The attic was alive with color and chaos.
Scraps of baby blue and butter yellow fluttered like trapped butterflies. A patched curtain swayed in the breeze, stitched from old festival dresses and temple offerings. The air shimmered with spell dust—glittering particles that clung to Ivy's skin like secrets.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by fabric mountains and emotional debris. Her hands were stained—thread ink, powdered herbs, a smudge of turmeric from yesterday's failed memory spell. Her light brown eyes flicked between a glowing needle and a half-mended sleeve. Her hair, dark brown and slightly wavy, was tied in a messy bun that had collapsed into rebellion.
She was beautiful in the way wildflowers are—unplanned, imperfect, and impossible to ignore.
Her stomach growled. She ignored it. Spells drained her faster than hunger could catch up. She'd eat later—maybe.
Her clothes were a patchwork of survival: dust-pink sleeves stitched to a faded red bodice, a skirt hemmed with festival scraps. She looked like a walking memory, and that was exactly how she liked it.
A gust of wind whispered through the cracked window.
Ivy looked up, needle paused mid-air.
Someone was there.
He didn't knock. Didn't speak. Just stood—tall, cloaked, silent. The attic seemed to shrink around him.
He stepped forward, and the floor didn't creak. His robes—structured, layered, expensive—brushed the dust without disturbing it. Deep navy over black, a hint of royal purple at the collar. A sword gleamed in his left hand, untouched by grime.
His face was unreadable. Pale, expressionless, carved from stillness. His eyes were black—not dark, but empty. His hair, pin-straight and ink-black, was tied in a high ponytail that fell below his shoulders. He looked like he belonged in a palace scroll, not in her attic.
Ivy blinked. Then blinked again.
He was very tall. Six foot eight, maybe more. She was five foot four. Her gaze barely reached his chest—and she bumped into it, twice, just trying to stand.
"Who are you?" she asked, voice sharp with instinct.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he looked around—at the mess, the magic, the stitched chaos. His gaze lingered on her glowing needle, then on the half-finished spell circle drawn in chalk and thread.
"You're not Threadsbound," he said finally.
Ivy stiffened. "You're not supposed to know that."
"I do."
She backed away, fingers twitching toward her emergency thread stash. He didn't move. Just watched.
"I don't do commissions," she said. "Especially not for sword-carrying strangers who sneak into my attic."
"I didn't come for a commission."
"Then leave."
"I can't."
His voice was calm, but something in it trembled—like a string pulled too tight.
Ivy narrowed her eyes. "You're stitched."
He said nothing.
But the Hidden Thread shimmered faintly around his chest—visible only to those who stitched with emotion. Ivy saw it. Felt it. A forbidden stitch, tangled and pulsing like a trapped heartbeat.
"You need help," she said slowly.
"I need you."
Her breath caught.
He could've gone to the guild. To the Threadsbound. To the palace.
But he came here. To her attic. To her mess.
"Why me?"
He looked at her then—really looked. And for a moment, the emptiness in his eyes flickered.
"Because you stitch with feeling. And I've lost mine."
Ivy crossed her arms, chin tilted defiantly. "I don't do commissions. Especially not for sword-carrying strangers who sneak into my attic and speak in riddles."
The man didn't flinch. He simply reached into his cloak and pulled out a pouch.
It landed on her table with a soft thud—heavy, unmistakable. Gold coins spilled out, catching the light like tiny suns.
Ivy's breath hitched.
Her fingers twitched. Her fabric stash was down to scraps. Her pantry held two potatoes and a jar of pickled lemons. Her stomach growled again, louder this time.
She stared at the gold. Then at him.
"I'll help," she said, voice suddenly sweet. "But no refunds if your spell explodes."
He nodded once, then pulled out a book.
It was old. Stained. The cover was cracked leather, stitched with thread that pulsed faintly. Ivy reached for it, curiosity outweighing caution.
The moment her fingers touched the spine—
Boom.
A burst of spell dust exploded around them. Ivy flew backward, crashing into a pile of fabric. The stranger staggered, cloak flaring, sword unsheathed in a blink.
"I didn't do that!" Ivy coughed, blinking through glittering smoke.
"You touched the book."
"You brought the book!"
She tried to stand. Her knees buckled. Her vision blurred. The attic tilted.
And then—arms.
Strong, steady, awkwardly large. He caught her before she hit the floor, cradling her like a fragile scroll. Her head lolled against his chest, her tiny frame dwarfed by his height.
He looked down at her—messy hair, stained hands, patched clothes—and something flickered in his eyes.
Then he carried her to the corner, laid her gently on a pile of folded fabric, and began to move.
The attic was quiet when Ivy stirred.
Warmth wrapped around her like a quilt. Her head throbbed faintly, but something smelled… divine.
She blinked.
The stranger was at her stove—yes, her stove—stirring a pot with calm precision. His sword was still strapped to his back, but his sleeves were rolled up. Steam curled around him like a spell.
Rice porridge. With herbs. And maybe ginger.
She sat up too fast and winced.
He turned, expression unreadable. "You fainted."
"I didn't faint. I… temporarily collapsed."
"You were unconscious."
"Semantics."
She looked around. Her attic was… tidier. The fabric piles were stacked. Her thread stash was organized. Her chalk circles had been redrawn with cleaner lines.
"You cleaned?"
"You were unconscious."
She blinked at him. Then at the porridge.
"You cooked?"
"You were hungry."
Her stomach growled again, traitorous and loud.
He handed her a bowl. She took it, fingers brushing his for a second too long.
It was warm. Simple. Perfect.
She hated how much she liked it.
And she hated how much she liked him.
Ivy sat on the edge of her patched mattress, bowl in hand, spoon scraping the last bits of porridge. Her stomach, once a hollow echo, now hummed with warmth. The rice was soft, the herbs earthy, and the ginger left a gentle burn on her tongue. It was the kind of food that made her feel human again.
She glanced at the stranger—still unnamed, still unreadable—standing near the stove, arms folded, sword strapped to his back like a silent threat. His robes, dark and structured, looked out of place against the chaos of her attic. Yet somehow, he didn't.
"You're good at this," she said, licking the spoon. "Cooking, I mean."
He didn't respond.
She tilted her head. "What else can you make?"
He blinked slowly. "Why?"
"Because I'm reconsidering your payment plan."
He raised an eyebrow.
"I mean, gold is great," she said, gesturing toward the pouch still gleaming on her worktable. "But food? Food is life. And you cook like a dream. So maybe instead of coins, you pay me in meals."
Silence.
"And maybe," she added, "you cover a few household things. Like thread. And soap. And rice. And maybe a new needle that doesn't explode."
Still silence.
"And," she said, voice softening, "I want friendship."
That made him flinch—barely, but enough.
"I don't do friendship," he said flatly.
"Well, I do," Ivy replied, setting the bowl down. "And if you're gonna keep barging into my attic with cursed books and porridge, you're gonna have to deal with it."
He stared at her for a long time. Too long. The attic seemed to hold its breath.
Finally, he spoke. "Fine."
"Fine?"
"I'll pay your expenses. I'll cook. I'll stay."
"Stay?" Ivy blinked. "Like… here?"
"In your kitchen."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
"It's closest to your spellwork. And I don't trust the book alone."
She crossed her arms. "You just want access to my stove."
He didn't deny it.
She groaned. "Fine. But I get the last dumpling. Always."
He nodded once. "Deal."
By evening, the attic had changed.
The stranger—still unnamed—had moved into her kitchen corner. He'd tidied the shelves, sharpened her knives, and reorganized her spice jars by scent. His sword leaned against the wall, always within reach. His cloak hung from a nail, still dripping with mystery.
Ivy watched him stir a pot of lentils, her chin resting on her knees.
She didn't know who he was.
She didn't know what he wanted.
But she knew this: he cooked like a prince, cleaned like a monk, and carried a book that pulsed like a trapped heartbeat.
And for now, that was enough.