Every morning, the air filled with the clatter of hammers on steel, the whir of runes carved into crystal, and the faint hum of enchantments being tested — some sparking, some exploding, all part of its chaotic rhythm.
Eis’s new home fit seamlessly into the noise.
It wasn’t quiet, but it felt alive.
And in that life, Eis found something close to peace.
Eis stood in her workshop, sunlight streaming through the skylight onto the long wooden counter she had transformed half the workshop into a window-facing vendor stall and the other half into a living area. Outside, the narrow street bustled with apprentices and journeymen carrying gears, charms, or boxes of shimmering powder.
Today was the first day her small business opened — quiet, unannounced.
She had used her abilities carefully in the weeks since moving in:
- A cold room lined with invisible frost runes kept meats and produce fresh for weeks.
- A grill fueled not by coal but by a steady heat sigil hummed softly when touched — clean, efficient, permanent.
- A warded counter resisted spills, burns, and impatient elbows.
At dawn, Eis set out a few dishes: grilled meat and spiced greens wrapped in thin bread, and a small pot of tea kept warm by a faint enchantment.
When she unlatched the window and opened it outward, the smell drifted into the street.
Within minutes, a curious craftsman paused, blinking.
“…You selling food?”
“Yes,” Eis answered.
“What is it?”
“Breakfast.”
He grinned, bought one, then ordered another for his apprentice.
By the end of the first hour, a short line had formed — smiths, enchanters, couriers, all drawn by the scent.
Her food was simple.
But in a district where most meals were cold or rushed, simplicity became a luxury.
By midday, the Artisan District’s rhythm shifted.
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Lira appeared first — bright as always, her cloak fluttering behind her.
“So it’s true! You opened a food stall and didn’t tell anyone?”
“I was testing the setup,” Eis said.
“You’re ridiculous,” Lira laughed. “Give me one of whatever smells that good.”
Eis handed her a plate.
Lira took a bite and froze.
“You could make a fortune doing this!”
“I don’t need a fortune.”
“Then at least tell me when you’re cooking again.”
She left with two extra sandwiches “for research.”
Kael showed up next. He didn’t say much — just pointed at the grill, then at his stomach.
Eis handed him a skewer. He nodded once in approval, leaning against the wall as he ate.
“Better than guild food,” he finally said.
“That’s a low bar,” Eis replied.
“Still counts.”
When he finished, he placed two silver coins on the counter — far more than the cost — and walked off before she could refuse it.
Ronan didn’t arrive until near closing.
He leaned one elbow on the open window, eyes sweeping the street.
“Didn’t think I’d see you running a kitchen,” he remarked.
“It’s efficient. Keeps me occupied.”
He smiled faintly.
“And keeps half the district fed apparently. You’ve caused quite the stir.”
“Is that a problem?” Eis asked.
“Not unless you start undercutting the baker’s guild.”
“They overcharge.”
He laughed — low and genuine.
“Fair point.”
He stayed a while longer, occasionally helping pass plates through the window. Neither spoke much, but the silence felt companionable.
As the sun dipped low, the workshop smelled faintly of roasted herbs and warm bread.
The district’s noise softened — hammer strikes grew fewer, shop lights dimmed.
Eis cleaned the counter, reset the grill, and checked the warding lines on the cold room. Everything functioned perfectly — her creations quietly doing their work, just as she preferred.
Later, she sat by the window with a cup of tea, watching lantern reflections ripple across the canal. Someone played a lute in the distance; laughter drifted from a tavern.
It wasn’t silence, but it was peaceful.
Day by day, a rhythm settled.
Mornings: Eis cooked and opened her window stall.
Afternoons: Locals stopped by — smiths, apprentices, guards, charm-runners.
Evenings: She closed, sometimes sharing company with Team Argent if they were in the city.
Each interaction left a small mark — a name remembered, a story overheard, a smile shared.
Soon enough, the artisans stopped calling her the gold-ranked adventurer.
They started calling her something else entirely:
“The Watcher’s Kitchen.”
Eis didn’t correct them.
She often sat at the window and just watched and admired the life in front of her eyes.
The days moved gently now — not through battles or bursts of power, but through the small, steady cadence of a life she had chosen.
Here, in the heart of Lumaire, amidst smoke, laughter, and enchantment, Eis carved out her own kind of quiet.