The first night in Windale was not quiet.
Nysa sat curled on a straw mattress in the corner of the room she now shared with her cousins. Kaeli snored, limbs splayed without care. Lina faced the wall, silent and still. Nysa held her flame pendant tightly in her fist, feeling the small grooves where the fire symbol had been engraved.
She missed the sound of crickets outside her window in Dunvalle. She missed the smell of her mama's soup, the way Papa lifted her into the air, and her little brother's laughter when he ran through their small garden with dirt on his cheeks.
Taren.
She whispered his name under her breath like a secret prayer. Maybe he was alive. Maybe someone kind had found him. Maybe…
---
The next morning began with a sharp knock on the door and Aunt Mara's voice.
"Up! No lazing in bed, not in this house!"
Kaeli groaned and pulled a blanket over her head. Lina sat up, wordless. Nysa stood quickly and helped fold the bedding, just as Mama had taught her.
In the cramped kitchen, Aunt Mara was already stirring a pot of watery porridge. "You'll earn your meals here, girl," she said without turning. "There's no room for pity or stories."
"Yes, ma'am," Nysa murmured.
"You can start with the floors."
So she did. Every day, she scrubbed and swept. She polished shoes and fetched water. Kaeli always found a way to make her tasks harder—spilling things on purpose, hiding Nysa's rag, pushing her gently when no one was looking.
"Oops," Kaeli would say with a smile. "Didn't see you there."
"She must've been blind then" she thought to herself.
---
Lina would sometimes sit beside her during breakfast, quietly chewing her bread, never saying much. Kaeli, on the other hand, laughed loudly, always trying to draw attention, usually at Nysa's expense.
"Why does she wear that ugly necklace all the time?" Kaeli mocked one morning, pointing her spoon at Nysa's chest.
Nysa clutched the pendant, staring down at her porridge.
"It's not ugly," Lina mumbled. "It's hers."
"Bet it's fake."
"It's from my mama," Nysa said suddenly, voice sharp.
Kaeli blinked, surprised at her tone. Aunt Mara looked up from the stove.
"Well, don't get all proud," she muttered. "That flame thing's a bit strange anyway. What kind of woman gives a child a pendant with that symbol?"
"It means something," Nysa said, but her voice faltered. The truth was, she didn't fully know what it meant — only that her mother had given it to her on her birthday.
One afternoon, Nysa paused at the open door of the woodworking shed behind the house. The scent of sawdust floated through the air like something heavy and comforting.
Uncle Jorren stood at a bench, his broad back hunched as he shaped a piece of wood with long, slow strokes of a blade. His hands moved like they had purpose.
Nysa stepped quietly inside.
"Uncle?"
He grunted without turning.
"Can I… can I help?"
He paused, then looked over his shoulder, brow furrowed. "You know how to use a blade?"
She shook her head quickly. "No. But I can sweep."
He pointed to a corner. "Then sweep. And don't touch anything."
"Yes, sir!"
That afternoon, the shop felt like magic. She watched how the sunlight slanted through the boards and lit up the dust in the air. The quiet rhythm of Uncle Jorren's tools was calming—different from the yelling in the streets or Kaeli's taunts.
Later that week, after finishing her chores early, she crept back in. This time, she just sat on a crate and watched.
He noticed. "You staring or working?"
"Sorry," she said, jumping to her feet. "I'll sweep."
She didn't expect what came next.
"Here," he muttered, handing her a small, sanded block. "Try this."
Her eyes widened. "Really?"
"Don't get excited. It's scrap. Rub it with this." He passed her a strip of sandpaper.
She did as he showed her. Her arms ached after a while, but she didn't stop. She rubbed the wood gently, in circles, like he said. When she ran her fingers across the smooth surface afterward, a smile spread across her face before she could hide it.
A few weeks later, she whispered to him, "Can I learn to carve someday?"
He didn't answer, but he didn't say no either.
Windale was no Dunvalle. There were more people, more shouting, more gray. But there were things she started to notice — the baker's daughter who always sang, the way the sun made the woodshop glow in the morning, the quiet kindness of Lina's glances.
One chilly evening, as the first frost curled on the windowpane, she sat at the table, hands sore from sanding. Aunt Mara stirred a thin soup.
Kaeli whispered across the table, "I heard Uncle say you're like a stray dog. That he only keeps you 'cause it'd look bad to send you to the orphan house."
Nysa's breath hitched. "I'm not a dog!" she shouted, slamming her palms on the table. Her wooden cup clattered to the floor. "I'm a person! Mama told me!"
Kaeli smirked. "You're not even family. Not really."
Nysa's fists trembled. For a second, she looked like she might scream—then her face crumpled. "I am," she whimpered, before a sob tore loose. She slid off the bench, curling into a ball on the floor, her tears splashing the toes of her scuffed shoes. "I am family…"
A chair screeched. Uncle's voice cut through the room like a whip. "Enough."
Both children froze.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "Kaeli. Nysa. To your rooms. Now." His glare lingered on Nysa, still huddled on the floor. "And clean up that mess."
Kaeli bolted upright, smugness wiped away. Nysa scrambled to grab her cup, her sobs muffled behind pressed lips—like she'd learned how to cry quietly.
---
She waited until they were all asleep, then crept to the window and stared out into the dark. The stars were faint behind the clouds, but she looked for them anyway.
She pulled out the flame pendant, warm from where it rested near her heart.
"I'm still here," she whispered. "I'm still carrying it."
The wind rustled through the trees, soft as breath.
---
Windale was quiet in early spring. The snow had melted, leaving behind muddy alleys and little rivers that carved paths through the streets. The air still held a bite, but birds had returned, and flowers pressed their heads out of the earth as if testing whether it was safe to grow again.
Nysa had been six for just two days.
.
.