Eis’s stall, once a quiet curiosity, had become part of that rhythm.
People passed her window now not with curiosity, but with familiarity — a nod, a wave, a grin. The smell of grilled meat, simmered broth, and fresh bread had become a morning constant.
And slowly, the threads of life around her wove themselves into something warm.
A line always formed before sunrise.
Old faces, new ones, and the regulars she could now name without thinking:
- The glassblower who always wanted extra sauce and insisted his apprentice “needed the protein.”
- The charmwright who ate quietly while sketching new rune designs on scraps of parchment.
- The courier who picked up meals for half the guard barracks.
And then there were the children.
She noticed them her third week — three of them, lingering near the canal corner when the air still smelled of warm bread. Two girls and a boy — patched clothes, smudged faces, bright eyes.
At first, they only watched.
The youngest stared at the food but never approached.
Eis said nothing. She simply left a few wrapped parcels on the window ledge each morning.
They vanished within minutes.
By the fifth morning, the older girl — ten or eleven, perhaps — finally approached. She stood on her toes to peer over the counter.
“…Is it okay if we eat these?”
“That’s what they’re there for,” Eis said.
The girl blinked, nodded, grabbed two for the others, and darted away.
After that, they came every day. They didn’t talk much, but they always left small things in return — a pebble, a drawing, once a half-polished gear.
Their way of paying. Eis never stopped them.
The clang of the noon bell always heralded Team Argent if they weren't on a mission.
They had offered to pay at first, every time. Eis had always waved it off. After a few weeks, the habit settled in naturally—no arguments, no mention, just an unspoken understanding between them.
Lira was always the loudest, leaning halfway through the window with a grin.
“Two sandwiches and whatever drink won’t kill Kael!”
Kael, behind her, deadpanned,
“You’re still banned from brewing anything.”
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“That was one time.”
Eis slid two plates across the counter.
“You both survived. I’d call that a success.”
Lira laughed; Kael shook his head, though a faint smirk betrayed him.
Ronan always arrived last.
He never said what he wanted — Eis simply handed him a bowl of stew before he asked. He leaned on the counter, the faint scent of steel and leather clinging to him.
“Kids are watching again,” he murmured, glancing toward the corner.
“They always do,” Eis replied.
“You feeding them?”
“They’re hungry.”
He studied her quietly, then said,
“You’ve changed.”
“I don’t think I have.”
A rare smile touched his face — small, genuine.
“Maybe you haven’t.”
Eis was cleaning the counter when she heard a hesitant knock.
It was the youngest of the three children — a girl with tangled hair and a cracked charm necklace clutched in her hand.
She looked up at Eis.
“Can… can you fix this?”
Eis took it gently. The charm’s runes were simple — protective, a parent’s gift, perhaps.
“Yes. Come back tomorrow.”
The girl’s face lit up like the sunrise.
“Really? Thank you!”
She ran off before Eis could ask her name.
The next day, Eis left the repaired necklace on the counter, the runes glowing faintly with renewed warmth.
The girl returned, eyes wide.
“You’re a mage!”
“I just know a little bit about glyphs and runes.” Eis replied.
From then on, the children no longer lurked. They sat nearby each morning, eating quietly while Eis worked.
Sometimes they talked — about the district, about what they saw, about dreams too big for their small world.
Eis listened.
And somehow, it felt right.
When the day ended, the street glowed orange under lanternlight.
The artisans packed up, the children scattered into the alleys, and Eis closed her window with a soft click.
She ate last — something simple, usually leftover bread and herbs — sitting by the canal window, watching reflections ripple in the fading light.
Sometimes Ronan stopped by again after dark.
He didn’t always talk. Sometimes he simply sat beside the terrace rail, cup in hand, watching the water with her.
Once, as the midnight bell rang, he murmured,
“This suits you,” Ronan said quietly. “More than adventuring ever did.”
Eis didn’t argue.
Her gaze lifted past him, settling on the night sky where the city lights thinned and the stars showed through. When she spoke, it was without weight or hesitation—just truth, set gently down.
“There was a time,” she said, “when my life wasn’t about fighting. Even then, my father trained me every day.” She paused, considering the thought as it formed. “This kind of life… it’s new to me.”
She breathed out, slow and even.
“But I don’t want to let it go.”
Ronan looked at her then. Really looked.
There was something in her eyes—quiet, settled, carrying more history than she ever voiced.
Whatever it was, it stopped him from asking. The moment didn’t need more.
“For now,” he said instead, “may you never lose it.”
Eis inclined her head slightly.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It was warm. Steady. Alive.
Days flowed into one another, different only in the faces that passed by her window — and yet each one meaningful.
Here, in the heart of Lumaire, Eis had built something far more lasting than a weapon or a legend.
She had built a life.