(The City That Kept Its Lights On)
The city announced itself before it appeared.
A scent of sugar and smoke drifted in on the wind, sweet as candied citrus and sharp as burnt cinnamon. Then came the sound: a faraway chiming that didn't quite match any bell Liora had ever heard. It rang in bright, quick notes, like someone laughing behind a closed door.
Liora tightened her fingers around the strap of her satchel and tried not to look as green as she felt.
The last mile of road had been paved in pale stone that held the day's warmth. It made the soles of her boots feel lighter, as if the earth itself were eager to hurry her along. On either side, hedgerows rose in careful walls, trimmed to neatness by hands that knew exactly how much wildness to allow.
Ahead, a low archway of dark iron marked the city boundary. It wasn't a gate, not really. There were no guards, no tolls, no wagons queued up. Still, the archway had a presence. Lines of hammered metal formed a pattern of crescents and tiny stars, and in the center hung a disk of glass the color of honey.
As Liora approached, the honey-glass brightened.
It didn't glow like a lantern. It woke, like an eye opening.
Liora stopped short. A ridiculous thought flickered through her mind: What if it doesn't like me?
She swallowed, tilted her chin up, and stepped forward anyway.
The honey disk flared, warm light washing over her face, her hands, her satchel. The satchel's clasp clicked—soft, polite—like it had been acknowledged. Liora felt a strange pressure at her sternum, the way she sometimes felt when she tried a new spell: a small resistance, then a give, like a knot untied.
The light dimmed again.
From somewhere overhead, a voice—not a person's voice, not exactly—murmured with a pleased little hum. The archway's metal stars gave a single faint shimmer, and then Liora was through.
And then she saw it.
The city spread out like a spilled jewelry box, all rooftops and terraces and narrow lanes. Buildings leaned into each other as if gossiping. Signs hung from iron brackets, some painted, some carved, some stitched from cloth that swayed even without wind. Between them, strands of lanterns looped across the streets—glass globes in shades of lavender, peach, and sea-green.
They were lit.
It was still afternoon, not even near dusk, and every lantern glowed as if the city didn't believe in waiting for darkness to justify light. The glow didn't fight the sun. It joined it, turning the air softer, as though the whole place were filtered through a friendly enchantment.
Liora stood on the slope leading down into the heart of the city, suddenly aware of the salt of dried sweat at her collar, the weight of her hair in its braid, the ache in her calves from walking too fast out of nervousness.
She had dreamed of this.
Not this exact street and these exact lanterns, of course. But she'd imagined a city where magic belonged to everyone, where you could buy a charm for keeping your tea hot or a ribbon that tied itself into a bow. She'd imagined libraries with floating ladders and roofs that bloomed into gardens. She'd imagined not being the only one in a room who could feel the thrum in the air before a spell took shape.
Now that she was actually here, her excitement came with a sharp, embarrassing edge of fear.
Because if she failed here, it wouldn't be in a quiet village where people kindly pretended not to notice.
It would be in the brightest city she'd ever seen.
She adjusted her satchel again and started down the hill.
At the first intersection, the street split into three: one path paved in smooth, pale stone; another in dark brick that looked newly rained-on though the sky was clear; and the third in a mosaic of tiny tiles that shimmered faintly, as if each piece held a different color of light inside it.
A signpost stood in the center. The signboards were written in elegant script, except the letters rearranged themselves as she stared, the words trying to find the language her eyes understood.
Welcome, the sign finally settled on.
Below it:
LOW MARKET: TEA, TINCTURES, TRINKETS
HIGH ROW: GUILDS, HALLS, HOUSES
TILEWAY: VISITORS, LOST THINGS, AND OTHER MATTERS
Liora read that last line twice.
Visitors, she understood. Lost things, too.
Other matters made her skin prickle.
A pair of children ran past her laughing, their shadows chased by a dog made entirely of mist. The dog barked without sound, then bounded up the side of a building and vanished through an open window on the second floor, as if gravity had gotten bored and decided to take a break.
Liora stared after it.
The children did not even look surprised.
"First time?" asked a voice beside her.
Liora turned so quickly she nearly twisted her satchel strap off her shoulder.
A young woman stood there, leaning on the signpost as if it were an old friend. She was about Liora's age, perhaps a year older, with a cap of russet curls tucked under a soft felt hat. Her coat was the color of deep moss, patched at the elbows, and a pair of round spectacles sat low on her nose.
She held a stack of paper parcels under one arm, each tied with twine and stamped with a wax seal that glimmered in shifting hues.
Courier, Liora thought immediately. The parcels gave off a faint warmth, like bread just pulled from an oven.
"Yes," Liora admitted, feeling both foolish and relieved. "Is it that obvious?"
The woman's smile was quick and kind. "Only because you're staring at everything like it might bite you. Don't worry. It usually doesn't."
"Usually?"
"That's for later." The woman shifted the parcels, then offered her free hand. "I'm Mina."
"Liora."
Mina's handshake was brisk, as though she had places to be—which she probably did. She glanced at Liora's satchel, then at Liora's hands. "Apprentice?"
Liora blinked. "How—"
"Your fingers." Mina lifted her own hand, wiggling her fingers. "See the little ink stains? And the way you keep flexing your thumb like there's a pen there even when there isn't. Also, you've got that look."
"What look?"
"The look of someone who thinks if they make a wrong turn they'll accidentally end up in a different life."
Liora let out a laugh she didn't realize she'd been holding in. "That's… accurate."
Mina's gaze flicked over the signpost again. "Where are you headed? High Row, I'm guessing. Guild registration? Master's house?"
Liora hesitated. She'd memorized the directions twice, once from a letter and once from the map her village schoolmaster had sketched for her. But neither had mentioned three different kinds of street that looked like they might each lead to a different version of the city.
"I have a letter," Liora said, and pulled it from her satchel.
It was folded into thirds, the edges worn from her fingers worrying at it during the journey. The seal was intact: a simple crescent stamped in pale gold wax. She'd seen the same crescent in the margins of her acceptance notice.
Mina's eyebrows rose a fraction. "Oh."
It was such a small sound, but it changed the air around them. Not colder. Just… more careful.
Mina didn't reach for the letter. She didn't even lean in. She only tilted her head, as if listening to something Liora couldn't hear.
"That seal," Mina said finally. "You're not just any apprentice."
Liora's mouth went dry. "What do you mean?"
Mina's smile returned, but softer now. "I mean you're going to have an interesting first week."
Before Liora could ask what that meant, the honey-glass disk on the archway behind them chimed again, a bright note that echoed down the street. Liora turned and saw a man in a long grey coat step through the arch, carrying a cage covered in a cloth. The cloth shifted, as if something inside pressed against it from time to time.
The signpost beside them shivered.
No one else seemed to notice. The children kept running. A woman at a nearby stall continued pouring tea into tiny cups that steamed lavender.
But Mina's eyes sharpened.
"Okay," Mina murmured, almost to herself. Then to Liora, brisk again: "Listen. If you're going to High Row, you can take the pale stone road like a sensible person and arrive in a normal amount of time."
She nodded to the dark brick road. "Or you can take that and arrive faster, but slightly… rearranged."
Then she pointed at the shimmering mosaic path. "Or you can take Tileway and arrive exactly where you need to be, provided you're willing to pay whatever it decides is fair."
Liora stared at Tileway. The tiny tiles were beautiful, shifting in color like fish scales. Looking at them made her think of things she'd misplaced over the years: a ribbon from her mother, a page of spell notes that had vanished, the name of a girl she'd once promised never to forget.
She looked back at Mina. "What does Tileway take as payment?"
Mina's parcels creaked slightly, as if they were listening too.
Mina's smile was rueful. "Lost things," she said. "Sometimes it gives them back. Sometimes it keeps them. Sometimes it takes something you didn't know you'd lost."
Liora's heart thudded. The city's lanterns glowed on, cheerful and unconcerned.
She held her letter tighter.
A first decision, right at the beginning. Of course.
"What would you do?" Liora asked, and hated how small her voice sounded.
Mina considered her for a beat, then shrugged one shoulder. "Me? I'm a courier. I take Tileway when I'm desperate or curious. Today I'm just busy."
She stepped back, angling herself toward the pale stone path. "But you," Mina added, eyes flicking again to the crescent seal, "you feel like trouble in the interesting way."
Liora made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh.
Mina started to move, then paused. "If you want, I can walk you partway. At least until the city stops trying to see what you're made of."
Liora looked down all three roads.
The pale stone path looked safe. The dark brick looked tempting. The mosaic shimmered like a dare.
And somewhere deeper in the city, that chiming laughter-bell rang again, as if the city itself couldn't wait to find out what she would choose.