The conversations quieted down when the soup was finally ready. They had dinner right there in the kitchen, at a small round table by the window. The hot, hearty food and the warmth from the stove completely dispelled their travel fatigue. For the first time in three days, they were in no hurry.

When they had finished eating and the empty plates were pushed aside, Marcus rested his elbows on the table in a businesslike manner. His face became focused again. His sharp, calculating mind had reawakened.

“Right, ladies. Let’s discuss our affairs,” Marcus said, scanning the cozy but noticeably dilapidated kitchen. “We still have some money left from the amount we gathered. Tomorrow, I will ride to the border town. We need to buy building materials, boards, tow, nails. Winter is just beginning, the frost will only grow harsher, and the roof and window frames in the left wing do not inspire confidence. Engaging in trade right now, in this weather, is out of the question. It’s simply not the season for auctions and traveling for goods. The roads have only just been cleared.”

He paused for a moment, tapping his fingers on the table, and then added a little quieter, looking at his wife.

“By spring, when the highways finally open up, these meager funds won't be enough for us to start a decent business in the Empire. So, I may have to try to take out a loan against the mortgage of this estate at the local bank. It’s risky, but it’s the only way to get back into the game.”

At the mention of a mortgage, Elena noticeably flinched. She looked down at her empty palms, where her family rings had once gleamed, and fell deep into thought. This dilapidated, secluded house was their last fortress. The only thing they had left from their past life, and losing it due to a failed deal meant ending up on the street. A shadow of doubt reflected on her face, but she remained silent, trusting her husband’s business acumen.

Azalea, keenly picking up on this sudden tension, decided to steer the conversation in another direction. She looked at the spouses and, for the first time since they had met, voiced a question that had long interested her.

“Marcus, Elena... What exactly is your business? I know you are merchants, but how is your trade structured?”

Marcus and Elena exchanged a look, and their familiar, harmonious smile appeared on their faces. They began to explain in turn, complementing each other, and a picture of their family business gradually began to take shape before Azalea.

“You see, Azalea, we don’t transport ordinary goods in bales,” Elena began softly. “Our element is rarities. For the most part, we purchase exquisite jewelry, antique gems, or unique antique trinkets in the Empire. And then we carry them back to the Kingdom of Aden.”

“Yes, in Aden, it’s a dead end for such things,” Marcus chimed in, launching into professional explanations. “In the Empire, jewelry-making and stone-processing technologies flourish; they are an eternity ahead compared to the conservative kingdom. What is quality but ordinary work for Imperial masters is an unseen luxury and a novelty for the aristocrats of Aden. There is always a starved demand for it there.”

“And how do you sell them? Do you have a shop?” Azalea inquired curiously.

“No, opening a shop in Aden for such goods would only attract unnecessary attention from the guards and tax freeloaders,” Marcus chuckled. “Everything is set up differently. We have old, time-tested acquaintances among the noble houses of Aden, with whom we have long established relations of trust. When we return with the goods, they host private social gatherings in their mansions. Only ‘their own’ are invited. At these evenings, we display the imported rarities. The guests gladly buy them up. Mostly, the profit isn't grand; we put the money we receive into buying more goods, covering debts, and trying to set some aside. Plus, every winter we return here and carry out repair work whenever possible.”

“Sometimes,” Elena added, pushing a cup with the remnants of warm herbal infusion toward Azalea, “we receive specific, very expensive orders. For instance, to bring a particular rare stone from the Imperial mines or an antique family set of a specific era. This is delicate work, requiring connections and the ability to distinguish a counterfeit from an original. We used to employ servants for this business, but over time, it became too costly to maintain both the estate and assistants, so now we do everything ourselves.”

“Furthermore,” Marcus sighed, “there have been unpleasant incidents where servants stole from us and vanished.”

Azalea listened to them, and in her mind, nourished by her new knowledge of structures, the pieces of the mosaic fell into place by themselves.

The house was quiet. Only occasionally did the floorboards creak in the corners of the old mansion, and the winter wind beat hollowly against the shutters, reminding them that the cold still reigned outside. Marcus had thoroughly heated the small room on the second floor allocated to Azalea, but she still tossed and turned in bed, wrapping herself in a heavy blanket and unsuccessfully trying to fall asleep.

Too much had happened. But even more than her fear of the past or conversations about the future, her thoughts excited her. The knowledge from that other world, clear, structured, foreign, and yet having become a part of her very self, was still frighteningly fresh in her memory. It stood before her eyes like the pages of an open textbook.

Unable to bear it, Azalea threw back the blanket. Her bare feet touched the cool wooden floor. She walked over to the small stove in the corner of the room, from which a pleasant, even warmth was still radiating. On the floor, right by the iron door, lay small, accidentally fallen pieces of ordinary charcoal. Black, porous, staining the fingers.

Azalea knelt down and took a piece in her hand.

In her mind, as if on their own, chemical diagrams instantly surfaced. Carbon. In that strange world, this plain black piece and the most expensive, glittering gemstone shared the exact same foundation. The only difference lay in the order. In the arrangement of the atoms. In how tightly and correctly they were bound together inside the crystal lattice. She simply needed to change the order. To restructure the bonds within.

Azalea closed her eyes and focused on the warmth in her chest, gently directing it to her fingers. The tips of her fingers immediately responded with an even, azure-blue glow. She did not unleash her power as she had in the forest; instead, she gently, carefully enveloped the black pebbles with it, mentally forcing the invisible particles inside them to compress, to align into a flawless, strict geometric grid. The coal in her palm became warm, almost hot, but it was not the heat of a fire. It was the energy of creation.

The radiance slowly faded, returning the room to twilight.

When Azalea opened her palms, her breath caught, and she let out a surprised, frightened gasp.

On her soot-stained skin, the coal was gone. In its place lay a crystal, tiny as a pea, but absolutely transparent. In the pale moonlight filtering through the gaps in the shutters, it flared with pure, icy sparks. It was a flawless, uncut diamond.