Before the conversation could spiral, Pixie’s head popped up again. Her nose twitched. Her whole body went still.

  Pixie’s head snapped up like she’d just caught a sound no one else could hear.

  She froze mid-step. Nose twitching fast. Eyes locked ahead. Tail high.

  “SPARKLES,” she breathed—and bolted.

  “Wait—Pixie—hey—” Ethan lunged after her but got nothing but air.

  She was already gone.

  She darted into the crowd at full sprint, weaving between legs and carts like she’d spotted something only she understood. Her body dropped low to the ground, all speed and commitment, tail slicing the air behind her as she vanished into Marketline.

  Ethan blinked, then groaned. “Not again.”

  He adjusted his strap and broke into a jog, muttering under his breath. “She can’t just take off every time something smells interesting.”

  Buster followed with a put-upon sigh, like this had become a regrettably familiar routine. Moose moved quick but deliberate, scanning the side alleys as they turned the corner. Amelia stayed close to Ethan’s heel. Lyra caught up just behind them, her eyes already scanning for where the chaos might be headed.

  Pixie’s path wasn’t hard to trace. A fruit stand rocked where something small and fast had just passed through. A pair of street performers blinked after her like they’d seen a mirage.

  Just ahead—only half a block away—sunlight glanced off something high in a shop window. One of the hanging displays twisted slightly, and the reflection shimmered. A strip of ribbon, long and silver-blue, caught the light again and seemed to move with it.

  That was all it took.

  Pixie came to a halt in front of the storefront.

  Tail up. Head high. Nose pressed to the glass.

  By the time Ethan caught up, she hadn’t moved an inch.

  The shop sat tucked between a spice merchant and a cobbler—narrow, tall, and proud of it. Its windows arched upward into second-story glasswork, and the painted sign over the door read:

  VELLE’S NEEDLE

  Charmwear, Haberdashery & Light-Fitted Wards

  Runes flickered along the trim in faint, tracing spirals—magic meant for subtlety, not spectacle.

  Pixie stayed locked in place, tail twitching in sharp, uneven bursts. Her breath fogged a soft circle against the glass. Inside, ribbons hung in perfect rows, grouped by tone and shimmer class. Some shimmered naturally in the light. Others had clear charm-work woven into the threads—glow stitching, air-reactive motion binding, even a few with spell-inset clasps.

  Ethan slowed beside her, still catching his breath. “Did you really have to sprint for it?”

  Pixie didn’t look away. “You said ‘not today’ back at Garrick’s.”

  Ethan sighed. “Fine. Yes. I promise. We’ll look.”

  Her tail thumped once against the stone.

  Ethan glanced between them.

  “Alright,” he said. “Let’s go in before she starts trying to manifest sparkles.”

  The shop door opened with a soft chime—three clean notes, tuned and deliberate. Not loud. Just enough to be heard under conversation.

  Inside, the air shifted. Warmer, quieter. The din of Marketline cut off almost completely once the door swung closed behind them. Whatever wards were built into the frame did their job.

  Amelia padded up inside the shop. She didn’t press her nose to everything like Pixie, but her eyes didn’t leave the display. A soft gray ribbon with white edging hung near the center of the rack, curled and drifting on its hook like it was made to breathe.

  Lyra stood a few steps back. She hadn’t said anything, but her eyes kept returning to a burgundy ribbon set near the top rail—copper threading, knotted clean at both ends, a little too elegant for the front row.

  The front half of the shop was neat but lived-in. Spools of ribbon hung behind glass, arranged by color and weave type. Shelves lined the right-hand wall, filled with labeled bolts of charmed fabric—some tagged for utility, some for performance, some just marked “formal.” A narrow glass case near the counter held fitted clasps, stitched charm loops, and decorative fasteners arranged like jewelry.

  Behind the counter stood a woman threading a silver cord through the eye of a half-set charm ring. She didn’t look up.

  “You’re either here for fast repairs or wishful thinking,” she said, still focused on her work. Her voice was steady. Not unfriendly—just tired. “If it’s the first one, take a number. If it’s the second, I recommend you start small and lie to yourself about the cost.”

  Ethan stepped forward and rested both hands on the counter. “Ribbons.”

  Now she looked up.

  Sharp green eyes. Auburn hair pulled back into a wrap that had seen better days. Her sleeves were rolled, her fingers still threaded through the half-finished charm ring she hadn’t set down yet.

  Her ears were the giveaway—not long like the full-blooded elves Ethan had seen near the guild towers, but tapered enough to stand out. Probably half-elf. Hard to judge her age—she had the kind of face that didn’t offer hints, and the kind of posture that said she’d survived three guild systems and had no intention of letting this one slow her down.

  She looked the group over in one slow pass. Not surprised, not alarmed—just cataloging. Her gaze paused slightly longer on the dogs than on Ethan.

  Pixie stood in the middle of the shop with her feet set and her ears high, like she was trying to manifest ribbon through sheer willpower. Her tail hadn’t stopped moving.

  The woman blinked once. “So. Not repairs.”

  Ethan shook his head. “Nope… Ribbons,”

  Pixie gave a mental nudge through the bond, bright and urgent. "Tell her the flutter kind. With shimmer. The one that makes wind jealous."

  He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Do you—uh—have anything that sort of… moves on its own? Not full enchantment, just charm-threaded? Fluttery. Sparkly. Something that won’t tie itself in knots if she spins too fast.”

  The shopkeeper tilted her head. “You’re talking about Zephyr-cloth. Light-reactive, air-sensitive, resistant to tangle. Performance-grade.”

  “Right. That.” Ethan didn’t bother pretending he knew the word.

  She didn’t roll her eyes, but it was a near thing. “We have a few samples. Prices are by length, enchantment class, and what kind of damage you plan to cause.”

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Pixie vibrated slightly in place.

  Amelia sat beside a display case like she belonged there. Lyra had already wandered toward the deeper tones without saying a word.

  “I’ll bring out the tray,” the woman said. “Tell the dramatic one to stay off the cases.”

  Ethan glanced down. “Pix, off the case.”

  Pixie blinked up at him innocently. Her front paws had crept halfway onto the base of the display without her realizing it.

  “I wasn’t on it,” she muttered through the bond. “I was near it with emphasis.”

  She backed off anyway, tail still going like a metronome.

  The shopkeeper disappeared into the back, and the Pack moved into the space with more purpose. Buster gave the ribbon racks a single skeptical glance, then wandered toward a corner with more sensible materials—thick canvas rolls and tightly-packed stitch kits. After a moment, he frowned. “None of this is edible,” he said, disappointed.

  Moose examined a row of reinforced sash bindings near the front. His nose twitched once. “This one reflects low light,” he said. “Might make her easier to spot in dim corridors. Could be useful.”

  Pixie didn’t hear him. She was staring straight ahead, watching the curtain behind the counter like it was a stage and her name was about to be called.

  Amelia moved slowly, drifting sideways as she took in the racks. Her eyes weren’t locked on anything at first. But then—just past the edge of a mid-tier display—she saw it. A gray ribbon with pale white edging, almost hidden behind a brighter gold band. She paused, then stepped closer. Her head tilted slightly, the way it did when she was thinking. Her body stayed still.

  Lyra had started off toward the back wall, eyes passing over deeper blues and marbled silk blends without much interest. But something near the far right caught her. She stopped in front of a row of darker reds, her gaze settling on a thin, understated band of burgundy with copper-threaded edges. Her ears didn’t flick, but her shoulders shifted just slightly—like she’d braced against something that wasn’t there.

  She didn’t touch it. Not at first. But her fingers hovered, then settled gently on the edge of the rack. Her eyes stayed on the ribbon. Whatever she saw there, she didn’t share.

  Ethan watched from near the center of the shop, arms loosely crossed. He didn’t say anything. Just took them all in—Pixie vibrating, Amelia quiet, Lyra still and focused.

  This moment felt different from everything else they'd done since arriving in this world. For days, they'd been focused entirely on registration forms, bribing guards, finding shelter, and scavenging what they needed to survive. Standing in a ribbon shop because Pixie wanted something pretty felt almost bizarrely normal—the kind of everyday errand that belonged to their old life, not this strange new one. Ethan found himself unexpectedly grateful for the simple normalcy of it.

  The back curtain rustled dramatically, rings sliding against the rod with a metallic clatter.

  The shopkeeper emerged carrying a shallow display tray that glimmered in the shop's amber light. The velvet-lined surface held a treasure trove of ribbons arranged with the precision of a master jeweler—each one perfectly aligned, not a strand out of place. Some ribbons lay flat and matte like slumbering snakes. Others gleamed with metallic threads that caught and fractured the light. A few bore thread-fine runes that pulsed with subtle energy. And one—the most captivating—quivered and danced with every breath nearby, as if alive and eager to be chosen.

  She set the tray down with a theatrical finality. "These are the ones I don't mind selling," she announced, running a practiced finger along the edge. "Everything else is either reserved for actual dignitaries or so expensive I'd have to charge you just for breathing near it."

  Pixie stood frozen, her entire body vibrating with barely contained excitement. Her tail had stopped—a sure sign she was focusing with everything she had.

  The shopkeeper's lips quirked upward. "Well? Go ahead." She gestured toward the tray with a flourish. "I've never seen an animal shop for ribbons before, but I imagine you'll know what you want when you see it."

  Pixie unfroze like a spell had been lifted. She circled the tray twice, her nose hovering just above the fabric with the reverence of a scholar examining ancient texts. Her whiskers twitched as she inventoried each option, until finally she stopped—a hard, decisive halt—in front of a shimmering blue ribbon with delicate silver edging. The ribbon rippled gently, as if responding to her attention. When she tilted her head, the fabric mirrored her movement, creating a dance between observer and object.

  "This one," she breathed through the bond, her mental voice filled with wonder. "It knows me. It wants to be worn."

  Ethan knelt beside her, watching the ribbon catch the light. The magic wasn't flashy or overpowering—just a clean, elegant charm that complemented Pixie's natural energy without turning her into a walking spectacle. It would flutter when she moved, accent her speed, but never tangle or trip her up.

  "That's yours," he said, and meant it.

  Pixie's entire body wiggled with joy, her tail resuming its frantic beat.

  Amelia approached next, her steps measured and deliberate. Unlike Pixie’s exuberant evaluation, she made a direct line for the ribbon she’d noticed earlier—the pale fabric that caught light along its white trim like breath over glass. She touched it gently with her nose, her blue eyes never leaving it, as if afraid it might vanish if she looked away.

  The shopkeeper's brows lifted slightly. "Well, well," she murmured with genuine surprise. "That one's silver-threaded silk from the northern provinces. Most customers walk right past it." She leaned closer to Amelia, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Not showy, but it takes three times the skill to weave properly. The real connoisseurs always notice."

  Amelia blinked once in acknowledgment, her tail giving a single pleased swish.

  When attention shifted to Lyra, she remained rooted in place beside the deeper tones. Her ears lay flat against her head, and her hands were clasped tightly in front of her—a picture of conflicted desire.

  After a long moment of internal struggle, she stepped forward with careful dignity and lifted the same deep band that had caught her eye before. The copper threads gleamed warmer now in her hands, turning the fabric almost alive against her hair. Something in her expression softened as she studied it—not quite a smile, but a quiet recognition.

  The shopkeeper's professional distance cracked slightly. "Interesting choice," she said, nodding with genuine approval. "Border-knot work from the eastern valleys. An old fox pattern, actually—used to be more common in the Kitsune provinces. It's double-tied along the edges—it'll keep its shape no matter how it's packed or stored. We don't see many of those around here anymore."

  Lyra's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the ribbon. She met the shopkeeper's eyes for the first time. "Thank you," she said, the words barely audible.

  Ethan studied the tray, noting that only three ribbons had been chosen, the rest untouched despite their obvious quality and charm. He glanced over his shoulder toward the back of the shop.

  Ethan looked down at Moose again.

  “You’re the only one who didn’t get anything.”

  “I don’t need anything,” Moose said, quiet but steady.

  Ethan turned toward the counter. “I still want to check.”

  The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow. “Looking for something small, or something useful?”

  “Preferably both,” Ethan said. “Something like what you mentioned earlier. Wards for travel safety. Subtle.”

  She nodded and bent to open the case beneath the counter. When she came back up, she set a tray on the surface—lined with dark cloth, a neat row of small tokens laid out across it. Stone, wood, etched brass. Nothing flashy.

  Moose stepped forward, polite as always. He looked them over with a calm, almost clinical eye. Read the carvings. Noted the weight. Considered the function.

  But he didn’t touch any of them.

  “This one warms when danger’s close,” the shopkeeper said, tapping a small gray disc. “Weatherstone. Low magic, long life. It won’t light up or buzz—just a shift in heat.”

  Moose looked at Ethan.

  It wasn’t judgment. Just the quiet kind of pause that made Ethan realize this wasn’t going to cut it.

  He glanced down at the tray again.

  Everyone else had gotten something thoughtful. Something perfect. Pixie’s ribbon. Amelia’s silk. Lyra’s copper-threaded knot. Even Buster’s ridiculous meat pouch.

  And here he was about to hand Moose the equivalent of a keychain.

  Ethan stepped back from the counter.

  “No,” he said. “We’re not doing this halfway.”

  The shopkeeper looked up.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Ethan added. “These are solid. But this?” He nodded toward Moose. “He’s the reason we got through the last week in one piece. He deserves better than a warning token on a string.”

  The shopkeeper didn’t seem offended. If anything, her expression shifted—something more thoughtful.

  “You want Edwin’s Circle Line,” she said. “Two streets north, one over. Carved lintel above the door. No sign. Just the Circle and the Line etched in stone.”

  “Specialist?” Ethan asked.

  “Enchanter,” she said. “Ward-focused. Makes boundary anchors and holdfields. He doesn’t care about looks. Only strength.” She glanced at Moose. “Sounds like his kind of place.”

  Ethan gave her a tired smile. “Thanks, Velle.”

  She blinked.

  “That’s not my name,” she said. “That was my mother.”

  Ethan paused. “Oh… sorry. It’s the name on the sign.”

  She tapped the counter. “Her shop. She opened it during the last guild restructure. Taught charm-threading, small bindings. She was human. My dad’s elf. He used to help her cut linework when his hands were steadier. After she passed, I kept the name.”

  Ethan nodded, quiet. “She’d be proud of this place.”

  She didn’t smile, but her tone softened. “She’d hate how neat I keep the counter.”

  Then, after a breath. “Tell Ed I sent you. He won’t know what that means. But it’ll annoy him, and I like that.”

  Ethan laughed—genuinely. Not loud, but full. It hit something in him he didn’t know had been waiting to crack open.

  “Yeah,” he said, still smiling. “I’ll do that.”

  The shop door closed behind them with a soft chime. Outside, the light had shifted—the shadows longer now, edged in gold. Marketline still bustled, but something about it felt easier than before. The noise was the same. But the weight wasn’t.