Over the next couple of days, Ethan finally managed to anchor the Dimensional Homestead door to the side entrance of the Silver Thorn Inn. It wasn’t as simple as picking a spot—Jorrin insisted it be near the kitchen delivery entrance so workers could haul supplies in and out without disturbing guests. Once the anchor was set, the handle shimmered and unfolded, the doorframe snapping perfectly into place. When Ethan gripped the handle and turned it, the world shifted—and just like that, the new entrance to his private pocket world was open.

  On the other side, the air was fresher, the light softer. Five acres of open grass, wild trees, and the faint sound of water waited for him and his Pack. Mara and the Silverthorn kids were the first to follow, eyes wide with delight as they tumbled out into the homestead, dogs and children running wild.

  Then the next few days blurred together in a rhythm of work and progress. Mara’s cousin delivered the first wagonload of lumber. By afternoon, Ethan had enchanted the beams and floorboards, setting them in place with Buster and Moose hauling and the Silverthorn kids handing up nails and planks. Every day, something new took shape: walls, a roof, the first garden beds along the south fence. Amelia organized the chickens, scolding kids and Pixie alike. The oldest Silverthorn sometimes watched Ethan work with the runes, eyes wide and full of questions, but Ethan was the only one who really understood the marks he carved into the foundation.

  Jorrin handled the hiring, bargaining, and kept the work crews moving—calling in old favors and promising extra bread to anyone willing to work hard and keep quiet. Moose and Buster helped where they could, hauling loads, keeping a watchful eye on the supply piles, and occasionally breaking up squabbles over tools or snacks.

  Mason was everywhere during construction, hauling timber and heavy stones as if they weighed nothing, moving beams into place with careful precision, and holding ladders steady for anyone who asked. The workers learned quickly that if you needed something lifted—or needed a break—Mason was the one to call. Pixie sometimes rode on his shoulder to “supervise,” and the city’s inspectors never quite figured out what to do about him. A few muttered about licensing enchanted labor, but nobody was brave enough to try charging Mason a fee.

  Every now and then, a kobold helper would slip in—head down and eyes wary, there to deliver supplies or lend a quiet hand on Ethan’s orders. Kobolds weren’t exactly banned in Celdoras—just rare, and never fully welcome. Most folks looked the other way, or pretended not to notice, as long as the work got done and nobody started trouble. Ethan always made sure the kobolds got paid fairly and treated with respect, but he understood why they kept to the shadows, vanishing into side streets or the nearest alleyway the moment a city official appeared.

  Some days, Ethan barely noticed how many people had come to rely on the project—neighbors bringing food, new workers asking for a room, Pack members learning skills from anyone who’d teach. The whole place was a patchwork of species, laughter, and work calls echoing in the mana-bright mornings.

  But nothing came easy. No matter how hard the Pack worked, Celdoras’ officials never let them forget they were outsiders. Every load of timber came with a new inspection fee. Every bag of nails, another tax—sometimes three. Ethan started keeping all his receipts bundled on a string, and even then, more than once a week, someone from the city arrived with a clipboard, a frown, and a fresh list of infractions or “necessary adjustments.”

  A city guard might trail them through the market, watching the Pack haggle for supplies. A clerk in a red sash would block the gate to the construction site until he’d checked—twice—how many workers came and went, and how many mana stones were in the pantry. Sometimes the “fees” made less sense than the rules; Ethan paid anyway, just to keep things moving.

  Mara and Lyra took turns handling the worst of the negotiations, while Pixie did her best to make herself look big and mean any time an official poked around. Even the hired workers got used to city men showing up to “double-check” papers or ask pointed questions about who was really in charge.

  The message was clear: the city would let them build, but only if they kept their heads down and paid for every breath.

  Still, day by day, the new home took shape. By the end of the second week, the house was mostly finished—walls up, roof on, the garden fenced and half-planted—but Ethan was still perfecting the most important room: the bathroom. He worked alongside a local plumber for three extra days, determined to get the pipes, drains, and mana-stone heating just right. Every stone, joint, and valve got triple-checked. He even hand-carved the toilet from a single block of enchanted stone, layering it with comfort runes, a heated seat, and a self-cleaning bidet that ran off a filtered mana circuit. He spent some extra time on the shower and Jacuzzi-style tub, but most of the time went to the toilet.

  Lyra peeked in one night and found Ethan hunched over the controls, muttering to himself. “You’ve been at that thing for hours. What could possibly be so complicated about a toilet?”

  Ethan grinned, wiping his hands. “You don’t understand. In my world, only the best bathrooms have a Japanese smart toilet—all of the bells and whistles. It’s basically the greatest bathroom in the history of plumbing.”

  Lyra tilted her head in the way some dogs did when they heard a strange sound. “Why would you put a bell and whistle on it?”

  She stared at the glowing runes on the seat, then at the neat control panel he’d built into the wall. “You’re obsessed.”

  He just shrugged. “When you try it, you’ll understand.”

  Then the next few days were a whirlwind of finishing touches. Ethan spent every spare moment on details—sealing windows, carving ward lines along the cellar, double-checking every enchantment for the hundredth time. Sam and Ed visited twice, both curious to see the infamous pocket world in daylight. Sam tested every door and window. “Sturdy as dwarven work!” he declared, while Ed just whistled at the mana-efficient plumbing and the size of the new pantry. The Silverthorn kids tore through the unfinished rooms, Pixie managed to get herself trapped in a linen closet at least twice, and Mason hauled more stone and lumber in one afternoon than three hired men could manage in a day.

  Buster, meanwhile, loudly insisted he was going to “grow something useful” by the back entrance. “Real food—turnips, carrots, something worth eating. Not just all this flower nonsense.” He stomped his paw, earth magic humming. Green shoots of vegetables sprang up—immediately surrounded by wildflowers and bright herbs wherever he walked or focused. Pixie and the Silverthorn kids burst out laughing. “Nice job, Buster! Are those daisies?” Kip teased, weaving between the new blooms. Buster huffed and turned away, grumbling, “Next time I’m planting meat,” and pretended not to notice the bees settling on the blossoms.

  With every room nearly done, word about Ethan’s enchanted bathroom spread. Ed pestered him for blueprints. “Come on, just let me see how you ran those pipes!”

  Jorrin cornered him one morning with a mug of tea and a hopeful look. “Promise me you’ll make one of those commode thrones for the Silver Thorn,” he said, half-whispering, half-pleading. “Not just for the guests—make one for my private quarters, too. I want the best seat in the city. I’ll pay whatever you want. We’ll be the envy of every guest in Celdoras.”

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  He leaned closer. “Ed’s been talking about it nonstop. Every man in town wants a commode throne for himself.”

  Ed, passing by with a bowl of stew, shot Jorrin a mock glare. “You’ll have to get in line, Jorrin. I already told Ethan I want the first one for my place! There’s no way I’m going back to cold stone after sitting on that.”

  Even Sam piped up, “Don’t leave me out! I’m not going back to cold stone in winter, not after sitting on that. Heated seat... how has anyone lived without it?”

  After dinner, the main room buzzed with the energy that comes from a day of honest labor and too much Mara’s stew. Jorrin cleared space on the old table, shuffled the new deck, and started stacking Bits and Pieces.

  “Alright, house rules—no foxes at the table. Sorry, Lyra, you’re just too lucky.”

  Ed grinned and nudged Ethan. “If we’re kicking people out for luck, maybe we should kick Ethan out too.”

  Jorrin joined in, “Yeah, last time he cleaned us out. Next round, it’s no foxes, no Ethans, just Sam and his snack bowl.”

  Sam’s eyes went wide. “Wait, no! We can’t kick Ethan out—he’s the one who taught us the game. Besides, he remembers the rules and I never do.” He looked genuinely worried, missing the joke entirely.

  The table burst out laughing. Ethan shook his head, holding up his hands. “Don’t worry, Sam—I’ll stick around to keep you honest.”

  Lyra snorted, clearly uninterested in the card game—she always won anyway—and slipped away to join Mara near the hearth. Pixie bounced after them, already declaring, “No honey cakes! Only new recipes! If you want to taste-test, you have to wear an apron!” Mara grinned, happy to have the help, and Lyra dove right in, grabbing the first bowl of berries and pretending to inspect the aprons. Within moments, all three were busy inventing new desserts, swapping stories, and making a mess of flour and laughter.

  Amelia scampered after the youngest Silverthorn kids, eager to join in on whatever mischief or taste-testing came next. Before long, she had an apron crooked around her neck and flour dusting her nose, laughing along with the rest of the pack.

  Moose was already stretched out by the hearth, head on his paws and eyes half-shut, letting the warmth of the fire and the low buzz of conversation lull him straight into a nap. Every so often he cracked an eye, just to make sure Ethan was still nearby, then drifted off again, content to guard the pack in his own quiet way.

  Back at the poker table, Ed, Sam, and Jorrin took their seats. Tonight, though, the circle had one more—Durgan Ironheel, who had wandered in with the last bread delivery and never quite left.

  Durgan thumped into his chair, arms crossed, squinting at the colorful rectangles in Ethan’s hands. “So these are the cards you’ve been making such a fuss over? Never seen anything like it—what’s it made of? How many in a deck?”

  Ethan fanned the cards out with a shrug. “Parchment, wax, ink. I made them myself—fifty-two cards in a deck, plus a couple of extras that aren't always used. It’s a game I used to play with my dad back home,” he said, a little wistfully. He didn’t talk much about his old life, but sharing something he’d learned at his father’s side—something good and ordinary—felt right, here among the noise and warmth of new friends.

  Durgan picked up a card, studying the finish. “A novelty like this would fetch a fortune in the capital. Teach me the rules, and I’ll find you a buyer.”

  Ed elbowed Sam. “Don’t let Durgan talk you out of your last Bit. Ethan, you better explain the rules—again.”

  “Alright, last time tonight,” Ethan said. “It’s called Texas Hold’em—where I’m from, it’s the most popular way to play poker.” He quickly went over the basics, with Durgan listening close and everyone else chiming in with reminders or groans about past mistakes.

  Jorrin squinted. “Texas? What’s a Texas?”

  Ed grinned. “Sounds like a town that only sells boots and trouble.”

  Ethan shrugged, smiling. “Trust me, it’s a place with a lot of cards, and even more stories.”

  As the group sorted their Bits and Pieces and started to play, Ethan noticed Mason standing beside the table, watching with bright, hopeful attention. The bench creaked ominously as he shifted his weight. Ethan grinned and slid over a tidy pile of Bits and Pieces.

  “You’re in, Mason. No sitting, though—you know the rules.”

  Mason gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up and gathered his Bits and Pieces, staying on his feet at Ethan’s side. He studied his cards with focused intensity—holding them awkwardly, one corner at a time, until Ed leaned over and quietly rearranged them for him.

  Right on Mason’s heels, Buster hopped up beside Ed, grabbing his own pile of Bits and flattening his ears with mock seriousness. He sorted his Bits into careful stacks and immediately began muttering, “With this many cards, if I track the bets by player, the odds are…” He frowned, did some quick mental math, and gave a satisfied nod.

  Jorrin grinned. “Careful, Buster. If you figure out how to win every hand, you’re banned from dessert for a week.”

  Buster didn’t look up. “Statistically, Sam loses the most. Sorry, Sam.”

  Sam shrugged, laughing. “I know! That’s why I always save room for dessert.”

  Ed snorted. “And Mason’s going to bet the whole pile on his first hand, just watch.”

  On cue, Mason pushed all his Bits and Pieces into the center of the table at once, eyes bright and hopeful. The table burst into laughter.

  Jorrin shook his head, grinning. “No, Mason, you only bet a few. Unless you’re trying to win the whole pot in one go!”

  Mason paused, then gathered most of them back, leaving a single Bit and giving another big thumbs-up.

  Pixie called over from the kitchen, “Careful, Buster. Ed will take your Bits and leave you with nothing but a salt shaker.”

  Buster gave a dismissive huff. “I’m not losing to Ed. I’ve already calculated the optimal strategy.”

  Naturally, Buster lost his first two hands, then declared, “Something’s wrong with the variables,” and doubled down, much to the amusement of the entire table.

  When Mason won his first hand—by pure accident and with no idea how—he pumped both fists in the air, scattering a couple of Bits across the table. Ethan gathered them up for him and set them neatly back in his pile. Mason responded with another thumbs-up, beaming at everyone in turn.

  He stuck with the game for a few more rounds, making wild, happy bets, and collecting every gentle tease with quiet, unshakeable cheer.

  The first hands went predictably. Jorrin played careful, Ed bluffed wildly, Sam lost Bits in every direction, and Durgan watched, learning fast. Ethan didn’t press his luck, folding strong hands when he caught the mood at the table, letting the wins spread around. It was more fun that way, and he’d learned from Lyra that being too lucky could ruin a good night.

  Jorrin noticed after one easy fold. “You’re a better sport than most, Ethan. Or you’re hiding a trick.”

  Ethan just shrugged and tossed his Bits in the pile.

  After a few rounds, the conversation drifted to the latest obsession—Ethan’s enchanted toilet. Ed groaned about losing his winnings but insisted on getting the first commode throne. Jorrin wanted one with a towel warmer. Durgan grunted about nobles paying extra just for the “outlander’s blueprint.” Sam complained he never got a winning seat, heated or not.

  Pixie called over from the kitchen, “You’re all obsessed with toilets. I’m going to make sure dessert survives your plotting!” She vanished behind the kitchen door, where honey cakes and jam tarts were being discussed like state secrets.

  The laughter and rivalry lasted late into the evening. By the time dessert actually arrived—kids and dogs dashing in for slices, Pack members eyeing the cakes and swapping jokes—everyone at the table was a little richer in stories, if not in Bits and Pieces.

  Durgan lifted his mug. “If you do sell those blueprints, just remember who moved half your lumber. I want a discount.”

  Ethan raised his mug. The others followed suit, and the laughter rolled on.

  By the time the last hand was dealt, the inn had settled into a gentle, companionable hush. Most of the kids had drifted off to makeshift beds, the scent of flour and jam lingered from the kitchen, and Pack members were curled up in odd corners or sprawled on blankets by the fire.

  Ethan found himself half-asleep by the hearth, Moose a heavy, comforting weight nearby. For a little while, the new world felt almost like home.