By the time the end of winter break crept close, Luna could feel something shifting in the manor.

  Not in the weather.

  Not in the routine.

  But in Clyde and Hector.

  They kept giving Trey… looks.

  Longing, dramatic, soul-crushed looks.

  Luna didn’t understand it until the third day in a row when Clyde sighed so loudly the wallpaper trembled.

  Trey finally snapped.

  “What is wrong with you two? Why are you acting like you’re sending me off to war?”

  Clyde pressed a hand to his heart. “Ah, kids. They always talk back when they grow up.”

  Hector nodded mournfully. “What an ungrateful child.”

  “You’re not even my parents,” Trey muttered.

  Hector flicked his ear. “We’re your sitters. We’re closer.”

  Clyde suddenly perked up. “Remember when you broke Father’s compass and begged us not to tell him?”

  Howard’s voice drifted from the hallway, calm as ever.

  “I know just now.”

  Trey whipped around. “WHY WOULD YOU BRING THAT UP?!”

  Grace pressed a hand on her forehead.

  “Francis, dear, do you have more of those tranquilizing teas? I feel like I’m going to need an entire crate.”

  “Coming right up,” Francis said, already moving.

  Before Trey could begin another argument about “selective sibling betrayal,” Grace clapped her hands.

  “Train-Train. Don’t forget to take Luna to the trading post today. She needs proper clothes before she returns to school.”

  Trey brightened instantly. “A quest? Excellent.”

  Francis sighed. “Why did I know you’d say that.”

  The Lancaster’s trading post was far enough that they had to take a carriage — a sleek one this time, with the Lancaster crest stitched onto velvet seats.

  Luna expected a simple market house.

  Then again, she was wrong.

  The Lancaster trading post wasn't a warehouse — it was a kingdom.

  Sprawling steel beams. Endless aisles. Rows of crates, fabrics, arms, tools, spices, foreign imports, and things Luna had only ever seen in storybooks.

  Luna stared up at the massive archway, slack-jawed.

  “I… thought this was a small shop.”

  Trey leaned back smugly. “Nope. This is our small one. The big one is in Ironhart.”

  Francis added casually, "You do know the Lancasters run the biggest trading guild in the kingdom, right? The name is… fairly hard to miss."

  Trey jumped in, grinning,

  "Upperbeak never sees our caravans, though. Not worth the detour."

  Francis nodded. "Exactly. So I suppose it makes sense now."

  Luna wasn’t sure what shocked her more: Trey and Francis finally agreeing on something, or the fact that their first united act was roasting her.

  “In my defense,” she said weakly, “Upperbeak doesn’t trade much. Ever.”

  They both gave her the same smirk.

  Even their expressions were synchronized now. Idiots.

  “And in all this time, you didn’t think to tell me this?” she demanded.

  Trey shrugged. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “Not everything has to be fun,” Francis snapped, backing to the opposite side again.

  “But it should.” Trey shot him a quick grin before striding toward the clothing hall.

  The section felt like an entire boutique district condensed into one enormous room: rows of clothing, shimmering fabrics, armor displays, imported boots, travel cloaks in every shade imaginable.

  A clerk hurried over, bowing instantly.

  “Young Master Trey! We didn’t expect you today.”

  Trey waved him off with a grin.

  “Surprise visit! Got a friend who needs outfitting.”

  The man shifted respectfully.

  “Of course, sir. Whatever Miss requires — just say the word.”

  Miss.

  Sir.

  Young Master.

  Luna’s world tilted a little.

  Trey walked like a hurricane. Francis walked like an annoyed scholar. And the staff parted for them like they were royalty.

  Luna drifted toward the simple garments out of instinct — sturdy fabrics, muted colors, things easy to run in.

  Things she always got to wear because beauty had never been her option.

  Trey swerved sharply and landed beside her with a horrified gasp.

  “Nope. Too plain. Too sad. Too sadder. Luna, stop choosing things that look like they’re preparing you for tax paperwork.”

  Luna stared at the tunic in her hands. It did look like something an exhausted accountant would wear during an audit.

  Before she could defend herself, Francis was already beside them, entirely unfazed, sorting clothing with surgical precision.

  “This is for summer,” he said briskly, placing one garment into her arms. “This is for winter. This is for missions so you don’t trip and die. This has lots of pockets. This is for rainy days. And this—” he held up another outfit “—is for days when Trey is insufferable. Actually, that’s every day. You’ll need several.”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Francis,” Trey deadpanned, “stop parenting.”

  Francis didn’t even blink. “Someone has to.”

  Luna hesitated. “I just need… things that work. Nothing fancy.”

  Trey looked personally offended.

  “No. Absolutely not. You’re getting at least one thing that matches your spear.”

  “My… spear?”

  “Yes!”

  Luna’s mind drifted to the day Hector had fitted her for it.

  He measured her grip, checked her height, muttered a few terrifying equations under his breath — then finally placed the weapon into her hands with a proud grin.

  The spear was feather-light despite its strength, balanced so perfectly it felt like it had chosen her.

  The shaft was a deep, matte blue — the exact shade of the night sky just before moonrise. When she tilted it, a soft pearlescent sheen rippled across its surface, like starlight caught in motion.

  The blade was long and clean, silver-white and sharp as moonlight on water. Its edges curved ever so slightly, thin and smooth like the arcs of a crescent moon. No unnecessary flourish — just a quiet elegance that felt deliberate.

  It took her breath a little, every time.

  “Matches your name,” Trey had declared, annoyingly proud. “You’re Luna. You should have moonlight on a stick.”

  “Please never call it a stick,” Francis snapped immediately.

  She’d thought he was ridiculous back then.

  She thought the exact same thing now, watching him raise a coat so dramatic it practically screamed for a theme song.

  “THIS,” Trey announced, shaking the garment so it swished like a cape, “is perfect.”

  The coat was deep midnight-blue, nearly the exact shade of her spear’s shaft. When Trey flicked it, it billowed behind him like something a heroic villain would wear.

  Before Luna could protest, he piled more things into her arms.

  A silvery sash, which Trey claimed was “to look cool while stabbing.”

  Fingerless gloves, because — in his words — “they make you look edgy.”

  A tunic embroidered with tiny crescent moons, subtle but undeniably themed.

  And finally, something sparkly enough to blind a small village, which Francis quietly put back.

  “We’re trying to outfit her,” he murmured, “not send her to a meteor-themed costume parade.”

  Trey gasped. “It matched!”

  Luna held up the coat, unsure.

  “…Isn’t this a little dramatic?”

  Trey grinned. “Exactly.”

  Francis sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Trey, stop designing her like she’s your protagonist.”

  “But she IS—”

  “She is not.”

  Luna tried not to laugh.

  This is oddly fun.

  As she watched them bicker—Trey waving around a dramatic deep-blue cloak like it was a royal artifact, Francis discussing fabric durability with the clerks like a weary parent—something shifted quietly inside her.

  She’d known the Lancasters were comfortable.

  Rich, even.

  But standing in the middle of an enormous warehouse filled with rows and rows of imported fabrics, gleaming weapons, and crates stamped with the Lancaster insignia… her breath caught.

  This wasn’t just “comfortable.”

  This was power.

  Trey wasn’t just some chaotic boy who tripped into her life and refused to leave.

  He wasn’t normal.

  Not even close.

  He was the son of Cascadia’s most powerful trading guild.

  Someone raised in abundance, prestige, and a kind of loud, unconditional affection she didn’t even have a name for.

  And yet—

  He never acted above anyone.

  Never bragged.

  Never even hinted at the world he came from.

  He was… just Trey.

  Luna swallowed, the realization blooming warm and strange in her chest.

  Maybe that was what made it even more surreal.

  He had all of this — all of it —

  and yet he still looked at her like she belonged in his world without hesitation.

  They returned to the manor after the warehouse trip exhausted but in high spirits—Trey still ranting about why Luna absolutely needed fingerless gloves, Francis looking personally betrayed by every glittery item Trey tried to sneak into the pile.

  Grace intercepted them the moment they carried the stacks into Luna’s room.

  “Oh, wonderful! Show me what you chose.”

  Which, judging by the look she gave Trey, translated to: Show me what chaos my son inflicted upon this poor girl.

  Trey proudly lifted the dramatic blue coat first.

  “Look! Isn’t it perfect? Very main character energy.”

  Grace laughed. “Yes, dear, it is… something.”

  Luna timidly held up a sensible tunic.

  “Francis picked this one.”

  “And it’s the only sensible thing she owns now,” Francis muttered.

  “What else did you get?”

  That was Trey’s cue.

  He dramatically whipped out a bundle of soft fabric — three new scarves in bright, ridiculous colors.

  “Tada! For Luna. Since her old one is basically a thread.”

  Luna rolled her eyes. “It is not— I already have a scarf.”

  To prove it, she reached under her pillow and pulled out Noel’s scarf.

  Grace stepped closer. The teasing in her face softened instantly at the sight of the frayed, worn edges.

  “Oh, sweetheart… this poor thing has been through a war.”

  Trey snorted. “It has. I keep telling her — keep the relic in a museum. Preferably behind glass. Far, far away..”

  Luna elbowed him. Hard. “Relic my ass.”

  Grace stepped closer, fingertips brushing the frayed end.

  “It’s lovely,” she said gently. “But it needs washing before it falls apart. Come, dear. Let’s at least soak it properly.”

  Luna hesitated.

  Because, as much as she hated it, Trey was right.

  This scarf was one hand-wash away from becoming a single emotional thread.

  “I can do it,” she said quickly. “If that’s alright.”

  Grace studied her for a heartbeat, then nodded.

  “Of course. Be gentle with it. It’s… a very important relic, after all.”

  Trey grinned smugly.

  Luna glared at him.

  And just like that, Luna ended up in one of the small washing rooms — the quiet kind even the servants rarely used.

  She filled a wooden basin with warm water, steam curling gently upward.

  She lowered Noel’s scarf in with both hands. The warm surface rippled, turning faintly cloudy as old dust lifted from the threads.

  The room was quiet — just the soft slosh of water and Luna’s careful movements.

  She turned the scarf over again, and again, making sure she didn’t pull too hard.

  Her fingers traced the old knit, the places Noel’s tiny hands might have tugged on.

  She didn’t realize she’d been smiling faintly until she felt a faint tug.

  She frowned and lifted the scarf slightly.

  A single frayed thread had drifted down and caught on a thin wooden splinter at the bottom of the basin.

  “…No, no, no— don’t you dare,” Luna whispered, trying to nudge it free gently.

  It stayed firmly hooked.

  She tried reaching, but her fingers couldn’t quite angle into the narrow space.

  She exhaled sharply.

  “Fine. I’ll just—”

  Luna grabbed a nearby wooden stirring stick, angled it into the water, and focused.

  A thin blade of Quanta should’ve flickered off the tip. Just enough to slice the thread cleanly.

  Nothing happened.

  She tried again — harder.

  A flicker formed… but it felt dull, sluggish, like her Quanta was being muffled.

  “What…?”

  She pulled the stick out of the water, rubbing it firmly against her palm.

  “Wood worked before,” she muttered. “Come on—”

  “Ow—!”

  A tiny blade sparked to life, nicking her fingertip.

  She yelped and dropped the stick instantly, shaking her hand.

  She stared at her bleeding fingertip, heart pounding.

  So the problem wasn’t the stick?

  It was the water.

  “…Okay,” she whispered. “Maybe Howard was right. Maybe I do need to think differently.”

  The scarf floated gently in the water, unharmed.

  Luna exhaled slowly.

  At least she managed to save the scarf.