Morning poured through the high windows in a golden spill, catching the motes that drifted through the air. Inside the workshop, every corner glowed amber, softened by sawdust and time. The scent of fresh-cut timber, castlewood oil, and varnish clung to the beams—an old, familiar perfume.

  Vel and Wren worked in rhythm. Sand. Turn. Sand again. The rasp of grit against wood echoed between them like a quiet drumbeat, measured and sure.

  “You leave a tool out,” Vel said, his voice low and calm. “It costs time. Time costs coin. And coin’s something we don’t toss for fun.”

  Wren gave a small nod, guilt flashing across his face as he reached up and slid the chisel back into place on the rack.

  They worked a beat longer in silence before Wren asked, “Who’s this one for?”

  “Artel Komishyr,” Vel replied, brushing the sawdust off the armrest.

  “The baron?” Wren raised a brow.

  Vel nodded. “Wants ten of them.”

  “For his table?”

  “So he says. Probably to show off.” Vel’s tone didn’t change, but a faint edge ran beneath it. “Cloudstone work on the head chair. The rest castlewood. Subtle, expensive. Looks like restraint, but it’s not.”

  Wren leaned back, stretching out his hand to examine the grain in the finished chair beside him. “A throne for the dining room. Sounds about right.”

  Vel looked up for the first time. “He said it felt absurd, discussing furniture with a second moon in the sky. But he still paid the deposit.”

  The weight of those words settled between them. The Hollow Star was no longer just myth. It loomed above them, changing things in ways no one yet understood.

  Wren shifted his stance. “So… tomorrow?”

  Vel gave a single nod. “At first light. Keep the cart light, keep your blade sharp. Bring only what you need.”

  “You think Chavi’s ready?”

  Vel paused, then answered carefully. “He’s loyal. He’s smart. That’s what matters most.”

  “I’m glad you trust him,” Wren said, voice more serious now. “I know how careful you’ve been… with who knows about the stone.”

  “Cloudstone’s not just rare,” Vel replied. “It’s dangerous in the wrong hands. It wouldn’t be wise for word to spread.”

  Wren nodded, understanding. “The cart’s ready. I checked the axle and tightened the bindings this morning.”

  Vel reached for a plane and smoothed a stubborn edge. “Keep checking it. We’ll need every mile of it.”

  Outside, boots scraped the cobblestones—Aijo limping past, sack over one shoulder, his hum cutting through the quiet. He gave a wave as he passed the open doorway.

  Vel returned the gesture. “Stay limber, old friend.”

  Aijo grinned but kept walking, the familiar rhythm of his limp fading into the village noise.

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  They resumed their work. Sand. Turn. Sand again. Above them, faint creaks moved across the floorboards—Lila starting her morning upstairs.

  For a while, the only sound was the rasp of steel and the low creak of worked wood.

  Then Wren spoke, quiet but pointed. “You never really said why you went to the Falls.”

  Vel didn’t flinch. Just kept sanding, knuckles pale against the grain.

  “You disappear for two days, come back bleeding, and spend the night half-drowned in the tavern,” Wren went on. “People noticed.”

  Vel’s jaw flexed. He brushed a curl of shavings from the surface. “I had something to look into.”

  “I just—” Wren hesitated. “I’ve never seen you like that.”

  Vel’s hands didn’t stop. His voice dropped, quieter. “Wren, everything is fine.”

  Wren let the silence hang, trying to read between the lines. But Vel had shut the door again, same as always.

  Upstairs, Lila’s steps reached the landing.

  The day had barely begun—but in the quiet corners of the workshop, the weight of whatever Vel had brought back from the Falls still lingered.

  ~ ~ ~

  Upstairs, a window creaked open with a rattle of old hinges.

  “Morning, Senna!” Lila’s voice rang out, bright and clear from Vel’s apartment. She leaned out the window, hair wild from sleep, cheeks still flushed from her dreams.

  Across the narrow gap, another window opened with a soft thump. Senna blinked against the light, her braid undone, curls tangled like she’d been fighting in her sleep.

  “Stars above, girl. You shout louder than the bell tower,” she muttered, squinting with mock offense.

  Lila grinned. “You said to wake you early.”

  “I meant early, not loud,” Senna said, but she was already smiling.

  From the street below, the smell of sawdust and warm wood drifted upward, joined by the steady scrape of sandpaper and the rhythmic thump of hammers.

  “I see everyone’s awake,” Senna added, looking down. Vel and Wren were in the workshop beneath Lila’s window—Wren bracing a table leg while Vel checked the fit of a dowel, both so familiar in their work they hardly needed words.

  Senna cupped her hands and called out, “Morning, boys!”

  Wren glanced up and waved, grinning. “We’re always up before you!”

  “Lies,” Senna shot back, “You just make more noise.”

  Vel didn’t look up, but his voice rumbled through the wood and morning haze. “If you two are done shouting, some of us are trying to work.”

  Lila giggled and turned back to Senna. “Can you braid my hair?”

  Senna tilted her head. “Now?”

  Lila gave a hopeful shrug.

  Senna disappeared from her window and reappeared a moment later in the stairwell doorway, barefoot, hair half-brushed, a ribbon hanging from her fingers. “Come down. I’ll braid while they argue about tools.”

  Lila bounded down the stairs two at a time, bare feet slapping wood. In the workshop, Wren stepped aside to give them space, grabbing a cloth to wipe his hands. He tossed it toward Vel and missed. Vel didn’t even blink.

  The apartment and the shop moved as one—layers of sound, scent, and memory stacked on each other. Mornings here weren’t orchestrated. They were grown. Familiar.

  As Senna sat on a stool and Lila dropped onto the floor between her knees, the older woman gently worked her fingers through the knots. The ribbon trailed from her hand like a whisper of color.

  “You’ve got a snarl back here,” she said.

  “I know,” Lila sighed.

  Wren, carefully inspecting a finished chair leg, inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. “Smell that? Fresh castlewood.”

  Lila closed her eyes too, and like Wren, breathed in the sweet notes of sweet spice and cinnamon floating through the shop.

  Outside, the village moved slowly into morning. Roosters crowed late. Someone swept a step. Somewhere, the Hollow Star still burned, but here—in this corner of Lorssai—it hadn’t stolen the rhythm of normal life, at least for some.

  This was how they lived. Morning sun. Quiet work. Braid and ribbon.

  A family—unwritten, but no less real.