It was a warm, sunny morning. The sun had not been up long, yet the streets were already alive with motion and purpose. People walked or rode toward their work, shop doors creaked open, peddlers set their stands, and the knights of the morning patrol had already switched shifts. The city gates stood wide, welcoming caravans and merchants from distant roads.

  The city itself rose high in arches, old towers, and slender spires—a living tapestry of what had been and what now was. Stone and steel spoke of power, wealth, and knowledge, layered one atop another through the passing ages.

  Old Man Cade walked briskly from his carriage, adjusting his suit and round brown hat as he made his way toward the Zephyr—the largest store in the city. Or rather, the most important. Apart from his monthly days off, the only thing Cade enjoyed more than his work was coming here.

  The store was not large in size. In fact, it was quite small for its intended trade—the smallest even among its other branches across the kingdom. Yet it remained the main store all the same. What made it great was not its space, but its people. The Zephyr was home to one of the finest weaponsmiths in the kingdom, and the greatest runesmith on the continent.

  His master had recently ordered a sword forged here, meant to serve as the prize for the annual Knights’ Tournament. How fortunate the eventual winner would be—not everyone walked away with an enchanted blade.

  Unfortunately, she would not be the one forging it. She had long since quit forging to manage her stores, though thankfully her daughters were just as skilled. Cade had arrived early, hoping to look around and—more importantly—ensure the sword had been completed.

  He sighed.

  The one meant to enchant it was Violet… was that her name? An odd girl. Complaints about her poor work ethic were plentiful.

  The Zephyr was crowded—quiet, yet crowded. A strange combination for a smithy, some would say. Then again, the Zephyr was not truly a smithy. To an ordinary man, it would be described as a magic store.

  It sold things that could not be found anywhere else: lamps that never ran out of energy, boxes that cooled whatever was placed inside, necklaces that stored sound, small devices that played music from orchestras long since gone. Trinkets, tools, and utensils both wondrous and strange.

  Women and men alike scoured the store, some searching for necessities, others for things they did not even need. Employees moved swiftly through the aisles, assisting customers as Old Man Cade stepped inside.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  In a backroom—lit by light from gods-knew-where—silence reigned.

  Seated at a large table was a girl with golden-blonde hair and vivid violet eyes, utterly transfixed by a text few would even dare attempt to understand. She had been there since before sunrise, and had anyone passed by, she would not have noticed.

  A knock came, and the door opened.

  “This is where she is. Not surprised,” a woman said from the doorway.

  No response.

  “Old Man Cade came for the order.”

  The girl finally looked up. “Which order?”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “Mr. Hamilton’s. Obviously.”

  Violet blinked. Then gasped.

  She bolted from the room through the space the woman had just vacated, who had clearly expected this outcome. Shaking her head, the woman returned to the counter.

  Violet burst through the lower smithy, passed the etching room, and hurried to her workbench. There lay the sword—forgotten entirely.

  Without hesitation, she resumed her work.

  She reached for a special tool: a slightly tipped blunt stylus, its point forged from black metal, its handle carved from light brown wood. She began to draw.

  Each time the stylus touched the blade, smooth grooves formed as though a hot knife cut through butter. Shapes and patterns emerged—language-like, meaningful, alive.

  Swift.

  Light.

  Heavy.

  Steady.

  Strong.

  Fire.

  Runes—written in a language as old as time itself.

  When she finished, the runes flared to life. Flames engulfed the sword, dancing along its length before fading just as swiftly. Violet had used only the simplest runic symbols, yet their effect rivaled what others achieved with far greater complexity.

  That was what shocked most runesmiths—those who did not know whose daughter she was.

  Not only had she used lower runes, but she had drawn them in perfect synergy. Combined with the blade’s already superior materials, the sword had become something more.

  A treasure.

  And she had done it in minutes.

  The absurdity of it all.

  Violet sighed, packaged the blade, and handed it to the assistant from earlier. As she glanced around, pretending to search for more tasks, she wondered if there was anything else she needed to do today—anything that would keep her from returning to the backroom.

  Then her watch rang.

  Her eyes brightened.

  She turned and hurried up the stairs to her room.