They walked north, following the shopkeeper’s directions. Two streets over, one up. Carved lintel. Circle and Line.

  Pixie pranced ahead like she was being presented to a royal court. Her ribbon fluttered at her neck, silver-blue and alive with motion. It caught the sun every time she bounced, trailing like a miniature banner of joy.

  “It’s PERFECT,” she announced through the bond. “It feels like I’m wearing the sky. I should be in a parade. I AM the parade.”

  Buster rumbled behind her. “You’re the drum section.”

  Pixie executed a tight, proud spin in the street. “Exactly!”

  Amelia walked beside Lyra. Her ribbon had been styled into a bow that rested just above her ears—neat, balanced, impossibly precise. It didn’t look like an accessory. It looked like it had grown there.

  Ethan stared at it for a second, then tilted his head. “How did you even get it to stay like that?”

  “Lyra helped,” Amelia said, without looking up. Her tone was quiet but full.

  Lyra’s own ribbon was tied into a high ponytail, lifting her hair off her neck and catching the copper in her threads with every step. It framed her ears and eyes cleanly—on purpose or not, it gave her presence.

  “You look good,” Ethan said.

  She ducked her head slightly, but didn’t deflect. “Thank you,” she said, and this time, her voice didn’t try to hide behind it.

  Pixie spun again and trotted backward so she could face them all. “We ALL look good. Amelia looks so official—like she’s on her way to a Very Important Wolf Meeting. Maybe she’s the ambassador.”

  “Ambassador of what?” Buster muttered.

  “Important wolf business,” Amelia replied without hesitation.

  “Sounds exhausting,” Buster said.

  “It is,” Amelia agreed, nodding once.

  “There’s lots and lots of paperwork,” Pixie added gravely.

  Ethan didn’t interrupt. He just watched them—all of them—settling in, walking side by side with new colors tied into old bonds.

  Moose stayed beside him, slightly back. Not left out. Just positioned where he could see everything. Through the bond, Ethan felt his focus—not on the ribbons, but on what they were doing. How they moved. How they smiled.

  He wasn’t admiring the gifts. He was keeping watch over the ones who wore them.

  The buildings pressed tighter here—stone walls leaning in, wooden beams crossing overhead where laundry lines sagged in the heat. Someone burned incense in a second-story window, and the scent drifted down, faint and unfamiliar.

  A heavy wooden door appeared in the wall ahead, recessed slightly into the stonework. The lintel above it was carved with a circle intersected by a straight line. The building had no shop sign or display windows, standing unmarked except for the simple carved symbol.

  "That's it," Ethan said, nodding toward the door. "Edwin's Circle Line."

  The Pack gathered around him as he approached the entrance, Moose moving slightly ahead to take point as always. Ethan reached for the handle.

  The door swung open with a low creak, hinges protesting like they hadn't been oiled in years. The air inside was cooler, denser—heavier in a way that wasn't temperature. The outside world cut off behind them like someone had lowered a curtain.

  Moose stepped in first, his nose working the air methodically as he scanned the corners of the room. The guardian in him never fully relaxed in new spaces.

  Light came from multiple sources—floating orbs above the workbench, amber-lit enchantments in iron brackets, and crystalline shards in the ceiling that filtered daylight into narrow beams, each falling precisely on a specific work zone.

  The smell hit next as stone dust, burned metal, and something resinous and old filled the air—pine sap filtered through iron filings. Beneath it all lingered the charged scent that followed active enchantment work.

  Smell is LOUD here, Pixie noted through the bond, her nose twitching rapidly. Like someone mixed a library and a lightning storm.

  The workshop ran deeper than the building should've allowed, stretching like the space had been folded back on itself. Shelves reached floor to ceiling, filled with storage boxes labeled in sharp script, bundles of wire sorted by magical conductivity, and carved components in various stages of completion.

  Workbenches lined the walls, each dedicated to different processes. One held a brass-rigged cutting arm positioned above a runestone mid-etch. Another was scattered with templates and ring clamps weighted down against ambient charge. A third held bits of chalk, a broken hourglass, and a glowing cube that rotated slowly and ignored gravity.

  “If that falls on someone, it’s going to hurt,” Buster observed dryly.

  At the center stood a massive circular bench with a gap for stepping inside. Carved runes pulsed along the edge in slow intervals, like breath or heartbeat. A half-stack of stones sat on the far side, one wobbling before clicking softly back into alignment.

  "Hang on—don't touch anything yet," someone muttered from behind a shelf. "I just got the balance right on that alignment—one second—"

  A figure stepped into view, wiping hands on an apron streaked with burns and chalk circles. His sleeves were rolled to uneven heights, one forearm wrapped in copper wire threaded through worn rings. He moved like someone who hadn't slept in days but knew exactly where every tool was by sound.

  "Welcome to Circle Line," he said, not looking up yet. "Please tell me you're not here for a love charm or a glow-thread anklet, because I don't make those."

  When he finally glanced up, his weathered face showed lines cut from years of concentration. His beard was short, his hair practical. His eyes were pale, bleached of color, but sharp—assessing rather than merely observing.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  He scanned the Pack without blinking. Amelia instinctively moved closer to Ethan's leg, her ribbon-bow catching the amber light. The man's gaze lingered on Moose the longest, something like professional interest flickering in those pale eyes.

  “Oh,” the man said. “Not tourists, then.” The older, gruff enchanter straightened a little, his tone shifting—less guarded now, more focused. “Good. I get enough fools in a week. You don’t look like more of them.”

  He finally gave his name a moment later, almost like an afterthought. “Edwin,” he said. “Or Ed, if you’re not here to waste my time.”

  Ethan stepped forward, already halfway into a confident nod. “Also, uh—someone said to tell you hi. Velle.”

  Ed blinked.

  “From Velle’s Needle?” Ethan added. “Except—not her. Her daughter. Who runs it now. She was very clear that her name isn’t Velle, that it was her mom’s shop, but... I don’t think she actually told me her name? Or maybe she did and I just missed it in the ribbon chaos.”

  He scratched the back of his neck. “I thought I was delivering a clever little jab on her behalf, and now I’m realizing she might’ve just set me up to watch me flounder through this interaction like a moron.”

  Ed narrowed his eyes, no reaction beyond a slight head tilt. “...What are you talking about?”

  “She said to say hi,” Ethan said, resigned now. “That you wouldn’t know who it was, and that would annoy you. Which was the whole point. And now here I am, unknowingly weaponized, flailing through a message from someone whose name may or may not have been said out loud.”

  Ed studied him for another second. Then his brow twitched upward, almost amused. “Oh. You mean Lucy.”

  “Seriously?” Ethan said.

  “Yeah. Half-elf. About 150. Sharp as glass and twice as likely to cut you with it. Still running that shop?” He shook his head. “Still outwitting anyone who walks through the door, then.”

  Ethan exhaled and gave a crooked smile. “She got me good.”

  “She usually does,” Ed said, and turned toward the nearest workbench like that settled it. “She gets bored easy. You made her afternoon.”

  “I’m glad someone had a good time,” Ethan muttered, still smiling.

  Ed didn’t look back. “So. If you’re not here for sparkles or flattery, what do you want?”

  Ethan straightened. “A ward. For him.” He gestured toward Moose, who stood quiet and solid just behind him. “Something functional. Durable. He’s not decoration. He’s our line holder.”

  Ed glanced at Moose again—this time longer. He didn’t ask what kind of beast he was, or what class Ethan ran. He just looked. Thought about it. Then turned and pointed toward a shelf near the back wall, where a row of small stones lay arranged on raised brass fittings.

  “Start there,” Ed said. “They’re clean. Low-charge. If anything calls to him, I’ll see what’s left to carve.”

  Ethan stepped aside without needing to nudge Moose. The big dog moved forward with calm precision, his eyes scanning the shelf. He didn’t rush. He didn’t sniff every piece. He just looked—one slow pass.

  He stopped in front of a dull gray stone set in a copper bracket. The markings on it were faded—etched so deep the runes had started to wear into the grain of the stone itself. It didn’t glow. It didn’t pulse. It didn’t react at all.

  “That one?” Ed asked.

  Moose didn’t move. Just held his gaze on it.

  Ed grunted. “Been sitting there for three months. Refuses to hold a charge. Everyone wants the flashy ones. This one’s too stubborn.”

  Ethan stepped up beside him and reached out—fingers brushing the edge of the mount.

  The stone warmed under his touch. Not hot. Not bright. Just a pulse. A single breath of mana flickered from the runes and traced the copper base before fading again.

  Ed’s eyes sharpened.

  “You charged that?” he said.

  Ethan pulled his hand back. “I didn’t mean to.”

  Ed walked over and picked up the stone. Turned it in his hand. Watched the faint glow fade. “You didn’t mean to. But it held it. For a second.”

  Moose stepped closer and sat down in front of Ed, posture still and unflinching.

  Ed turned the stone over once more, then looked back at Ethan. “Sit down. Don’t touch anything else yet.”

  Ethan hesitated. “That a threat?”

  “No,” Ed said. “That’s me being interested.”

  He set the stone down gently. Then he pulled out the nearest stool and gestured for Ethan to sit, one hand still resting on the bench’s edge. Moose stayed where he was—silent, steady, eyes tracking every movement Ed made. He didn’t look defensive. Just focused.

  Ed moved with more care now. Not slow, but precise. He retrieved a narrow glass stylus from a rack on the back wall, then turned toward a side shelf and selected a small strip of slate, already pre-etched with a partial ring. His movements had shifted—less distracted craftsman, more measured ritual.

  “You’ve worked enchantment before?” Ed asked without looking up.

  Ethan shook his head. “No. I just... reacted to it, I guess.”

  Ed didn’t respond right away. He placed the slate flat on the bench and used the stylus to trace a curved line—slow, deliberate, looping inward like a spiral being pulled tight. The glyph didn’t glow. Not yet. But the pressure in the room shifted.

  “Reacted how?” Ed asked, voice low.

  Ethan hesitated. “It felt like... a pulse. Like it pulled something out of me. Just a flicker of mana. I didn’t mean to do it.”

  Ed grunted. Not disbelief—more like filing something away. “You overcharged it, but didn’t crack it. That stone’s been dry for months. Most people need a loop, a thread anchor, and a stabilization glyph just to get a flicker out of it.”

  He tapped the stylus once on the slate—just enough to finish the circle. The etched ring flared faintly, pale blue lines snapping into shape like frost across glass.

  “I’ve met casters who could push raw mana into stone,” he said, still watching the glow. “Usually burns too hot. Warps the base. Makes it brittle. You didn’t do that.”

  Ethan shrugged. “I wasn’t trying to charge it. I just touched it.”

  Ed nodded once, then turned to a different bench. This one was covered in raw stones—unshaped, unpolished, still dusted from transport. He picked one from the pile and rolled it between his fingers, then set it down in front of Ethan.

  “Touch that.”

  Ethan raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

  “Nullstone,” Ed said. “Doesn’t hold a charge. Just drinks it. If you’re leaking mana without meaning to, we’ll know in three seconds.”

  Ethan reached out and placed two fingers against the stone’s surface.

  Nothing happened.

  For a long moment, there was only silence—just the faint hum of the shop and the soft crackle of the enchantment ring still cooling on the slate.

  Then the nullstone twitched. A hairline crack split across the top with an almost apologetic sound.

  Ed let out a low whistle. “Well. Either that thing’s defective… or you’re sitting on a hell of a wellspring.”

  Ethan leaned forward slightly, studying the crack. “I’ve had too much mana since I got here. Thought it was a class thing at first, but now I’m not so sure.”

  Ed didn’t comment. Just picked up the nullstone and turned it over, tilting it toward the light. “Most people trickle mana through a thread or loop. You’re bleeding pressure just by resting your hand.”

  Ethan nodded. “That tracks. I’ve cracked a few things by accident. Stones. A resonance crystal during registration.” He hesitated. “Also a campfire once.”

  Ed snorted. “Let me guess. Burned too hot, flared too wide, went out with a pop?”

  Ethan smiled. “Yeah. Burned all the kindling in under five seconds. Looked away, looked back, and the campfire was just... gone. Like a war crime happened in miniature.”

  Ed shook his head and dropped the cracked nullstone into a small tin labeled “SHELVED.” It clinked once against the others. He nudged it into place with his thumb—lined up like everything else inside. “You ever tried testing it? Seeing which kinds of stones actually take your mana clean?”

  “Starting to,” Ethan said. “But it’s hard to experiment when you’re living out of a tent.”