The next few weeks passed in a blur of thread, orders, and whispers.

  Word of Ilyari’s talent spread like wildfire. Noble after noble slipped through Veylan’s shop doors, all of them seeking the mysterious apprentice behind Lady Talvane’s stunning gown. But none of them saw her.

  Ilyari made herself scarce—always in the back room when they arrived, always delivering the finished pieces discreetly, leaving only Veylan to handle the face-to-face dealings.

  No haggling, no sweet-talking. Veylan’s prices were absolute, and every client left with their egos bruised but their garments perfect.

  “Smart,” Veylan muttered one evening as they packed up another delivery. “You stay hidden, no one can trap you in a web. But don’t think they won’t keep trying.”

  he next few weeks spun by in a blur of silk, measured stitches, and whispered rumors.

  It seemed as though every noblewoman in the city suddenly wanted the “Talvane touch”—whatever that meant. The shop bell jingled constantly, and Veylan’s cutting table was buried beneath bolts of rich fabrics, half-finished gowns, and delicate embroidery work.

  But one thing never changed: no one saw Ilyari.

  The first noblewoman arrived just days after Lady Talvane’s visit—a sleek, haughty creature with a jeweled veil and a voice like spun glass.

  “I’m here to meet the young seamstress,” she said breezily, waving her gloved hand as though the room was already boring her. “The real artist. Not just… the shopkeeper.”

  Veylan barely looked up from his cutting table, his shears flashing. “She’s occupied. But my hands work just as well when it comes to orders.”

  The noble’s lips twitched in a frown. “Surely she can spare a moment to discuss—”

  “No,” Veylan said, his voice hardening like a hammer on iron. “We don’t negotiate. State your request. My prices are firm.”

  The woman’s eyes flashed with irritation, but after a beat, her pride lost to her desire for the dress. She huffed, slapped a velvet pouch onto the counter, and dictated her commission before sweeping out in a whirl of perfume and silk.

  Ilyari, tucked in the back room with her measuring tape and sketches, let out a long breath once the door closed. She peered out cautiously, her voice low.

  “Do you think that worked?”

  Veylan snorted without looking up. “Worked? You just made yourself ten times more desirable. Nobles love a mystery.” He stabbed a pin into the fabric. “But you were smart. Distance keeps them from trying to sink their claws in.”

  A few days later, another noble arrived—this one a stout man with rings on every finger and a belly like a stuffed goose. He leaned heavily on the counter, peering around suspiciously.

  “The girl—is she here?” he demanded.

  Veylan didn’t pause his work. “Busy.”

  The man scowled. “Tch. Fine. But I expect her touch on my robes. Not some apprentice’s slop.”

  Veylan’s eyes glinted. “You’ll get what you pay for. Which is a master’s work, not a miracle. Now—your order?”

  Grumbling, the man scribbled down his requests and stormed out.

  Ilyari slipped out from behind a curtain once the coast was clear. “Do you think they’ll come back unhappy if they never see me?”

  Veylan shook his head, slicing through thick velvet. “They don’t care who you are, girl. As long as the work is perfect, they’ll keep crawling back.” He paused, arching a brow. “And it has been perfect… so far.”

  Ilyari smiled tightly, her hands twisting her apron. “Good.” She hesitated, eyes narrowing. “It’s… safer this way. No favors. No attachments. They get their dresses; I get my distance.”

  Veylan grunted his approval. “Smart apprentice.” He jabbed his shears in the air like a warning. “But don’t forget—they’re patient. Sooner or later, someone will come sniffing around for more than fabric.”

  She swallowed hard but nodded, turning back to her worktable where a half-finished gown shimmered like a river under her fingertips.

  The nobles kept coming. And true to Veylan’s word, none of them ever left unsatisfied.

  Veylan set the finished gown on the counter with a satisfied grunt, brushing off invisible lint. “All right, apprentice. This one’s done. You’re delivering it to Lady Avrelle’s estate—over near the North Ridge.”

  Ilyari eyed the delicate wrapping. “Alone?”

  He shot her a look, one brow raised. “You think I have time to stroll across the city playing errand boy? You’ll be fine. Take the back lanes, keep your head down, and—” his tone sharpened just a touch, “—no dawdling. Drop it off and come straight back.”

  She smirked, tying her apron tighter. “You’re starting to sound like Brinna.”

  Veylan rolled his eyes and pressed the package into her arms. “Stars forbid. Get going. And don’t stop to sniff the bread carts—this one’s worth more than your monthly wages.”

  Ilyari laughed and swung the bundle over her shoulder. “Yes, boss.”

  “Mark my words!” Veylan called as she stepped out, “if you’re late, you’re scrubbing the cutting room from ceiling to floor!”

  The market square was alive with noise and motion, a swirling tapestry of color and chaos.

  Ilyari weaved her way through the throng, the hem of her cloak brushing against crates of glossy apples and bundles of wild herbs tied with fraying twine. The scent of roasting chestnuts mingled with sharp vinegar from the pickle stands, while somewhere nearby, a butcher’s cleaver smacked rhythmically against a worn block, the metallic tang of fresh meat biting the air.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Fresh fish! Still wriggling!” a hawker bellowed from under a patched tarp, lifting a squirming silver catch high.

  Beside him, a potter arranged delicate blue-glazed bowls on a low table, fingers deft and stained with clay. Children darted between the stalls, chasing each other around barrels of dyed wool while an elderly woman shouted curses after them, waving a bundle of carrots like a weapon.

  Carts creaked. Hooves clattered. A woman in a red shawl was haggling furiously over a bolt of linen, her voice rising above the clamor. The heavy toll of a distant bell rippled through the square, and a baker dusted his hands as he pulled golden loaves from a brick oven, the warm scent of fresh bread wrapping around Ilyari like a beckoning hand.

  She clutched her delivery bundle tighter, hurrying past a stall where tiny glass baubles glinted in the sunlight, each one sparkling like captured stars.

  “New scarves! Fine silk! Guaranteed to catch a noble’s eye!” another merchant crowed, waving a swath of emerald fabric high overhead.

  Ilyari smiled faintly but kept moving. The pulse of the market was invigorating, but she had work to do—and, secretly, one indulgence she’d promised herself.

  She ducked into a side alley and found it at last: a narrow shop tucked between a candlemaker and a stall of rough-spun baskets. A faded wooden sign hung overhead, carved simply: Elm & Ink Bookshop.

  She stepped inside—and immediately breathed in deep.

  The air was thick and sweet with the scent of old paper and ink, a musty comfort that wrapped around her like a warm cloak. The shop was small and dim, the narrow aisles crammed with teetering shelves that seemed to sag under the weight of too many books. Loose stacks spilled onto the floor and tables, and a crooked ladder leaned dangerously against one wall.

  A tiny brass bell jingled overhead, but no one appeared at first. Ilyari stepped deeper inside, trailing her fingers along cracked spines and worn leather bindings. The silence was absolute, broken only by the faint rustle of a loose page shifting in the draft.

  She stopped, pulled a book at random from a shelf, and opened it to breathe in the scent with a contented sigh.

  “Ah-ah! Don’t sniff too hard, girl,” a sharp voice called from somewhere near the back. “I can’t sell books that smell like sewage!”

  Ilyari jumped, snapping the book shut and spinning toward the counter.

  An elderly man popped up from behind a stack of ledgers, peering at her through smudged spectacles. His beard was wiry and thin, his robes ink-stained and patched at the elbows.

  “I—sorry,” Ilyari stammered, cheeks coloring. “I just—uh. I love the smell of old books.”

  The man’s eyes twinkled, though his tone stayed dry. “Well, love them all you like—but keep your nose off the merchandise, eh?”

  She gave a polite nod, dipping her head. “Of course. I’m… just browsing.”

  “Mm-hmm,” the old man muttered, disappearing back behind his pile of papers. “Aren’t you all.”

  Ilyari moved quickly, her eyes scanning the spines. Titles flicked past her gaze—histories, herbal guides, dusty religious texts, old ballads. She bit her lip, scanning the shelves as her heart thudded softly in her chest.

  Then she spotted it.

  “Understanding Courtly Customs: A Primer for Proper Society.”

  It was slim, bound in green leather with gilded edges—precisely the kind of book that might teach her how to navigate noble circles without tripping over her own feet.

  She tugged it free and approached the counter, holding it out.

  The bookseller gave it a glance, then a longer stare, his brow lifting. “Hm. Fancy pick for a village girl.”

  Ilyari smiled lightly, keeping her tone breezy. “Just curious, is all. Nobles seem… fanciful.”

  He grunted, sliding the book into a paper wrap. “More like vultures in velvet. But suit yourself.” He tapped the counter. “Two silver.”

  She pulled out the little pouch Lady Talvane had tipped her and counted the coins carefully, placing them in his palm.

  The bookseller squinted down at the silver, then back up at her, a little smirk curling his lips. “Well, well. Next time, you might pick up a book on soaps and bathing. Might be more useful.”

  Ilyari’s cheeks flushed, and she laughed awkwardly, gathering the wrapped book to her chest. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “See you soon, girl,” he muttered, already disappearing behind his mountain of ledgers again.

  Ilyari slipped out of the shop, hugging the book close as the bustle of the market swallowed her once more.

  But her smile faded quickly. A prickle ran up her neck. Someone was watching her. She felt the Code shudder. It warned her to move quickly.

  She glanced back—casually at first—scanning the crowd of shoppers, hawkers, and loiterers. At first, nothing seemed out of place. A boy leading a goat. A woman bartering over a bolt of wool. A cluster of merchants in deep conversation.

  But then she spotted him.

  A man—tall, hood pulled low—lingering by a stall of brass trinkets, pretending to examine a necklace but not looking at it at all. His gaze was fixed on her, sharp and unblinking.

  Her pulse quickened. She turned down a side street, quickening her pace, pretending to examine jars of candied fruit. When she dared a glance back, he was still there—closer now.

  Her breath hitched. That’s when she saw it. The Code.

  It shimmered faintly around him, but not like the bright, living threads she knew—this was different. Twisted. Dark. Like veins of black ink swirling just beneath his skin, coiling and pulsing with a sickly, oily sheen. It moved wrong. Like something was… using him and editing the code as he went.

  Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs.

  She ducked through a narrow lane, weaving between carts and stalls, taking turns at random—trying to shake him. But every time she glanced back, he was there. Closer. Herding her, she realized with growing horror, steering her toward a quieter part of the district.

  Panic rising, she spotted the familiar crooked sign of The Copper Cup, a pub near the edge of the market. Without thinking, she ducked inside, her eyes adjusting to the dim interior.

  And there—like a gift from the gods—sat Brinna at a corner table, sipping something steaming, her cane propped beside her.

  Brinna’s head snapped up the second the door swung open, her eyes narrowing with sharp suspicion—until she saw Ilyari step in, breathless and wild-eyed.

  “Ilyari Aierenbane,” Brinna hissed, slamming her mug down on the table. “What in all the stars’ names are you doing in a pub at this hour?!”

  Ilyari rushed over, clutching her satchel tight. “Brinna—I—listen, I didn’t mean to, I was coming back from a delivery, and—”

  Brinna’s eyes sharpened. “And?”

  “I’m being followed,” Ilyari whispered urgently, casting a glance toward the door. “Someone’s tailing me through the market. He’s covered in Code—corrupt Code. It’s bad. I didn’t know where else to go.”

  Brinna’s face changed instantly—her scolding wiped clean, replaced with fierce, quiet focus.

  “Where is he now?” she asked low, standing up and grabbing her cane.

  “I don’t know. I lost sight of him when I came in. But he’s out there. I swear.”

  Brinna pressed her lips together, thinking fast. “Right. You’re coming with me. You’ll walk me to Veylan’s. I was just on my way to check in on my old friend, after all.” She smirked faintly, eyes gleaming with something sharp. “And no shadowy rat is going to try anything with a loud old woman like me clacking beside you.”

  Ilyari nodded, heart still racing. Together, they stepped out into the fading afternoon light.

  Brinna looped her arm through Ilyari’s with practiced ease, muttering under her breath. “Keep your head up. No skulking like a thief. Make it look like we’re just two harmless women out on a walk.”

  Ilyari obeyed, eyes straight ahead as they wove back into the market streets.

  She could feel it—still there. The watchful weight behind them.

  Brinna noticed too. Her grip tightened. “They’re still tailing us,” she murmured, her voice deceptively light. “Not too close now, but not giving up either. Stars above, this stinks worse than that fishmonger’s stall.”

  They moved quickly but steadily, pushing past the last line of stalls and onto the lane that led toward Veylan’s shop.

  “You said the Code on him was corrupted?” Brinna asked in a hushed breath, eyes darting sideways.

  Ilyari nodded. “Rotten. Like it was sick. Tazien would’ve hated seeing it—he says when it’s that twisted, it’s… dangerous.”

  Brinna’s jaw clenched. “Then we’re not taking chances.”

  When Veylan’s shop finally came into view, Brinna heaved a quiet sigh of relief. “Right. Let’s get inside and gather the boy.”

  They hustled through the door, the shop bell jangling overhead. Tazien looked up from where he was organizing ribbons, eyes widening.

  “Whoa. Why the rush? What’s going on?”

  Brinna didn’t waste time. “We’ve got company. Ilyari’s been followed, and not by anyone friendly. Grab your things. We’re leaving early today.”

  Tazien’s brows shot up. “Followed? By who?”

  “A man in the market,” Ilyari said quickly, setting her satchel down. “Covered in Code—bad Code. He tried to herd me toward the alleys near the back streets. Brinna helped me get here.”

  Tazien swore under his breath, already yanking off his work apron. “We need to warn Veylan—”

  “Already on it,” Brinna said, turning toward the back room.

  Veylan stepped out just then, eyeing the trio with raised brows. “What’s all this noise? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Brinna wasted no time. “Worse. She was followed on her way back. We’re pulling them out of here early.”

  Veylan’s eyes narrowed, flicking to Ilyari. “Followed?”

  “By someone using corrupted Code,” Tazien added, tense. “It’s bad. We’re not sure what they wanted, but they were pushing her into a trap.”

  Veylan let out a slow breath, rubbing his jaw. “Damn.” His eyes flicked to Brinna. “I don’t like it. But you’re right to get them home.”

  “We’ll stay in the village for a few days,” Brinna said firmly, grabbing her bag. “Let things settle. No more deliveries. No more errands.”

  Veylan opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off with a raised hand. “Your shop’s immaculate, your profits are soaring—you’ve made at least forty-five percent more this month alone. Don’t tell me you’re going to argue.”

  Veylan grumbled, crossing his arms. “You’re a busybody, Brinna.”

  “And you love it,” she shot back, already herding Ilyari and Tazien toward the door. “Keep your coin bag safe, old man. We’ll be back when it’s safe.”

  As they stepped out into the late afternoon, Brinna kept them close, eyes scanning the streets with sharp precision.

  “Not a peep out of either of you until I say so,” she warned. “And not a toe outside your house until I give the all-clear.”

  They nodded in unison, tension thick between them as they hurried back toward the village—unaware that even bigger trouble was already waiting just around the corner.