Tessa’s boots slapped against cobbled stone, her breath coming sharp and fast as she dodged between a pair of gossiping merchants blocking the alley. A startled yelp followed her as her satchel clipped one of them. She didn’t look back.

  The delivery route wasn’t even long. Ten blocks across the Inner Ring, a drop-off with a rune-sealed scroll she’d picked up fifteen minutes ago. A simple run. But the city didn’t care. Not about her short legs, not about the wagon pileup on Canal Street, and definitely not about the fact that she was doing all this on foot.

  Two more turns. Her lungs burned. Her thighs threatened mutiny. But she kept moving, leaning into the momentum like a threadbare arrow launched from a broken bow.

  Every coin counted. Every delivery completed meant she was one step closer to buying new thread, new leather scraps, a new set of tools—or maybe even an actual whetstone that hadn’t been used to sharpen horse teeth.

  She skids to a stop outside the stone-faced Guildhall outpost, a delivery sigil glowing faintly above the drop-box slot.

  Tessa bent forward, hands on knees, catching her breath as a couple of mounted couriers trotted past. One shot her a sympathetic look. The other didn’t bother.

  “Still running, huh?” the sympathetic one called. “You should put in for a mount license.”

  Tessa straightened, wiped sweat from her neck, and offered a dry smile.

  “If I could afford a mount license, I wouldn’t be running deliveries in hand-stitched boots.”

  The courier laughed and rode off. Tessa adjusted her satchel, tugged at a fraying strap, and turned back toward the stables. Her shift wasn’t over yet, and she still had to figure out how to feed both herself and a fast-growing bird without dipping into her crafting fund.

  One scroll at a time. One job at a time. That was the deal.

  And Tessa, even breathless and aching, always delivered.

  The smell hit her first—damp hay, warm feathers, and a sharp, earthy undertone that suggested Larry had gotten into something again. Tessa trudged past the long rows of stalls, boots squelching slightly with every step, until she reached the back corner where the stable master let her keep him in exchange for extra shifts.

  The old canvas curtain she used as a stall door had been shoved aside. A flurry of grey and cream feathers was all the warning she got before—

  THUMP.

  Larry barreled into her chest with enough force to nearly knock her off her feet.

  "Easy—hey! I’m alive, you idiot!" Tessa coughed, staggering back as he chirruped and rubbed his beak against her shoulder. His oversized feet thudded against the stone floor, claws clicking excitedly. He was easily twice her height now and still growing.

  She scratched beneath his jaw and sighed. “Miss me already, huh?”

  Larry warbled, a soft sound that started deep and vibrated in his chest like a drumroll. He tucked his long, feathery neck over her head and leaned into her until she was forced to sit down against the hay.

  Tessa exhaled slowly, letting her eyes close for a second.

  "Delivery made," she murmured. "Which means you're getting dinner... and I’m getting half a spool of decent thread. Maybe."

  Larry blinked his wide, pale eyes at her.

  She leaned her head back against his side. His feathers were warm and comforting, like the world’s softest furnace. “I swear, you eat more than three stable hands combined.”

  He puffed his chest in a way that looked suspiciously like pride.

  Tessa smirked tiredly. “You know, sometimes I think you’re the smartest one in this place.”

  She opened her bag. Two bronze needles left. Some tattered cloth. A short stack of copper.

  The guild wouldn’t even glance her way until she hit level 100. The thought made her stomach twist.

  “You think I’m crazy, right?” she said, rubbing the base of Larry’s neck feathers. “Trying to patch my way into the Maker’s Guild one sock-stitch at a time.”

  He chirped.

  "Yeah. I think so too."

  She sat in the silence for a while longer, listening to the distant sounds of other stable hands cleaning, the occasional snort from a draft lizard, and the comforting rhythmic sound of Larry breathing beside her.

  Tomorrow she’d go look for another job. The job board had a new posting for low-clearance couriers. The pay was awful. The risk? Supposedly low.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  But it was something.

  Tessa shifted, letting Larry’s feathers tickle her ear as she pulled off her boots—one of them flopped open at the side where the stitching had blown again. She’d patched it twice this week already.

  With a grunt, she reached for her kit. A needle, some dull thread, and fingers that ached from the day. She knew this repair wouldn’t level her skill by a lot, not enough novelty, not enough complexity. But if she left it, the next job would be worse.

  She hovered her hand over the seam and focuses on her skill, Quick Mend.

  A faint dull golden light lights up the thread. She stitched through the worn leather, binding the worst of the damage. The sole reshaped slightly, enough to hold for another run or two. She checked her system notification.

  [Durability restored]

  [Travel Boots]

  Quality: Very Poor

  Worn leather boots, hand-patched and waterlogged. Comfortable enough to run in—if you don’t mind the blisters.

  Satisfied with what she saw, she set the boot down with a sigh and muttered, “Good enough.”

  Larry shifted beside her, laying his head down near her thigh with a heavy sigh.

  “You’re lucky, you know,” she said quietly, not looking up. “No one expects anything from you. You just get to be a weird bird.”

  He gave a soft chirp in response, which she chose to interpret as agreement.

  By the time she finished, the stables had gone mostly quiet. The lanterns hung low, their flickering light casting long shadows across the floor. She leaned back again, cradling her knees against her chest.

  She tapped open her stats out of habit. Still level 14. Still far away from 100. Still a girl with a dream stitched together from scraps and stubbornness.

  Tessa stared at her Quick Mend skill in her skill menu, a small sense of pride swelling in her chest. Level 8. Not bad for a poor Artisan.

  It was one of the skills her Patchwork Crafter class gave her. It wasn't much—just enough to restore some durability or functionality for a short period—but it had saved her from countless close calls.

  As she closed the menu, she glanced down at the patched-up boots on her feet. She stood up slowly, stretching out her sore muscles as she did so.

  Tomorrow was another day, and another job. She knew the risks involved—low-clearance couriers were often targeted by thieves —but she was determined to make it work. She had dreams to chase, and not enough money to buy new boots every other day.

  She gathered up her satchel and headed towards the stable door.

  Outside, the night air was crisp and cool, the moon casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets. Tessa pulled up the hood of her jacket and set off into the darkness.

  Tessa’s boots echoed against the cobblestones as she made her way through the district. The dimly lit streets were lined with cheap inns and bars, their doors yawning open to spill out flickering lamplight, music, and the clatter of mugs against wood. Laughter rolled down the stone walls like smoke, easy and loose, the kind that rose from bellies and old jokes.

  They were all relatively cheap—thanks to their location, nestled in the worn ribs of the city. Tessa kept to the edge of the walkway, boots scuffing in rhythm, one step always a little shorter than the other from the uneven sole.

  She caught sight of a cluster through the window of a low-roofed tavern: a group of locals, dusty-faced and leather-skinned, work-tough and loud. Wall laborers, she guessed, judging by the heavy boots and the lime-streaked sleeves. They drank like they had something to celebrate, and something to forget. Probably both.

  She didn’t stop walking, but her pace slowed.

  Someone clapped another on the back, a toast raised mid-laugh, and the window flared with firelight as they tipped their heads together in mock argument or story-spinning. Inside, it was warm. Easy. Familiar.

  Her fingers tightened briefly around her satchel strap.

  Tessa had never stood in a room like that—not in the middle of it. Her sister had always been surrounded by others: apprentices, fellow smiths, people who filled the room with noise and light. Tessa had been the quiet one in the doorway, holding a bucket of coal or a sack of nails, always five steps behind and already forgotten.

  She let the moment pass like a cart rolling by. Too loud to stop it. Too heavy to touch.

  A shout of laughter burst from the tavern’s side door as it swung open, releasing a wave of heat and the sour-sweet scent of spilled ale and roasted meat. Tessa didn’t look back.

  The wind picked up, tugging at the edges of her patched hood and dragging scraps of paper down the alley like they were late for something. She adjusted the hood tighter over her head, pulling it low. The street ahead was darker, quieter. Familiar.

  She picked up her pace—not hurried, but with purpose. The kind of pace that made sure your thoughts didn’t catch up to you until you were already home.

  Tessa’s boots clacked against the stone path leading to her house. It was a one-story building like most in this part of the capital, its walls thick and fireproof—a relic of a time when dragons still roamed the skies. She grumbled about the unnecessary fortification, but she couldn’t deny the comfort of knowing she was safe inside.

  There were three rooms inside: one for her, one for her sister, and one for their parents. Now, it was just Tessa and whatever lingered in the walls.

  She pushed open the heavy door. It groaned on the hinges before slamming shut behind her with a thud that settled in her bones.

  Her room was small but lived-in: shelves lined with old books and jars of dried flowers, a worn cot tucked into the far corner, and a scarred worktable at the center. A single candle flickered as she set her satchel down and tugged off her boots, the leather still damp from the street.

  Her eyes flicked to the closed door across the hall—her sister’s room. It had stayed shut since their mother passed. Even after all this time, it felt like the door held its breath whenever she looked at it.

  They’d grown up in this house, shouted through its halls, stormed out of its rooms. Even when they avoided each other, they’d still been together. Now, the silence pressed in like a weight, soft but steady.

  She shook off the melancholy thoughts and focused on unpacking her satchel. There were letters from clients—some demanding payment for late deliveries, others praising her speed and efficiency—a few coins jingling at the bottom, and a small bundle wrapped in cloth that she recognized as a commission from one of her regular customers: a patchwork quilt for his wife’s birthday.

  She set the bundle on her worktable and began unfolding the pieces. Carefully chosen scraps. Familiar designs. Her needle slipped through the fabric with practiced ease, and the room filled with the soft rhythm of thread pulling tight.

  This part, at least, made sense.

  The house was still. The night long. But the motion of her hands grounded her.

  She didn’t let herself think too much about what might’ve been—if their mother hadn’t fallen sick, if her sister had stayed, if things had gone differently. The thoughts hovered, but she kept them at the edges, just out of reach.

  Stitch by stitch, she pushed them back. And in the quiet, she worked.