Mauve shifted beside me, suddenly nervous.
Harven spoke without looking up.
"Mauve," he said, voice calm. "You're always lazing around anyway."
Mauve flinched like he'd been struck.
Harven continued, unbothered.
"Go help this kid."
My chest loosened so suddenly I almost forgot to breathe.
Relief hit me like warm water.
Mauve bowed his head quickly. "Yes, sir."
Harven added, still drawing, "You go only daylight."
Mauve nodded like that was an order he could obey even half-asleep. "Yes, sir."
"And," Harven said, pencil still moving, "don't slack off too much. Restock the lumberyard."
Mauve's shoulders sagged. "Yes, sir."
I stood there, stunned, the permission ringing in my ears.
Then my brain remembered something important.
Payment.
I didn't want charity. I didn't want to be a burden. I didn't want a favor that came with invisible strings.
I swallowed and stepped forward half a pace.
"H-how much should I pay?" I asked, voice small but honest.
Harven's pencil stopped.
He looked up fully for the first time.
And then he chuckled.
A short, rough sound—like a saw catching on a knot.
"Heh," he said. "Kid. You're my son's friend."
My face warmed.
Harven shook his head slightly, amused.
"You don't have to pay," he said. "Just make sure Mauve doesn't forget he's supposed to work."
Mauve made a quiet offended noise. "I don't forget, sir."
Harven's eyes didn't move, but his voice sharpened. "You forget."
Mauve shut up.
Harven waved his pencil at the door like it was a weapon.
"Now get out," he said. "I've got work."
Mauve bowed. Bruen nodded. I bowed so fast my sling tugged painfully at my shoulder.
"Thank you," I said.
Harven grunted like gratitude was unnecessary.
We left.
The door shut behind us.
And my legs felt slightly shaky as we walked down the stairs, as if I'd been holding myself together with will and Harven's permission had finally let me loosen.
***
Back at the base of the stairs, the workshop noise poured back in—saws, hammering, shouting, the steady rasp of labor.
Mauve exhaled loudly like he'd been holding his breath since the knock.
Then he turned to me, rubbing his chin again like he was rebooting into lazy mode.
"So," he said, "I got permission."
The words were casual.
They were also the most important words I'd heard in days.
"If you want to go outside the wall," Mauve continued, already starting to drift away like the conversation was done, "just let me know. I'll be here."
He yawned as he walked, scanning the compound like he was looking for a place to collapse.
Then, mid-step, he paused, turning back like he'd remembered something late.
"Ah," he said. "I do restocking runs every Wednesday and Saturday. So I can't go with you those days."
I blinked.
Tomorrow was Wednesday.
Of course it was.
"Okay," I said quickly, committing it to memory.
Mauve waved a hand lazily. "Meet me at the workshop when you want to go. If you can't find me, I'm probably sleeping somewhere in this compound. Just ask around."
"Sleeping?" I echoed.
Mauve's mouth twitched. "I'm efficient."
Then he turned away again, yawning so wide it looked painful.
"Good luck, kid," he called over his shoulder. "Now time to sleep."
And he wandered off into the workshop like a ghost searching for a nap.
I stared after him, half amazed.
B-rank.
Retired.
Lazy.
Capable.
Approved by Big Boss.
It felt unreal.
Bruen stayed beside me like a solid wall.
"It's done," he said simply. "What now?"
I looked up at the sky beyond the fence.
The sun had dipped lower. The light was yellow now, sliding toward orange.
Late afternoon—almost five.
My body suddenly remembered it was tired.
My ribs ached. My arm tugged in the sling. My legs felt heavy from hours of sweeping and sorting.
"I think…" I started, then exhaled. "I want to go home."
Bruen nodded. "Good."
Then he added, awkwardly blunt in his own way, "Good luck out there."
"Thanks," I said.
We walked toward the fence gate.
Workers glanced up as we passed. Some smiled. Some nodded.
One of them called, "Come back again, kid!"
Another said, "You're a breeze of fresh air around here. Everyone here's old and ugly."
Bruen looked offended. "I'm not old."
A worker laughed. "You're not ugly either, Oak—"
Bruen's stare silenced him mid-joke.
I smiled a little, then bowed politely.
"Thank you," I said to them. "For letting me help."
A few waved me off like it was nothing.
I stepped out of the compound and onto the road alone.
The city felt quieter now, as if it was exhaling after a long day.
As I walked, my mind started rearranging itself into tomorrow.
Tomorrow was Wednesday.
Mauve couldn't take me outside.
So tomorrow had to be inside-wall work.
Errand quests.
Something indoor, something one-handed.
Something that didn't require lifting heavy things or sprinting too hard.
Something that paid.
I did the math as I walked.
Fifty iron per errand quest—if I was lucky.
Three quests meant one copper and fifty iron.
Not much.
But it would keep coins moving. Keep hunger away for another day. Keep me from collapsing before I even had a chance to step into Primrose.
And to support the future Primrose run, I needed the right kind of errand—gardening, herb-sorting, or anything alchemy-adjacent I could do one-handed. The kind of work where someone would shove a basket at me and tell me what mattered: separate by scent,don't bruise the stems,never pull from the root unless you need the root,cut at an angle so it can grow back.
It wouldn't just be iron coins. It would be quiet lessons I could carry outside the wall—what to wrap in damp cloth, what had to stay dry, which leaves hated sunlight after picking, and which ones were harmless until you crushed them and your fingers went numb. If I couldn't go out yet, I could at least learn how not to waste what I found when I finally could.
Go early. Come home late. Do three quests.
The plan formed itself with grim clarity.
When I reached the small food stall near my home, the smell hit me and made my stomach twist.
It was warm and sweet, with something herbal underneath—like crushed leaves and steam and fruit syrup all tangled together. The stall was simple: a wooden cart under a cloth canopy, a brazier keeping a stacked steamer hissing softly. But the steam that rolled out whenever the lid lifted turned the corner of the street into a little pocket of comfort.
The shopkeeper looked up and immediately smiled.
She was a woman in her late thirties, round and sturdy like she could survive any winter, her tanned skin glowing from hours under the sun. Her smile was warm enough that it felt like she'd already decided I was safe the moment I showed up.
"Oh, Trey," she called, like she'd been expecting me. Her eyes flicked to my sling—more habit than alarm—and she didn't even pause. She was already used to it. "Same as usual, right? Leaf-wrapped and extra fruit."
"Yes," I said quickly, relief loosening my shoulders.
"Thought so," she said, and lifted the steamer lid just enough for a fresh cloud of fragrant steam to escape. She reached in with tongs and practiced fingers, plucked a bundle from the stack, and set it into my palm.
The leaf was glossy from steam, dark green and aromatic. Heat seeped through it into my skin. Inside, the food was soft and dense—sticky grains pressed together with chunks of fruit that had gone tender and sweet, a little syrup pooling in the folds of the leaf. The scent made my stomach clench again, impatient.
"Seventy-five iron," she said.
I counted it out with one hand. The coins clicked softly as I dropped them onto her counter. I fumbled one—just a little—and it rolled. Before I could panic, she caught it without looking, like she'd done it a hundred times.
"Easy," she said, still smiling. "You've been paying one-handed for days now. I'm used to it. Just don't drop the food again—I'm not steaming you a second one for free."
"I only dropped it once," I muttered, cheeks warming.
"Once is enough," she said, amused. Then, quieter, like it was nothing important, "Eat while it's hot, okay? And don't let yourself get too skinny. You're already small."
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
She made a sound that meant she didn't believe me, but didn't argue. "Mm-hm. See you tomorrow, Trey."
I nodded, cradling the warm bundle carefully as I stepped away, steam curling up into my face—and for a moment, the day's tension loosened enough for me to breathe.
Seventy-five iron.
Cheap.
Delicious.
I ate slowly as I walked, letting the warmth fill my mouth and chest, letting my body believe—just for a moment—that it could survive another day.
By the time I reached my house, the sky had darkened.
I locked the door behind me, leaned against it for a second, and let the tension drain out of my shoulders.
I set my bag down and pulled out the book I'd borrowed.
The Ethera Treatise on Miasma and Mutation.
The title gleamed faintly in the lamplight.
A rope.
A promise.
I sat on my bed, opened to the first section, and tried again.
Words.
Sentences.
Long ones.
Professor Ethera's writing flowed like a river that didn't care if you could swim.
I read slowly, lips moving, forcing my eyes to track.
I made it two pages.
Three.
Then my brain started slipping.
The words stayed on the page, but meaning didn't land. It was like trying to catch smoke.
I blinked hard, rubbed my eye, and tried again.
Nothing.
My head felt heavy.
My body was tired.
The day had been full of fear and relief and work and the sound of Harven Norris's gravelly voice deciding my fate like it was another tool order.
My eyelids drooped.
I fought it.
I read one more line.
I failed to understand it.
And somewhere between frustration and exhaustion, sleep simply took me.
My forehead dipped forward slightly. My breath slowed.
The book slid closed under my hand.
When I woke later—only a little later, unsure how much time had passed—I moved the treatise carefully and placed it beside my coin pouch on the small table near my bed.
Knowledge and money.
Both too heavy in their own way.
I lay down carefully so my ribs wouldn't scream, stared at the ceiling, and let tomorrow wait.
Because tomorrow would come whether I was ready or not.