Ivy woke to silence.
Not the usual kind—the chaotic hum of spell dust, the rustle of fabric piles, the distant clatter of her thread stash collapsing under its own rebellion. No. This silence was… organized.
She blinked, sat up slowly, and froze.
Her attic was clean.
The Fabric Mountains had been folded into neat stacks. Her chalk circles had been redrawn with precision. The broken needles were sorted into a tray. Even her spice jars—usually a chaotic rainbow—were lined up by scent.
She squinted. "Did I die?"
"No," came a voice from the stove.
She turned her head too fast and winced. Tieran stood there, sleeves rolled up, sword still strapped to his back, calmly stirring something in her dented pot.
"You cleaned," she said, suspicious.
"You reorganized my spice jars."
"They were inefficient."
She narrowed her eyes. "What's for breakfast?"
Before she could finish the sentence, he placed a bowl in front of her.
Ginger rice. Warm, fragrant, flecked with herbs. Steam curled from the surface like a spell. Her stomach growled so loudly it echoed off the rafters.
She stared at the bowl. Then at him.
"You cooked."
"You were hungry."
She blinked. "You're very… practical."
He didn't respond. Just handed her a spoon and turned back to the stove.
Ivy took a bite. The rice was soft, the ginger sharp, the herbs earthy. It tasted like comfort. Like temple mornings and festival leftovers. Like something her mother might've made if she'd ever had time to cook.
She chewed slowly, watching Tieran move.
He didn't speak. Didn't sit. Just stirred, folded, moved.
And Ivy, still messy and stitched together with sleep and spell dust, felt something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Safe
Ivy set the empty bowl aside, licking the spoon with zero shame. Her stomach was full, but her curiosity was louder.
"Where's the book?" she asked.
He didn't answer. Just turned, walked to the far corner, and returned with the cloth-wrapped object pulsing faintly like a trapped heartbeat.
He placed it in front of her.
It was old. Stained. The leather cover cracked and stitched with thread that shimmered faintly in the morning light. Ivy reached out, hesitated, then touched the spine.
No explosion this time.
Just a whisper.
She flipped it open. The pages were brittle, ink faded, margins scribbled with notes in a language she half-recognized. The diagrams weren't logical—they were emotional. Stitched with feeling, not formula.
Her fingers trembled.
"I don't have the right tools," she muttered. "No licensed thread. No sanctioned needle. Just me and my attic."
He said nothing.
She drew a circle. Lit a candle. Whispered the incantation.
Nothing.
Ivy sat cross-legged on the attic floor, the cursed book open in front of her like a dare. The pages smelled like dried herbs and old ink, but also something deeper—like grief pressed between parchment.
She'd failed once already. The first spell had fizzled, the portal barely a flicker before it vanished. Her fingers still tingled from the backlash.
He stood nearby, arms folded, watching her like she was a puzzle missing half its pieces.
"I'm trying again," she said, voice firm.
He didn't respond.
She lit the candle. Drew the circle. Whispered the incantation slower this time, letting the emotion thread through her voice.
The thread glowed.
The air shimmered.
A pulse of energy flickered—
—and a portal opened.
Tiny. Bangle-sized. But steadier this time. Floating above the chalk, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
Ivy gasped. "I did it."
He leaned in, expression unreadable. "That's generous."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
He gestured to the portal. "It's the size of a bracelet. You planning to crawl through it one finger at a time?"
Ivy scowled. "It's progress."
"It's adorable."
She threw a chalk stub at him. He caught it mid-air without flinching.
"Mocking me doesn't help," she muttered.
"Neither does fainting mid-spell."
"I was hungry!"
"You're always hungry."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're very smug for someone who can't cast a single stitch."
"I don't need to," he said calmly. "I have you."
That shut her up.
The portal flickered once, then dimmed. Ivy sighed and slumped back against a pile of folded fabric.
"I need better thread," she muttered. "And maybe a license."
"You need instinct," he said.
She looked up at him. "You keep saying that. Like it's a spell ingredient."
"It is."
She stared at him. At the sword. At the way he moved like silence had chosen him. At the way he never flinched, never explained, never asked.
"You're staying, right?"
He nodded.
"In my kitchen?"
"Yes."
She groaned. "You just want access to my stove."
He didn't deny it.
She crossed her arms. "Fine. But I get the last dumpling. Always."
He tilted his head. "You're very territorial about food."
"You reorganized my spice jars. I'm allowed."
He smirked—barely. A flicker of amusement, gone as quickly as it came.
She watched him for a long moment. Then asked, softly: "What's your name?"
He didn't answer.
She leaned forward. "You know mine. You've seen my attic. You've fed me. You've mocked me. I deserve a name."
Silence.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"Tieran."
The name landed like a thread pulled tight.
Ivy blinked. "Tieran."
He nodded once.
She repeated it, tasting the syllables like spice. "Tieran."
He turned back to the stove, already reaching for the lentils.
And Ivy, still stitched together with sleep and spell dust, whispered the name once more—quietly, like a spell.
"Tieran," Ivy repeated, tasting the name like spice.
She said it again. "Tieran."
And once more, softer. "Tieran…"
It tugged at something. A memory? A rumor? A half-heard story stitched into guild gossip?
She frowned. "I've heard that name somewhere."
He didn't respond. Just kept stirring.
She squinted at him. "Were you famous? Infamous? Did you burn down a palace or charm a queen?"
Still silence.
She groaned. "Ugh, forget it. My stomach's louder than my brain."
It growled again—dramatically, like it wanted a solo.
She stood, marched straight to him, and leaned against the counter. "Soup. I need soup. Something warm and brothy and emotionally stabilizing."
He didn't look up. "There are no vegetables."
"What?"
"The kitchen is empty."
Ivy gasped like he'd cursed her. "You mean… no carrots? No onions? No potatoes?"
"No."
She slumped dramatically against the spice shelf. "I can't cast spells with unsatisfied cravings. It's a known fact. Emotional hunger disrupts magical flow."
He raised an eyebrow. "Is that in a licensed manual?"
"It's in my soul."
He turned off the stove. "I'll go to the market tomorrow. I'll cook properly then."
She perked up. "Promise?"
He nodded.
She grinned. "Good. Because I need soup. And dumplings. And maybe fried radish cakes."
He gave her a look.
She gave him a bigger one.
Then, casually, she wandered over to her spellcasting drawer and pulled out a bent needle, a cracked thread spool, and a chalk stick that looked like it had survived a war.
"These are my tools," she said, dramatically laying them out. "Vintage. Historic. Possibly cursed."
He glanced at them. "They're outdated."
"They're relics," she corrected. "From my old master. He got arrested for emotional stitching. Hard to know if he's alive or just… unravelled."
He said nothing.
She leaned in. "So while you're at the market… maybe pick up a few new tools?"
He didn't blink. "You can't buy spellcasting tools without a license."
She pouted. "But you're tall. And mysterious. Surely you can trick someone."
"I don't trick."
"Then charm."
"I don't charm."
She sighed. "Fine. But think of something. Because if I have to cast spells with this chalk again, I might accidentally summon a ghost."
He looked at the cracked chalk. Then at her.
"I'll think of something."
The attic smelled like ginger again.
Ivy blinked awake, nose twitching, stomach already preparing its dramatic entrance. She sat up, hair a mess, chalk dust on her cheek, and stared at the familiar sight: him, sleeves rolled up, sword still strapped to his back, calmly stirring porridge at her stove.
She groaned. "Porridge? Again?"
He didn't look up. "Yes."
"You know there are other foods, right? Like dumplings. Or radish cakes. Or literally anything that doesn't look like warm sadness."
He ladled a bowl and placed it in front of her.
Steam curled upward like a spell. The rice was soft, the ginger sharp, the herbs earthy. Her stomach growled in betrayal.
She picked up the spoon. "Fine. It's tasty. I can eat it every day. But I reserve the right to complain."
He gave her a side-eye. "Childish."
She gasped. "Excuse me?"
He turned back to the stove. "You heard me."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're very smug for someone who only knows one breakfast."
"I know many breakfasts," he said calmly. "But this one keeps you alive."
She took a bite. It was perfect. Again.
She hated that
Afterwards, Ivy was back at her sewing corner, surrounded by fabric scraps and emotional chaos. Her fingers moved fast—snipping, stitching, humming to herself in half-spells and half-melodies.
He stood nearby, sharpening his blade with quiet precision.
She didn't mean to do it.
She was trimming a sleeve pattern, distracted by the shimmer of a thread she hadn't seen in weeks, when her scissors snipped too far—just a whisper of cloth, but enough to slice the back hem of his robe.
He turned sharply.
She froze.
"Oh," she said, blinking. "Oops."
He looked down at the clean cut. Then at her.
"I didn't mean to," she added quickly. "It was an accident. A very stylish accident."
He didn't speak. Just stared at her, unreadable.
"I'll fix it," she said. "Or better—I'll make you a new one."
He raised an eyebrow. "No."
"Too late," she grinned.
After breakfast, Ivy was back at her sewing corner, surrounded by fabric scraps and emotional chaos. Her fingers moved fast—snipping, stitching, humming to herself in half-spells and half-melodies.
He stood nearby, sharpening his blade with quiet precision.
She didn't mean to do it.
She was trimming a sleeve pattern, distracted by the shimmer of a thread she hadn't seen in weeks, when her scissors snipped too far—just a whisper of cloth, but enough to slice the back hem of his robe.
He turned sharply.
She froze.
"Oh," she said, blinking. "Oops."
He looked down at the clean cut. Then at her.
"I didn't mean to," she added quickly. "It was an accident. A very stylish accident."
He didn't speak. Just stared at her, unreadable.
"I'll fix it," she said. "Or better—I'll make you a new one."
He raised an eyebrow. "No."
"Too late," she grinned.
By evening, she'd finished it.
A robe. Bright-colored. Stitched with emotion and chaos. The sleeves were dramatic, the hem embroidered with tiny thread sigils that pulsed faintly. It looked like something a festival prince might wear if he'd been raised by spellcasters and fabric hoarders.
She held it up proudly. "Ta-da!"
He stared at it.
Then at her.
Then back at it.
"I made it with leftover thread and emotional resilience," she said. "It's stitched with protection. And mild sarcasm."
He didn't take it.
She sighed, folded it neatly, and placed it in the corner of the attic—right next to the spice shelf.
He didn't wear it.
But he didn't throw it away either
The attic was quiet.
Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, brushing against the old wooden walls like a lullaby. Inside, the candle had burned low, casting soft shadows across fabric piles and chalk circles.
She was asleep.
Curled up on her mattress, one arm flung over a half-finished spell diagram, the other tucked beneath her cheek. Her hair was tangled, her breathing steady, and her lips moved faintly—murmuring.
He stepped closer, silent.
"Radish cakes," she whispered.
He blinked.
"Fried dumplings… with chili oil…"
She shifted slightly, sighing in her sleep. "Soup… with crispy onions…"
He stared at her, unreadable. Then, without a word, he reached for the blanket draped over the chair and gently laid it across her shoulders.
It was cold tonight.
He stepped outside into the yard, the moon hanging low and silver above the rooftops. The sky was quiet, the stars distant. He stood there for a long moment, arms folded, gaze fixed on the moon.
"Am I doing it right?" he murmured. "Should I keep going… or just give up?"
His hand moved to his cloak pocket.
He pulled out a small object—a hairpin. Simple. Worn. The metal dulled with time, the edges smoothed by years of touch. It had belonged to his mother.
He stared at it.
Then closed his fist around it, breathing slowly.
After a moment, he tucked it back into his cloak, turned, and walked silently back into the attic.
Ivy didn't stir.
She was still dreaming of soup.