The servant blinked, startled, then scrambled toward a crate. His hands shook as he lifted a pair out, presenting them like relics. Hope took them without fuss, crouched, and ran his thumb along the seams. Solid. Well-oiled.

  Elira watched him with her usual half-smirk. “Brother, you really mean to play cobbler? There are far more entertaining things to do in the manor.”

  “Maybe,” Hope said, spinning the boot in his hand. “But this is what I want to do now.”

  He didn’t wait for comment. His focus narrowed, mind sinking past the leather into the weave of the thing itself. Kinetic—its pulse, its strain, its push and pull. He called Heat, careful and tight, bending the lines until they overlapped in clean geometry. He held it there, steady, then snapped the whole structure into place. A low hum thrummed through the boot as he exhaled, breath fogging in the cool air.

  A chime rang across his vision.

  Crafter’s Boots / Effect: +250 Physis, +2 Crafting

  He exhaled, tossing the finished boot once in his hand. “Good enough.”

  The old man’s knees nearly buckled. He stared at the boots like they were cursed gold, pale skin stretched taut across his face.

  Surely it had to be a trick—a noble prank, a conjured glamour hidden for a laugh. That had to be it. Because the alternative… no. No sane mind would allow it.

  “I’ll need some pants too,” Hope added, already fishing out another pair.

  This time the leatherhand fixed his eyes on every stitch, every cut of the cloth, refusing to look away. Seconds dragged as Hope steadied himself, tracing patterns only he could see. And then—

  Crafter’s Pants / Effect: +250 Physis, +2 Crafting

  For the void’s sake!

  The old man’s lips parted, his hands trembling. A shiver ran the length of his back. He looked at Hope as though staring at a ghost.

  Hope, meanwhile, sat down casually, tugging his old boots off. Elira’s voice cracked through the silence.

  “Brother… did… did you just… enchant those gear?” Her words quivered, uncertain whether to whisper or shout.

  Hope set his fancy, noble boots neatly by the wall. “Yes.”

  Elira swallowed hard, flicking her gaze to the leatherhand for some kind of anchor. But the old man looked ready to collapse, paler than snow.

  Her eyes darted back to the boy—no, the young man—who was supposed to be her brother. Mother had told her so little. Only that he’d been taken away shortly after birth, raised under the care of some powerful friend of Grandfather’s, and now returned to claim his place in the Game of Houses. That alone had made him a curiosity, a puzzle worth prying at. His education, his training, his very upbringing—unknown. She wanted to find out for herself how capable he really was.

  But this?

  This was something else entirely. He’d cut down a dummy with a strike like a Tier 2 guard. And now—enchanting, bare-handed, as if it were child’s play. Not with tools, not with the precision of hours at a bench… just a hum, a flicker of will, and the leather changed in his hands.

  The only person she knew who could do that was the Grand Enchanter of their house, an old man so frail he looked ready to crumble at a stiff wind. And yet here stood her brother—barely older than her—doing it with a shrug.

  Her stomach fluttered with unease. Just who are you… Hope? And who in the void raised you?

  Elira drew in a steadying breath, forcing her chin up, smoothing her features into practiced calm. But as she studied his face—those casual eyes, unbothered, almost mocking without meaning to—she felt it again.

  Something different. Something she had never seen before.

  And just like that, he started working with the leatherhand—asking technical questions, handling the tools like he belonged there.

  Hope bent over the bench, steady hands guiding the knife through thick hide. He cut with slow, even strokes, then wetted the leather so it bent instead of splitting. The awl punched clean holes, the mallet tapping rhythm against the grain. When the edges wouldn’t behave, he pressed them flat with the clamp, patient as stone.

  Heat clung to the room, the sour scent of tanned hide mixed with smoke and oil. Hope didn’t flinch at any of it. Sweat ran down his temple as he stitched, threading through hole after hole with the focus of someone who’d done far harsher work. Sometimes, when the leather resisted, he flicked a hand—Magika shimmering faintly, guiding the needle through, or heating the sole just enough to soften it.

  Minutes slipped by. Elira found herself staring, mesmerised. Why was she still here? Normally she’d have fled this stuffy, stinking workshop without a second thought. Yet now she stayed—silent, waiting, watching him turn such a dull, thankless task into… something else.

  Hope exhaled sharply, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He lifted the boot he’d worked on and held it out. “What do you think?”

  The leatherhand took it reverently, turning it over in his hands. He ran a finger down the seams, tugged at the stitching, pressed the sole. His eyes narrowed, measuring every detail.

  “This…” His voice rasped low. “This is truly a fine piece, young master.”

  Young master. Hope hid a sigh. If they knew he’d been nothing but a Crawler in the dirt not long ago, would they still bow and scrape?

  “Thank you for your guidance, leatherhand,” Hope said. He caught himself before bowing—just nodded respectfully instead. “I will come by from time to time.”

  “Of course, young master. You are welcome whenever you wish,” the old man said with another bow. The little boy echoed him, his movement awkward but earnest.

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

  Hope smiled faintly at them both before following Elira back into the corridor.

  The air shifted as they left the workshop, cooler and cleaner. By the time they stepped into the manor gardens, the temperature had dipped further—the star outside sliding low, painting the sky with a red-gold haze. Day giving way to night. So, they had proper cycles here. He wondered how long each lasted in universal time.

  “So, Hope…” Elira’s voice quivered a little as she glanced up at him, though she smoothed it quickly into something more proper. “Where next? The stables? The solar?”

  “Hope, huh?” he teased, raising a brow. “No more brother?”

  She huffed, lifting her chin like a tiny queen caught out. “Names must be earned. And you—” her lips twitched, fighting back a smile, “—have earned at least that much.”

  Hope chuckled, shaking his head. “Fair enough. I’ll take the promotion.”

  He thought of saying kitchen—he could use some levels there too—but something about the moment made him hold back.

  “Tell you what,” he said, giving her a crooked grin. “Surprise me, sis. Take me somewhere worth the walk.”

  “Very well. I shall choose.” She tapped her chin in mock deliberation, then lowered her voice like she was letting him in on some grand secret. “And lucky you, I know just the place.”

  Without waiting for him to reply, she hooked his sleeve and tugged him along the gravel path, skirts swishing with each quick step.

  Hope sighed, half-resigned, half-amused.

  She didn’t stop tugging until they’d wound their way up a tight stairwell hidden between two towers. The stone steps were narrow and uneven, spiraling for quite a while. Finally, they emerged into cool evening air, the sky brushed crimson and violet as the star dipped low.

  And then—

  “Wow…” Hope muttered under his breath.

  From atop the manor walls, the view stretched wide and endless.

  The manor itself sat on a rise, and below sprawled the city—an ocean of slate rooftops, chimneys coughing out smoke, and crooked streets teeming with life even at dusk. Lanterns flickered to life in waves, little golden sparks lighting alleys and squares. Beyond the city walls, fields rolled out into darker green, and further still, jagged hills cut the horizon.

  “Surprised?” Elira asked, her voice brimming with pride. She leaned over the battlement like she’d stood there a hundred times before, skirts rustling in the night breeze. “Mother says the city looks like a beehive, all busy and loud. But I think it’s a song.” She tilted her head, listening. “Hear it? The bells, the carts, the shouting… even the silence between. All the little notes playing at once.”

  Hope leaned on the stone beside her, squinting at the sight. The smells reached him even here—smoke, bread baking, faint tang of waste carried on the wind. Voices rising and falling, wheels clattering, the distant toll of the bell again.

  A song, huh?

  He remembered Selera telling him that songs weren’t about the words but the rhythm. The heartbeat underneath. Even silence could be part of it if you knew how to listen.

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said slowly. “Messy song, but still a song.”

  Her face lit up, eyes shining as she turned toward him. Then, with that sly grin of hers, she tipped her chin and hummed a lilting little tune, soft at first, then clearer—half childish, half proud, but oddly sweet.

  Hope couldn’t help it. He chuckled, shaking his head. “And here I thought you were just showing me the view.”

  Elira gave him a mock curtsey. “I never just show, brother. I perform.”

  Elira spun on her toes, skirts flaring as she lifted her voice into the night. It wasn’t polished like a bard’s, but clear and bright—meant to tease more than impress.

  “Bells ring, carts roll,

  Bakers burn their bread.

  Patrols march, torches glow,

  Markets hum instead.

  All together, high and low,

  The city sings to me—

  And brother, now you know,

  This song’s our melody.”

  She ended with a playful flourish, dipping low in a half-curtsey before bursting into laughter.

  Hope blinked, caught between amusement and a tight knot twisting in his chest. A stage. Nobles. Him once forced under lights, like some circus beast. His jaw clenched, just for a second.

  But Elira’s grin was too earnest, too bright. She wasn’t mocking him. Just a kid delighting in her own little performance.

  He exhaled, forcing the tension loose. “Not bad, sis. Got the rhyme down, at least.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “At least? Please, admit it—you were impressed!”

  Hope smirked, leaning on the cold stone. “Fine. Impressed. But don’t get used to it.”

  She gave him a proud little sniff, nose in the air. “Too late. I already have.”

  Hope kept his eyes on the city, letting the moments stretch. Now he stood on the wall, dressed in fine garnets, looking down on it all from above. But he remembered when he had been lower than the lowest—beneath even the mud those streets were built on.

  At the end, he was here only because Syra had the strength to twist the rules. That was the truth of it. All the fancy words, all the noble games—none of it mattered. In the end, it was power that decided. Might made right.

  He tilted his head back, staring at the lone star above as the thought settled deep inside him, heavy and cold.

  Hope calmly walked through the long, fancy corridors of the manor.

  The first day had been… ok. Every dinner still felt awkward as hell though—the tension, the endless etiquette drills. How was he supposed to eat properly under all those rules? He swore, the more he found out, the more useless this noble business seemed.

  Funny, the games people play when the worst thing they face is a bland supper. Try going a day chasing scraps with rats and scorpions and see how much you care about table manners.

  Seriously… this wasn’t him.

  He was heading back toward the leatherhand’s workshop when he heard soft but determined footsteps behind him. He didn’t need to turn his head to know who it was.

  “What’s the plan for today?”

  Hope sighed. “Don’t you have lessons or something, sis? Study, embroidery, all that?”

  “Maybe,” she said with a sly little smile.

  Hope raised a brow at her, walking slower so she could keep up. “You’re not using me as an excuse to skip out on your duties, are you, young lady?” He gave her a look, the kind of knowing smirk that had gotten under her skin before.

  Her chin tipped up, feigning wounded pride, though the twinkle in her eyes betrayed her. “Perish the thought. I would never.” A pause, then her grin widened. “But if I were, it would be a very good excuse, don’t you think?”

  Hope chuckled, shaking his head.

  Elira clasped her hands dramatically, tilting her head. “Actually, Father sends word. You’re to head to the outdoor training grounds before supper.”

  Hope blinked. “Training grounds? That’s new.”

  She nodded, her smile curling into something far too pleased with itself. “Mmhm. He wants to see what our mysterious brother can do.”

  Hope narrowed his eyes, as he muttered under his breath. “Of course he does.”

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