The days in Lumaire’s Artisan District stretch into weeks then to months.

  The world beyond Eis’s workshop window hums with energy — the clang of tools, the chatter of apprentices, the faint laughter of children darting between the alleyways.

  Life here doesn’t wait for anyone, but somehow, Eis has learned to move with its rhythm instead of against it.

  And in that rhythm, three familiar faces have quietly taken root.

  They come every morning now — the three from the canal.

  Eis has learned their names, not because they offered them, but because they eventually trusted her enough to speak.

  Elara, the eldest — Twelve, sharp-eyed, quiet, protective. She carries herself like someone used to being in charge, though she’s still small for her age.

  Tomm, the middle child — a boy of about seven, restless and talkative, always fidgeting with scraps of metal and wire.

  Nia, the youngest — barely five, soft-spoken, her hair always a mess no matter how many times Elara tries to comb it.

  They still appear before sunrise, but no longer hover in the distance.

  Now they sit by the canal steps near Eis’s stall, eating breakfast she leaves on small plates.

  Sometimes Elara offers to help — cleaning the counter, sweeping the walkway.

  Eis lets her.

  Sometimes Tomm brings Eis broken trinkets from the junk markets — small pieces of clockwork, cracked lenses, bits of copper.

  She repairs them quietly and hands them back without a word.

  And Nia?

  She sits at a stool by the window, humming songs only children remember.

  Team Argent still visits almost daily when they’re in the city.

  The routine has become second nature —

  Kael’s teasing, Lira’s warmth, Ronan’s steady presence.

  They’ve grown used to the children too.

  Kael started teaching Tomm how to whittle small wooden animals.

  Lira braided ribbons into Nia’s hair one morning, and it stayed for three days.

  Ronan doesn’t say much, but Eis has seen him quietly slip coins or food into Elara’s pocket when he thinks she’s not looking.

  She never stops him.

  And through it all, Eis’s little window vendor — The Watcher’s Kitchen — thrives quietly.

  It isn’t famous, it isn’t large, but it’s loved.

  The artisans stop calling her Eis the Gold Rank adventurer.

  Now it’s just “Miss Eis” or “Watcher” — a title of affection more than respect.

  Eis’s home changes in small ways.

  A second stool by the window.

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  Extra blankets folded neatly near the hearth.

  Three mismatched mugs that weren’t there before.

  One evening, as she closes the stall, she finds the children waiting — not to eat, but just to sit.

  Elara looks nervous, her hands clasped tight.

  “We can… help you, if you want,” she says finally. “You’re always working.”

  “You already do,” Eis replies.

  “No, I mean—” Elara hesitates. “You don’t have anyone here, right?”

  The question catches Eis off guard, though Elara’s tone isn’t pitying — just curious, careful.

  Eis shakes her head slowly.

  “No. Just me.”

  Tomm pipes up from the side.

  “We don’t either.”

  The silence that follows feels heavier than the air.

  Eis doesn’t answer. Not then.

  But that night, as she sits by the fire, the echo of Tomm’s words lingers long after the flames dim.

  They’re part of her life now — not by plan, but by persistence.

  When it rains, they huddle in the workshop under the eaves, sharing hot tea Eis pretends isn’t just for them.

  When Nia catches a cold, Lira brings herbs while Ronan shows up with soup and stays until she’s asleep.

  Morning came quietly.

  Eis was still waking when she noticed the sound—soft, uneven strokes against the floor. Elara stood near the center of the room, broom held a little too tightly, movements careful in the way of someone afraid to do something wrong.

  “Elara,” Eis said gently. “You don’t need to do that.”

  Elara froze. She didn’t look back right away.

  “I just—” Her voice faltered. She swallowed and turned, eyes searching Eis’s face like she was bracing for a correction. “We… we live here now, right?”

  The question wasn’t hopeful. It was uncertain. It was a question that had been asked multiple times throughout the week.

  “Yes,” Eis said, calm and sure. “You do.”

  Eis sat up fully. Her gaze drifted—extra blankets folded and stacked where they hadn’t been before, the half-finished toys Tomm had left in a corner, the small clay cup Nia had painted and placed near the window as if it belonged there.

  The room had changed.

  So had she.

  Elara’s breath left her in a shaky exhale, shoulders slumping as though something heavy had finally been set down. The broom leaned forgotten against the wall.

  She stayed where she was—steady, present—until the disbelief faded into something safer.

  The formalities take time.

  Ronan helps — his connections in the guild and city guard smooth the process.

  Lira and Kael act as witnesses.

  Even the Guildmaster signs the final document himself, sealing it with silver wax.

  When it’s done, three names are written in steady script beneath Eis’s.

  No titles, no ranks — just a family.

  That evening, she cooks something special: roasted meat, sweet bread, and fruit preserved from the eastern trade ships.

  The children laugh more than she’s ever heard.

  Elara sits nearest the fire, serious as ever but smiling at the edges.

  Tomm tries to show her how he improved his handmade toy bird — it falls apart instantly, but she helps him fix it anyway.

  Nia curls up on Eis’s lap halfway through dessert, fast asleep, small and warm.

  Ronan leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression quiet.

  “You didn’t plan for this did you?”

  “I didn’t,” Eis admits.

  “And?”

  She glances down at the three small shapes clustered by the firelight.

  “It feels right.”

  He smiles, faint and warm.

  “Then it is.”