We reach the glowing storefront of Akari’s Flowers. The sign above shimmers faintly with enchanted paint, its soft hues rippling as if the letters were breathing. Pink and gold light spills across the sidewalk, catching on the glass vases in the window. The whole place smells faintly of lavender and damp moss before we even step inside.

Akari’s bent over a row of herbs when we enter, dirt clinging to her ripped pants, her boots caked with dried mud. And her black hair is tied back in a messy knot that somehow suits her—wild and sharp. She glances up, wiping her hands on her thighs, and her face brightens.

“Oh, goodie—it’s you two,” she chirps, though her tone has that teasing bite to it. “Aven made pork stew for you to take home.”

“How many plants did you drag back today?” I ask, smirking as I take in the rows of pots stacked precariously on every surface.

“Just some herbs I didn’t have.” She brushes dirt from her palms and waves us toward the back room. The warmth of spices greets us immediately—paprika, garlic, and onion. It makes my stomach growl despite the pastry tucked away in my satchel.

Aven stands over the stove, his broad back to us. His blonde hair brushes just below his ears, and there’s a rugged handsomeness to him—though the scruff on his jaw says he’s been too busy to shave. He doesn’t look up as he stirs the pot.

“I already set your portions aside,” he grunts, pointing with the spoon to two containers on the table.

“You know you don’t have to feed us,” Ry says softly, glancing at Akari with that cautious tone he uses when he thinks he’s intruding. “You’ve got a toddler. We don’t want to be a burden.”

Akari’s smile flattens into that look she gives when she’s one breath away from scolding someone.

“Actually, we love your cooking,” Ry adds quickly, holding his hands up. “Nothing can compare to your cooking, Aven.”

That earns a low chuckle from Aven, though he doesn’t turn from the stove. His shoulders shake with amusement, and I bite back a laugh. Akari might be only a couple of inches taller than me, but her temper makes both men tread lightly.

Before I can tease them, little Csepel’s giggles echo from down the hall. The quick patter of her feet grows louder—slap, slap, slap—until she bursts into the room, curls bouncing.

I wait by the far door, crouched just enough to spring. The moment I see her dark head peek around the corner, I swoop in, scooping her up.

“Ry! I caught the intruder!” I announce, holding her against my chest with one arm while my other hand attacks her sides in merciless tickles.

She squeals so loudly that Aven finally looks over his shoulder, shaking his head with a smile. I relent after a few seconds and set her back down, though she wobbles from laughter.

Csepel’s curls tumble into her face as she beams up at me. She has her mother’s nose and hair, but Aven's unmistakable green eyes—bright as emerald glass. Her grin shows the gap where one of her front teeth used to be.

“Auntie D! Where is it?!” she asks breathlessly, bouncing on her toes. She knows me too well.

I cross my arms, doing my best impression of stern authority. “I don’t know. Did you hold up your end of the deal today?”

“I did! I did! I did!” she insists, her voice high and eager. “I helped Momma with the garden and chopped the carrots for Papa.”

I glance at Akari and Aven, who both give me the faintest nod of approval.

“Well,” I sigh, drawing it out, “I suppose you’ve earned it.” I reach into my satchel and pull out the cheesecloth bundle, unfolding it to reveal the warm cheese danish pastry I’d tucked away. Its buttery scent wafts up, sweet and tempting. Her eyes widen as if I’ve just pulled out treasure.

“Don’t eat it all at once, El,” I warn as I hand it to her. She barely hears me, already darting down the hall with her prize.

I ruffle my hair back into place, turning to Ry. “Ready?”

He gives a slight nod, and together we thank Akari and Aven before slipping through the narrow back door. The old wooden frame creaks as it swings open, revealing the familiar tunnel beyond.

The walls are cool and damp, iron torches fixed at intervals to cast flickering light along the stone. Far down, I can make out where the path splits—one way into darkness, the other back toward the heart of our mountain. Nobody ever takes the right fork. It’s dead stone, no torches, no voices, just silence.

I’ve walked these tunnels since I was small, but they still carry that weight—like the mountain is always listening, always pressing close. The air smells faintly of iron and damp earth, and our footsteps echo softly.

This system of tunnels connects nearly every home carved into the mountain. Outsiders see only the surface: the tidy shops, the schools, the community hall at the mountain’s base. But our real lives are hidden here, laced through the stone like veins. Homes carved into walls, chambers dug deep into caverns, all strung together like beads on a thread. Akari’s shop happens to sit on the edge of town, her door one of the many ways in.

“Let’s get going,” I say at last, tugging my satchel higher. “I’ve got books waiting for me.”

Ry crouches without a word, and I swing easily onto his back, tucking my legs against his sides. He straightens to his full height, muttering the faint trigger etched into the runes on his boots. A low hum answers, deep and steady, and the leather glows faintly at the seams—a soft shimmer like embers hidden under ash.

The moment he takes a step, the air shifts. His boots grip the stone with unnatural precision, catching and releasing like the mountain itself is lending him speed. We shoot forward, faster than any runner could hope to manage. The tunnels blur past—narrow walls slick with condensation, steep stairs carved unevenly from the rock, the occasional flicker of a torch guttering in the stale air. My hair whips into my face, and I have to clutch tighter to his shoulders, a laugh slipping out before I can help it.

“If you’re going to steal,” Ry says, voice maddeningly casual despite our speed, “you need to be more stealthy.”

My stomach drops—not from the pace, but from his words. “There is no way you knew I had stolen it,” I grumble, pressing my cheek against his shoulder to steady myself. “I made sure my timing was perfect. No one saw me.”

He snorts, the sound bouncing off the stone like a private joke shared with the mountain. “I saw everything, D. You’re not as stealthy as you think you are.”

Heat creeps up my neck, though I mask it with a low growl. “I was flawless.”

“Flawless,” he says, drawling the word out as if tasting it, “would’ve been not bumping into the drunk man on your way out.” His tone sharpens with triumph. “If I hadn’t made it look like the fool crashed into me, half the market would’ve been staring straight at you.”

I grit my teeth and bite down on the reply building in my throat—because he might be right. Maybe. But I’ll never admit it out loud.

The tunnel bends sharply, the light of the torches thinning until only the faint glow of his boots guides our way. The hum of their enchantment buzzes faintly up through his frame into mine, like the vibration of a purring beast. The air cools the deeper we go, the stone closing in until it feels like the mountain itself is swallowing us whole. My breath fogs faintly in the chill, and drops of water slip from the ceiling, plinking against rock.

And yet, here in the belly of rock and shadow, something inside me eases. The market noise, the watchful eyes, the endless need to be careful—gone. All that’s left is the rhythm of his strides, the steady thrum of magic, the certainty that the mountain keeps our secrets.

For the first time all day, with the weight of the world shut out by earth and silence, I let myself relax.