Vell spent her designated days at Lyra’s home. The work was familiar now—polishing armor until it shone, sharpening blades to a lethal edge, airing out travel-stained cloaks that smelled of pine and cold stone. But the dynamic had shifted. It felt less like employment and more like helping a friend prepare for her next adventure.

  Lyra set down her sword, her sharp eyes sweeping over the cluttered workbench. “Vell,” she said, her tone crisp but not unkind, “the gear needs organizing before I leave tomorrow. The chest in the corner—everything needs to be sorted by weight and function. Knives with knives, armor with armor. And the potions—” She gestured to a precarious stack of vials. “Group them by color. Greens for healing, blues for stamina, reds for… well, you’ll know.”

  Vell nodded, her hands already moving. She opened the chest and began sorting with methodical efficiency. Knives were arranged by blade length, armor stacked by size, potions grouped by hue. She worked without hesitation, her movements smooth and deliberate. When she finished, the chest was a model of order, every item in its place.

  Lyra inspected her work, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded, a flicker of approval in her eyes. “Well done. You’ve got a knack for this.”

  Vell smiled faintly. “Thank you.”

  During a break, Vell brought out the almost empty box from Belle’s Artisan Chocolates. “I still have a surplus from my ‘employer’,” she explained, using the now-familiar refrain. “I am certain if he would appreciate a… tactical assessment. Of their energy-sustaining properties for long journeys.”

  Lyra laughed, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the chocolates. “A tactical assessment, is it? Well, far be it from me to ignore a critical mission.” She called over two other members of her adventuring party who were inventorying supplies in the next room—a broad-shouldered fighter and a slender, sharp-eyed scout.

  They gathered around the kitchen table, a stark contrast of hardened warriors and delicate confections. The fighter devoured a honeycomb cluster in one bite, humming with appreciation. The scout savored a sea salt caramel, analyzing the balance of sweet and salty with a critic’s eye. Lyra enjoyed a piece of the orange zest bark.

  “These are incredible, Vell,” Lyra said, licking a spot of chocolate from her thumb. “Tell your ‘employer’ they pass the field test. I’d take these over standard trail rations any day. The energy boost is superior.”

  Vell beamed, a sense of pride swelling in her chest. She wasn't just sharing a gift; she was providing valuable intelligence, contributing to their safety and success. The chocolates were a currency of care, and she was learning how to spend it wisely.

  The fighter wiped crumbs from his beard, his eyes alight. “Lyra, this ‘shop’ of yours—when do we get to see it?”

  The scout leaned forward, her gaze sharp. “Seconded. If their other offerings are half as good as these chocolates, I’ll trade my last potion for a visit.”

  Lyra chuckled, leaning back in her chair. “Patience. We’ve got that contract to finish first. Maybe second Saturday from now, if we’re not knee-deep in trolls or treasure.”

  The fighter groaned, but his grin betrayed his excitement. “Fine. But I’m holding you to it.”

  Vell smiled, the image of Arthur’s calm efficiency flickering in her mind. She hoped he’d approve of the adventurers’ enthusiasm—and their coins.

  As she walked home that evening, the empty chocolate box in her bag, Vell felt a profound sense of belonging.

  ◇

  The door didn’t budge. Vell frowned, her hand still gripping the handle. Locked. She stepped back, her horns twitching faintly as she glanced around the alley. The shop was always open by now, the soft glow of light spilling through the windows, the faint hum of the machines already filling the air. But today, it was dark. Silent.

  Her fingers fumbled in her pocket, pulling out the brass key Arthur had given her. The weight of it was familiar now, a symbol of trust she carried like a talisman. She slid it into the lock, turned it with a soft click, and pushed the door open.

  The shop greeted her with stillness.

  “Arthur?” she called, her voice tentative, echoing slightly in the emptiness.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  No response.

  She moved to the light switch, her fingers brushing the wall until she found it. The overhead lights flickered to life, a wonderful device akin to light magic, their harsh glow revealing every gleaming surface of the shop. The machines stood dormant, their polished metal surfaces reflecting the light like mirrors.

  Her eyes darted to the counter. There, neatly arranged, were boxes of pastries and chocolates, their perfection untouched. Beside them sat a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and berries, paired with a steaming mug of tea. The breakfast was still warm, the heat curling faintly into the air.

  Her stomach twisted. Arthur had been here, but something had pulled him away unexpectedly. She glanced around, half-expecting him to emerge from the back room with his usual calm efficiency, but the silence remained unbroken.

  Vell walked to the counter, her fingers brushing the edge of the pastry box. She opened it, the sweet aroma of croissants and tarts wafting out. The chocolates were arranged in their usual meticulous order, their glossy surfaces catching the light.

  Her mind raced. Arthur wouldn’t leave the shop unprepared unless something urgent had happened. She thought of his other life, his other job, the one she only glimpsed in his weary eyes at the end of a long week. Whatever had called him away, it was significant.

  She took a deep breath, her resolve firming. She could do this. She’d watched him for months, absorbed his lessons, practiced his precision. The shop wasn’t just his—it was hers too.

  Vell surveyed the shop with sharp eyes, her hands already moving. The counters were spotless, but she ran a cloth over them anyway, ensuring no stray coffee grounds or sugar granules lingered. The espresso machine gleamed, but she polished it once more, the familiar rhythm steadying her nerves. The pastry case was immaculate, but she adjusted the arrangement slightly, her fingers precise and deliberate. Everything was as it should be—except Arthur’s absence.

  Vell moved behind the counter, her hands steady as she flipped the switches on the espresso machine. The familiar hum filled the silence, grounding her. She checked the grinders, the portafilters, and the milk frother. Everything was in order, just as Arthur would have left it.

  She tied her apron with a sharp tug, straightened her shoulders, and faced the empty shop.

  Vell's hands trembled slightly as she flipped the sign to OPEN. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. Arthur's absence left a void in the shop—no quiet instructions, no steady hands beside hers. Yet beneath her nervousness flickered something else: a chance to stand alone behind this counter, to handle the morning rush without his watchful gaze. Today would show what she was truly made of—to Arthur when he returned, but more importantly, to herself.

  “I can do this.”

  ◇

  The airport terminal buzzed with the low hum of travelers and announcements. Arthur stood with his director, a man whose sharp suit and sharper gaze made him a fixture of the corporate world. Beside him, the head of legal—a woman with a steely composure and a briefcase as immaculate as her posture—adjusted her glasses while scrolling through her tablet. The operations lead, younger but no less focused, tapped her pen against her notebook, her mind clearly already on the logistics ahead.

  Arthur’s suitcase, a sleek, black carry-on, rested neatly at his feet. He’d packed it precisely the night before, ensuring every item—documents, laptop, toiletries—was arranged for maximum efficiency. His passport lay in his breast pocket, along with his boarding pass, folded crisply and ready for inspection. He’d arrived early, as always, and now stood with the calm detachment of someone who had accounted for every variable.

  His director glanced at his watch. “Boarding should start soon. The flight’s on time.”

  Arthur nodded, his gaze scanning the terminal. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere—on the shop, on Vell. He’d had taught her, of course. The grind settings, the pastry case arrangement, the specific ratios for each drink. She’d watched him work many times now, absorbed his methods, practiced his precision. Moreover, she learned fast.

  He had no doubt she could handle it. Still, the thought of leaving her alone—even for a weekend—lingered in the back of his mind.

  But as he stood there, waiting, he realized something unexpected: he wasn’t worried. Not truly. Vell was more than capable. She might hesitate at first, might second-guess herself, but that was natural. She’d rise to the occasion. He was certain of it.

  The boarding call echoed through the terminal. “Flight 217 to Tokyo, now boarding at Gate 12.”

  Arthur picked up his suitcase, the smooth handle fitting perfectly in his grip. As they moved toward the gate, his mind drifted to the shop again. Not to the mechanics of it this time, but to Vell herself. Her quiet determination, her steady hands, the way she’d smiled when she mastered the rosetta on her third try. She deserved something. A token, a reward for stepping into this responsibility.

  He paused at the gate, handing his boarding pass to the attendant with a polite nod. As he stepped onto the jet bridge, his thoughts crystallized. A souvenir. Something meaningful but practical. He’d find it in Tokyo.

  The plane was a study in controlled efficiency—aisles narrow but navigable, seats compact but comfortable. Arthur stored his suitcase in the overhead bin with practiced ease and settled into his seat. The operations lead sat beside him, already pulling out her laptop.

  “We’ll go over the presentation once we’re airborne,” she said, her tone brisk.

  “Understood,” Arthur replied, his voice calm. His mind, however, was already cataloging possibilities. A tea set, perhaps? Something elegant, functional. Or a knife—a Japanese blade, perfectly balanced, a tool that would serve her well in the shop. He’d find something.

  Something worthy.

  For the first time since Arthur had hired Vell, their Saturday routines diverged—him boarding a flight to Tokyo, her unlocking the shop alone. Despite the unusual separation, each approached their duties with the same meticulous attention they applied when working side by side.