The morning was too bright for spellwork.
Ivy squinted at the sun like it had personally betrayed her. She stood in the yard, arms crossed, a satchel slung over one shoulder and a snack pouch bulging with questionable dumplings.
"You're sure we need vegetables?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, adjusting his cloak.
"And thread?"
"No."
She pouted. "But the market has illegal thread. The kind that glows when you lie."
He didn't respond.
She sighed dramatically. "Fine. Vegetables first. But if I see enchanted chalk, I'm buying it."
"You don't have a license."
"I have charm."
"You don't."
She gasped. "Rude."
Ivy stood at the doorway, arms crossed, satchel slung over one shoulder, snack pouch already bulging.
"I'm coming with you," she said.
"No," Tieran replied without looking up from his blade.
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You'll slow me down."
"I'm emotionally aerodynamic."
"You get distracted by shiny thread."
"That happened once."
"And enchanted chalk."
"Twice."
He strapped his sword to his back. "I'll be faster alone."
She stepped in front of him. "You promised soup. You promised vegetables. You promised dumplings. I'm not letting you pick sad carrots and call it a day."
He stared at her.
She stared back.
"I'm coming," she said again, voice firmer.
Silence.
Then, finally, he sighed. "Fine."
She grinned. "Knew you'd cave."
"But dress properly," he added, glancing at her slippers. "It's a forest, not a festival."
She looked down at her outfit—bright patchwork robe, mismatched socks, and a scarf stitched with protective sarcasm.
"I'm emotionally prepared," she said.
"You're going to trip on a root and summon a squirrel."
She gasped. "That's speciesist."
He turned away, already walking.
She ran to change—grumbling, rummaging, and finally emerging in boots, a cloak, and a belt full of snacks and chalk.
"Ready," she declared.
He didn't respond.
But he waited.
He turned around, expecting boots and practicality.
Instead, he saw her.
Ivy stood in the doorway, dressed in a cloak she'd stitched herself—deep plum with golden thread curling like vines across the hem. Her sleeves shimmered faintly, embroidered with protective sigils and tiny stitched stars. Her hair was half-tamed, half-wild, and her satchel hung diagonally across her chest, stuffed with chalk, snacks, and emotional resilience.
She wasn't trying to impress.
She just… was.
His breath caught.
For a moment, his heartbeat stuttered—like it had missed a step. His emotions, usually folded and locked, scattered like loose thread.
He didn't speak.
She tilted her head. "What?"
He blinked. "Nothing."
"You're staring."
"No."
"You are."
He looked away. "You're dressed."
She grinned. "Beautifully."
He didn't deny it.
She stepped forward, boots crunching softly on the gravel. "So? Do I pass the forest inspection?"
He nodded once, too quickly.
She narrowed her eyes. "You're weird today."
He turned, already walking. "Let's go."
But as they stepped into the trees, Ivy humming softly beside him, he reached into his cloak pocket and touched the hairpin again—just for a second.
And kept walking.
The forest grew thicker, the path winding like a stitched seam through trees that whispered in languages Ivy didn't quite understand.
She walked close to Tieran, boots crunching softly, eyes darting at every rustle.
"I'm not scared," she whispered.
"You're gripping my cloak."
"I'm just… stabilizing."
A branch snapped nearby. She jumped.
He didn't react.
"I'm tiny," she muttered. "I could be eaten by a squirrel."
"Squirrels don't eat people."
"Not licensed ones. But rogue squirrels? Who knows."
He kept walking.
She stayed close.
They rounded a bend and came upon a berry tree—low-hanging, wild, bursting with deep violet fruit that shimmered faintly in the morning light.
Ivy gasped. "Berry tree!"
"No," Tieran said instantly.
"But—"
"On the way back."
She pouted. "What if it's gone?"
"It won't be."
"What if a squirrel eats it?"
He gave her a look.
She sighed. "Fine."
But as he turned to check the path ahead, she casually plucked a handful and stuffed them into her satchel. A few rolled into her snack pouch. One went straight into her mouth.
She grinned.
He turned back. "You're chewing."
"No I'm not."
"You're glowing."
"Emotionally."
He sighed and kept walking.
She skipped behind him, happily munching berries, occasionally gasping at mushrooms, tangled roots, and suspiciously shaped rocks.
He tried to keep her walking straight.
She zigzagged like a spell gone wrong.
"Focus," he muttered.
"I am," she said, pointing at a leaf. "That one looks like a duck."
He didn't respond.
But he slowed his pace.
Just enough for her to keep up.
The forest thinned, and the town emerged like a stitched patchwork—lanterns swaying, stalls bursting with color, voices rising like spells cast in barter.
Ivy's eyes lit up instantly.
"Oh my stars," she gasped. "Look at that embroidery! And that spice stall! And—wait—is that enchanted chalk?"
Tieran pulled his hood up, face shadowed, steps steady.
She darted toward a stall selling glowing thread.
He grabbed her hand.
"Vegetables first," he said.
"But—"
"No."
She pouted, dragging her feet dramatically as he led her through the crowd. Her cloak fluttered, her boots scuffed, and her snack pouch jangled with stolen berries.
"I'm being kidnapped," she muttered.
"You're being redirected."
"I'm a free spirit."
"You're a distraction."
She gasped. "Rude."
He didn't stop.
She struggled for a few steps, then gave up—arms crossed, lips pursed, eyes glaring at every stall they passed.
They reached the vegetable market. Tieran began selecting carrots, onions, and herbs with surgical precision.
Ivy sulked beside a basket of turnips.
He glanced at her.
She sniffed dramatically.
He sighed.
Then, without a word, he walked to a nearby sweets vendor and returned with a small pouch—warm, fragrant, filled with sugar-dusted dumplings and candied ginger.
He held it out.
She blinked.
"You bribing me?" she asked.
"Yes."
She took it instantly.
Her pout vanished.
She popped a dumpling into her mouth, eyes sparkling. "You're forgiven."
He didn't respond.
But he watched her eat—quietly, like something inside him had softened.
The vegetable shopping was done.
Ivy had three dumplings in her mouth, a pouch full of sweets, and a bounce in her step that Tieran did not trust.
They passed a jewelry stall—glittering with moonstone rings, charm-etched bangles, and necklaces that pulsed faintly with enchantment.
Ivy gasped. "Wait—wait—sparkles!"
She darted toward the stall, eyes wide, fingers already reaching for a silver chain stitched with protective runes.
Tieran grabbed her hood mid-motion.
"You can't buy that," he said.
She turned, scandalized. "Why not?"
"No license."
"I'm not buying a spell. I'm buying a vibe."
He didn't let go. "It's enchanted. You need clearance."
She pouted. "But it matches my cloak."
He steered her away.
She muttered curses under her breath—half in spell language, half in snack-based frustration.
Then she saw it.
A thread shop.
Not just any thread shop—the thread shop. Shelves stacked with glowing spools, emotion-reactive fibers, and chalk sticks that shimmered when touched.
She gasped so loudly a nearby vendor flinched.
"I need to go in," she whispered.
"No," Tieran said instantly.
"But—"
"No."
She turned to him, eyes wide. "They have memory thread. The kind that hums when you lie."
"You don't have a license."
"I have charm."
"You don't."
She stomped one boot. "You're ruining my magical aesthetic."
"You're avoiding arrest."
She sighed dramatically, arms flung wide. "Fine. I'll just stare longingly through the window like a tragic protagonist."
He didn't respond.
But he waited.
Ivy stood outside the thread shop like a painting of heartbreak.
One hand pressed to the glass, the other clutching her snack pouch like a lifeline. Inside, emotion-reactive fibers shimmered, chalk sticks pulsed, and a spool of memory thread practically called her name.
"I was born to own that thread," she whispered.
"You were born to break rules," Tieran muttered.
She turned to him, eyes wide, voice trembling. "I'm a tragic protagonist. Denied her destiny. Betrayed by bureaucracy."
"You're banned by law."
She gasped. "You're very unsupportive for someone who eats my dumplings."
He sighed. "Come on."
She didn't move.
He stared at her.
She stared back.
Then, slowly, dramatically, she sank to the ground, cloak pooling around her like a fallen star. "Leave me here. Let the thread shop adopt me."
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
Then turned and walked toward a nearby restaurant.
She blinked. "Wait—where are you going?"
He didn't answer.
She scrambled up and followed.
The restaurant was warm, fragrant, and filled with the scent of sizzling spices and fresh herbs. Tieran ordered without asking—two bowls of steaming soup, a plate of fried radish cakes, and a side of candied lotus root.
Ivy stared at the food.
"You bribing me?" she asked.
"Yes."
She picked up a radish cake, took a bite, and sighed like she'd been emotionally healed.
"You're forgiven," she said, mouth full.
He didn't respond.
But he watched her eat—quietly, like something inside him had softened.
They sat in silence for a while, the kind that felt like a stitched pause rather than an empty space.
Ivy slurped her noodles, then pointed her chopsticks at him. "You have very specific soup energy."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Like… you cook porridge, but you order soup that tastes like secrets."
He didn't answer.
She leaned forward. "You ever eat with someone before?"
He hesitated. "Not like this."
She blinked. "Like what?"
He looked at her—really looked. Her cloak was still slightly crooked, her fingers stained with chalk, her eyes bright and chaotic.
"Like you," he said.
She froze.
Then smiled—soft, surprised, and just a little smug.
Outside, the lanterns swayed.
Inside, Ivy reached for the candied lotus root and offered him one.
He took it.
And for a moment, the world felt stitched together—warm, quiet, and almost safe.
They were weaving through the last row of market stalls when Ivy stopped mid-step.
A crooked table sat half-hidden beneath a canopy of mismatched cloth. The vendor looked half-asleep, chewing on a stick of dried mango, surrounded by dusty books and cracked scrolls. Most were mundane—weathered cookbooks, old farming guides, a manual on magical plumbing.
But one book pulsed.
Faintly.
Wrapped in faded thread, its cover etched with symbols that shimmered only when Ivy tilted her head. It hummed—not loudly, but like a memory trying to speak.
She stepped closer.
"How much for this one?" she asked, pointing.
The vendor squinted. "That old thing? Five coins."
Tieran froze.
Ivy blinked. "Five?"
"Found it in a box of junk," the man shrugged. "Didn't even know it was magical."
Tieran stepped forward, voice low. "Don't touch it."
"But it's stitched with memory runes," Ivy whispered. "And look—there's a binding thread. That's rare."
"It's dangerous."
"It's discounted."
He gave her a look.
She hesitated.
The vendor leaned in. "You want it or not? I'll throw in a scroll on emotional weather patterns."
Tieran pulled Ivy back gently. "We're leaving."
"But—"
"No."
She sighed, casting one last glance at the book.
It pulsed once.
Then dimmed.
Later that evening, Ivy snuck back to the crooked stall.
The market had thinned, lanterns flickering low, voices fading into dusk. She tiptoed past spice vendors and sleepy charm sellers, heart thudding with hope.
But the stall was empty.
Gone.
No books. No mango-chewing vendor. Just a patch of dust and a faint hum in the air.
She stared at the space where the memory-threaded book had sat.
Her fingers twitched.
She felt… sad. Not just for the book, but for the feeling it gave her—like something forgotten had almost remembered her.
Back at the edge of town, Tieran stood still.
His hood was pulled low, his posture tense.
Ivy caught up, still chewing a dumpling. "You okay?"
He didn't answer.
She followed his gaze.
A group of soldiers marched past, their armor gleaming, their commander tall and sharp-eyed. Tieran stepped back, shadows clinging to him like instinct.
Then he grabbed Ivy's wrist.
"Come on," he said.
"What—"
"Now."
They ran.
Through alleys, past lanterns, into the trees.
The forest swallowed them quickly, branches closing in, light fading fast.
They stopped in a clearing, breathless.
Ivy leaned against a tree, panting. "What was that?"
Tieran didn't answer.
He looked around.
The path was gone.
The lanterns were behind them.
The forest was quiet.
Too quiet.
"We're lost," Ivy whispered.
He didn't deny it.
She stepped closer. "You know them?"
He didn't speak.
But his hand moved to his cloak pocket—just for a second.
She didn't see the book tucked inside.
But she felt the silence between them stretch—stitched with secrets, and something else