The prayer stone was warm in Velthur’s hand, smoothed by years of use. He sat cross-legged near the edge of the square, rubbing his thumb across its face. The old symbol etched into it was almost gone; only the faintest outline of a curling sun remained. His grandmother had taught him to turn it sunwise, always sunwise. The motion gave shape to the silence inside him.

  Maruzan stood a few paces away beneath the shade of the Guildworks canopy. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes fixed on the man at the desk before him. His fingers worried the edge of his sleeve, tugging, releasing, tugging again.

  The desk belonged to Guildkeeper Eborin. The man was broad-shouldered, his head balding, his beard cut short and practical. Ink stained his callused hands, dark patches pressed into the creases of his fingers. His gaze was sharp but not cruel, the gaze of a man who had weighed too many requests before this one.

  “I’m not asking for a charter,” Maruzan said, his voice steady though his chest felt tight. “Just a day’s work. Food and a cot for my boy. If there’s coin, I’ll take it. But bread is enough.”

  Eborin leaned back slightly, folding his arms. “And what skill do you bring, stranger?”

  “Leatherworker,” Maruzan answered quickly. “I trained in hides before that. I can scrape, stretch, stitch. Boots, belts, anything that needs mending. Strong back, steady hands. I’ll take what you have.”

  Before Eborin could reply, Velthur rose. The prayer stone was still clutched in his hand, his knuckles white around it. He stepped forward, his voice small but firm. “I can work too. He’s not alone.”

  Maruzan turned, startled. “Velthur—”

  “I’m old enough,” Velthur pressed on, lifting his chin. “I was supposed to start with Master Herlin back in Elzibar. The leatherworks. I stretched a hide before the festival. Ask him.”

  The boy’s voice cracked slightly at the end, but he didn’t look away. His jaw set stubbornly.

  Maruzan wanted to correct him, to tell him that ten summers was too young, that work like that wasn’t meant for boys. But the protest caught in his throat. He looked at his son’s hands, scraped and dusted with dirt, no longer soft. He looked at the boy’s face, quiet in a way no child should be.

  “He’s not wrong,” Maruzan said finally, his voice low. “He would’ve started this season. A little late, but not too late.”

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  Eborin studied them both. His eyes flicked to Maruzan’s worn satchel, then back to Velthur’s small frame. He scratched his chin, the rasp of bristles loud in the silence. “You’ve got no guild marks here in Harbinth,” he said. “No tools. No patron. No record.”

  Maruzan said nothing. He could only hold the man’s gaze.

  Velthur lowered his eyes back to the stone in his palm. He rubbed it faster, wishing it could make him invisible.

  Eborin let out a long breath through his nose. “Fine. There’s a patch of elderberry thicket west of the city walls, just off the Sable Bend road. A mile or two, no more. Needs clearing. Berries harvested. No guild wants it. Doesn’t pay enough. Wild dogs in the brush, maybe worse. You’ll go without escort. Without donkey.”

  Maruzan’s brow creased. “Maybe worse?”

  Eborin leaned forward, his voice dropping. “The thicket’s thick. People say things move in there. Not often, but enough to make them wary. You want work? This is what I’ve got. Bring back a sack of berries and I’ll count it a day’s labor. The bakers could have use for it in their pies. You’ll have food and a cot. No coin. Purses are thin.”

  Maruzan held the man’s gaze for a long moment, then nodded once. “Done.”

  Eborin handed them a brown sack, nodding for Maruzan to take it. Velthur reached out first, grabbing the sack with purpose. When they stepped away from the desk, Maruzan rested a hand on Velthur’s shoulder. The boy looked up, wary but hopeful.

  “Do you remember,” Maruzan asked quietly, “how we used to pick elderberries along the south ridge? Every fall, when the leaves just began to turn red?”

  Velthur’s expression softened. “Grandmother made pies with them,” he said. “You always burned your tongue.”

  Maruzan laughed, real laughter, brief but warm. “That’s right. Every year. The last year with your mother, I made sure she had one every week. It was all she had an appetite for.”

  Velthur’s smile faltered. “I wish I remembered more of that.”

  Maruzan’s chest tightened. He wished it too. Not for himself, his own memories were sharp, painful in their detail, but for his son, who deserved to remember joy without effort.

  He squeezed Velthur’s shoulder gently. “Then we’ll make new ones. We’ll tell your aunt when we see her.”

  Velthur nodded. His eyes lingered on the prayer stone before he tucked it carefully into his pocket.

  Together, they stepped out into the morning. The cobbles glowed faintly where sunlight struck them, the city stirring around them with the clamor of carts and the calls of traders. The sack Eborin had given them weighed light for now, but promising to grow heavy by evening.

  As they walked side by side toward the west gate, Maruzan felt the faintest thread of something he had not allowed himself in weeks. Not safety. Not certainty. But purpose. A reason to take another step.

  It wasn’t much.

  But as Velthur matched his stride, the boy’s head lifted a little higher, and for that moment, it was enough.