved into the stone.

Myne slowed her pace. Something about it tingled in her mind.

A barrier, she recognized, though said nothing aloud. A passive ward. To separate this space from casual visitors.

The receptionist paled when Benno approached it. “M-Master Benno, the Guildmaster’s office—”

“—has been expecting me, no doubt,” Benno interrupted with a knowing sneer. “Don’t waste our time.”

Within moments, an escort was summoned, and the runic barrier shimmered faintly as they were granted passage. Myne felt the subtle hum of mana in the air—tingling against her skin—as they crossed into the restricted section. She said nothing, but her eyes lingered on the fading light of the circle carved into the wall.

The staircase spiraled upward like a tightly coiled spring, every step bringing with it a growing pressure in the air. By the time they reached the top, even the walls felt heavier—thick with the presence of old money, older rules, and expectations chiseled in stone.

At the summit loomed a pair of tall double doors—dark oak veined with gold filigree, polished to a mirror shine. They looked as though they belonged more to a palace than an office.

Benno didn’t hesitate.

He threw the doors open with both hands, letting them slam into the walls with a reverberating boom that shook dust from the rafters.

“You senile geezer! What kind of joke are you playing at?” he barked, stomping into the office with the force of a thunderclap.

Startled, Myne skidded to a halt behind him, instinctively clutching the sleeve of Lutz’s tunic. She’d never seen Benno like this—he wasn’t just angry; he was furious. Not the sharp, cold fury of a merchant losing a deal. This was personal. Familiar. Old.

Gustav, the Guild master, didn’t so much as flinch. He looked up slowly from the scrolls spread across his desk, his expression as calm and dry as parchment.

“And a good day to you too, Benno,” he said mildly, folding his aged hands atop the desk. “I trust the air in the Lower District hasn’t rotted your manners.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Benno growled. “Why did you reject their application?”

Gustav lifted one brow. “It’s very simple. They’re unbaptized. Guild regulations clearly state that apprentices must be baptized before they can be registered.”

Benno didn’t sit. He loomed instead—arms crossed, temper simmering beneath every syllable. “Since when do you care about regulations? You’ve bent more rules than a novice scribe’s quill.”

“That may be,” Gustav replied, entirely unbothered, “but I don’t recall you ever dragging unbaptized brats into my office before.”

Myne’s lips parted, but she said nothing. Lutz’s eyes flicked between the two older men like he was watching a duel he hadn’t trained for.

Benno jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “These two are more valuable than half the guild put together. Myne’s already innovated two new industries. You reject them now, and they’ll be plucked clean by peddlers and bottom-feeders within a week.”

“I’m not running a charity,” Gustav said. “And I certainly don’t take in wild talent just because you’re sentimental.”

That word—sentimental—hung heavy in the air. Myne picked up on the shift instantly.

Then, unexpectedly, Gustav’s gaze flicked to her. More specifically, to the comb nestled in her hair.

He leaned forward slightly, tone abruptly sharper. “Where did you get that?”

Myne blinked, hand rising to touch the accessory reflexively. “I made it,” she said cautiously. “Why?”

Gustav’s face didn’t change, but his posture did. He sat straighter. Leaned closer. His eyes fixed on the comb with unsettling intensity.

“My granddaughter’s baptism is this winter,” he said. “She’s been asking for that exact design since summer. Saw it in another girl’s hair and hasn’t stopped talking about it since.”

Benno seized the moment with merciless precision.

“That,” he said with a wolfish grin, “is part of their product line.”

Gustav looked up sharply.

“But as you’ve so graciously pointed out,” Benno continued, “they can’t sell a thing. Not unless they’re officially part of the guild. No membership, no merchandise. A shame, really.”

Silence. Long, brittle silence.

Myne watched as Gustav’s face began to tighten—slightly at first. His fingers curled. A bead of sweat formed at his temple.

Benno was right. Gustav had just realized the trap he’d walked into.

“Well,” Benno said at last, turning on his heel with theatrical flair, “this was clearly a waste of time. Lutz, Myne—let’s go.”

They had barely taken three steps toward the door when Gustav’s voice snapped behind them like a whip.

“Wait!”

The old man had risen from his seat, jaw clenched.

“I will reconsider… if you agree to make a comb for my granddaughter.”

Benno turned slowly, all smug satisfaction. “Oh? Then let’s talk price.”

Gustav hesitated, then raised two fingers.

Myne tilted her head. “What does that mean?”

“Two small silvers?” Lutz guessed.

Benno scoffed. “That’s your opening offer?” He lifted five fingers. “Five.”

Gustav’s eyes narrowed.

“Three.”

Benno leaned against the desk with all the casual arrogance of a man who had already won. “Four large silvers,” he said, lowering his hand. “Not a copper less.”

Gustav exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re raising the value just by opening your mouth.”

“I’m quoting reality,” Benno replied. “You just admitted you’ve had people searching all over the city. And this comb?” He gestured to Myne. “This is her prototype. You’re not buying just a trinket—you’re buying what your granddaughter wants. That kind of leverage doesn’t come cheap.”

Gustav hesitated. Then, with a slow nod, he relented. “Fine. Four large silvers, but you better make sure it’s as good, if not, better than the little miss’s comb..”

“Pleasure doing business,” Benno said, eyes glinting.

But Gustav wasn’t done. He immediately began rattling off a list of design elements—color palettes, comb length, engraved flourishes.

Myne raised a hand gently. “If I may… I think it would be better to ask your granddaughter directly.”

Gustav stopped mid-sentence.

“Something that personal?” Myne continued. “It should match her taste. Girls don’t always like surprise gifts. Especially not ones they have to wear.”

A long pause.

Then Gustav leaned back in his chair and let out a low chuckle.

“You’re wiser than your age suggests,” he muttered. “Very well. I’ll arrange a meeting between you two.”

Benno gave Myne a sideways glance, one brow raised. “Remind me to hire you the next time I negotiate with this old goat.”

She smiled, demure as ever. “Happy to assist.”

In the end, the trio walked out with a pair of freshly issued guild cards for Myne and Lutz.

Apparently, Benno had been pushing for this for a while. Now that they were officially registered, the cards would allow them to manage their own earnings. Enchanted for practical use, the guild cards worked like a combination of a credit card and a bank book, eliminating the need to carry physical currency as they can easily exchange coins by simply touching their card to another.

Without fanfare, Benno deposited their individual earnings onto their respective cards. “Don’t be stupid.” he said simply, before tucking his own card away. With business settled, the three of them left the guild hall.

…

Three days later, Myne and Lutz stood near the edge of the town square, just beside the large fountain where children splashed their feet and mothers chatted while keeping a loose eye on their little ones.

As agreed, they were waiting to meet Guild Master Gustav’s granddaughter—Freida.

When the tenth bell echoed across the plaza, a small girl with soft pink pigtails and an air of quiet confidence approached them. Her smile was bright and practiced, her steps light but deliberate.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you both,” she greeted. “You must be Lutz and Myne.”

Lutz blinked. “Uh… how did you know?”

Freida tilted her head, as if amused. “You stand out,” she said simply. “Your hair is clean and smells like herbs, your skin isn’t smudged with soot, and the comb in Myne’s hair? It’s the same design as the one I saw on the girl during the summer baptism. Handmade, unique, and elegant.”

Lutz shot Myne a look, and she gave a tiny shrug in return. Benno had warned them. “She’s sharp, just like her grandfather,” he had said.

Without missing a beat, Freida turned on her heel. “This way, please. I’ll show you to our home.”

She led them through the northern district, where the houses grew larger, cleaner, and more elaborately adorned. The people they passed wore finer clothing, and even the cobblestones seemed more polished.

“That’s Othmar’s Grocery,” Freida pointed out lightly as they passed a storefront. “We own it.”

Myne stiffened slightly but kept her expression smooth. We buy our rio oil from there, she thought. She and Lutz exchanged another silent glance but said nothing aloud.

As they walked, Myne studied Freida. She was petite, even smaller than Myne, which surprised her. Aren’t they supposed to be the same age? But compared to her sickly state in autumn, Myne had finally begun to grow. Her self-purification, better food, and daily baths seemed to be making a visible difference.

Freida, meanwhile, was clearly raised with wealth. Her pink dress had lace trim, and her ribbons were silk. She smelled faintly of something floral, and there wasn’t a wrinkle on her.

Eventually, they arrived at a tall building with a tidy garden in front—something rare in Ehrenfest, where most buildings were cramped and stacked upward to save space.

Inside, the house was filled with elegant furniture and warm scents of baked goods and spices. The walls were decorated with embroidered tapestries, and polished glass vases held preserved flowers in delicate arrangements.

Guild Master Gustav must really be loaded, Myne thought, glancing around.

A servant guided them into a well-furnished drawing room where tea and cookies were already set on the table.

Freida gestured for them to sit. “Let’s begin, shall we? I’ve been looking forward to this.”

Myne smiled politely. “About the comb… I was thinking a standard design might not suit your usual hairstyle. You prefer pigtails, don’t you?”

Freida nodded, intrigued. “Yes. I always wear them like this.”

“Then rather than a comb, I’d like to design something custom for you—a pair of hair ties that still use braiding, but larger and more decorative. They’ll match your style better while still feeling elegant.”

Freida brightened. “I like the sound of that. In that case, would it help if I show you my baptism dress? It might give you an idea of what to match.”

“That would be helpful, thank you,” said Myne.

Freida rang a small bell, and a servant promptly brought over a folded dress made from fine white and red-stitched fabric. Myne examined the lace and embroidery carefully.

“I can use this for reference. If you don’t mind, I’ll need to see the thread you used. It’ll help me choose accents that go well with the piping.”

“I still have some thread left from the embroidery,” Freida said. “Would you like to use it? I can add it to the payment.”

Myne gently shook her head. “You’ve already paid enough for two ornaments. I don’t need more coin. But I’ll accept the thread—it’ll help me match the look better.”

Freida raised a brow and recited confidently, “When the opportunity comes, one must earn as much as they can, in any way they can. That’s what my grandfather always says.”

“I’m sure he does,” said Myne with a laugh, “but I’d still rather keep the price fair.”

Lutz, who had been quiet so far, leaned forward. “If it helps, we can just consider it two smaller ornaments instead of one large one. We’ll sell them as a pair, but since they’re smaller than Myne’s usual design, the second can be offered at half the price. That way, the craftsmanship is still paid for, and it’s fair for both sides.”

Freida considered it, then gave a slow, satisfied nod. “A clever compromise. I accept.”

The three exchanged smiles, and the atmosphere relaxed as they reached an agreement without fuss or posturing.

Freida led them through a refined sitting room, where a servant soon appeared carrying a silver tray of snacks and drinks. The glasses were filled with a sparkling red juice.

“It’s Fallold juice,” Freida said with a smile, taking her own glass. “It’s best this time of year—just the right balance of sweet and tart.”

Myne took a sip and her eyes lit up. “Oh, this is delicious.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Freida added proudly. “Grandfather has secured a good supply from the province south of Ehrenfest. They had the best Fallolds within the duchy!”

“Mm,” Myne hummed in agreement as she savored another sip. “The honey really brings out the flavor.”

Lutz nodded as he drank his share. “It’s good. Better than what I expected.”

Once they had settled in, Freida set her glass down and turned to Myne with a cheerful smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Myne, I have to say—I’m impressed. A girl with her own line of products, carefully managing production and sales, and even working through a merchant intermediary? That’s no small feat.”

“Ahaha,” Myne laughed, unsure whether to be flattered or suspicious.

“You know,” Freida began lightly, “you could always consider working with us instead. Our family has connections, reach, and the experience to sell your soap in places Benno could only dream of. Our name opens doors.”

There was a beat of silence.

Myne blinked, caught off guard. She had expected some kind of compliment or follow-up question—just not a business proposition in the middle of a tea break.

“Oh? Trying to poach me already?” she teased, raising a brow in amusement. “I didn’t think we were negotiating again so soon.”

Freida gave her most charming smile. “I just think you’d thrive in a place that understands your value from the start. Grandpa would take excellent care of you.”

Before Myne could respond, Lutz leaned forward with a flat stare.

“No thanks,” he said firmly. “Benno already warned us something like this might happen. And Myne’s not going anywhere.”

Freida’s eyes narrowed, but her tone remained light. “How very loyal of you. But are you sure you’re not holding her back?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your concern,” Lutz shot back.

As the two started to bicker, Myne leaned back, cradling her glass with both hands and watching them with a soft smile.

This wasn’t a hostile move—not really. Myne could see that, even if Lutz couldn’t. There was something almost clumsy about the way Freida had launched into her proposal—like someone mimicking the tactics of adults without truly meaning harm. It reminded her of someone from long ago.

The memories of Luna stirred gently within her. This wasn’t a calculated attempt to steal business. It was Freida’s version of reaching out. Of offering a hand of friendship—albeit in the only way she knew how.

“Thank you, Freida,” Myne said warmly, cutting through the tension. “I’ll have to decline the offer to join Othmar’s for now, but I wouldn’t mind visiting from time to time. If you’re open to that.”

Freida blinked, visibly surprised by the shift in tone, but then she gave a small nod. “Of course. That would be… acceptable.”

Satisfied, Myne returned to her drink, and for a brief moment, everything was calm again.

It would seem that Myne has made another friend.