The world was divided into three things: the unforgiving granite under her chalk-dusted fingers, the sheer, dizzying drop below her worn boots, and the calm, blue sky above. Cerra Skylar pressed her cheek against the sun-warmed stone, her breath steady, her focus absolute. This was her church, her sanctuary. Every handhold was a prayer, every foothold a test of faith in herself. One wrong move, and the mountain would claim her.

  It was a hell of a way to earn a living. A bitter thought crept in, unwelcome. Even as a Skylar, she was short on coin. She’d made sure of that when she’d publicly denounced Avalon for abandoning them, calling her a coward in the middle of the market square. The family funds had been cut off the next day. The truth, a truth she’d never admit, was that she’d been wounded. Avalon was chasing adventure in the ice-capped mountains, living Cerra’s own dream of hiking the Pearl Mountains and beyond. But Cerra was too afraid—of the wastelands, of the terrifying legends of bone dragons and frozen ghosts. She preferred the smaller, more manageable mountains that cradled the city, the ones that didn't demand so much courage.

  So when Floris Veilstorm offered a handsome sum to explore a specific cave for some rare, glowing mushrooms, desperation had won out over pride. Cerra pulled herself over the final ledge, muscles burning, and found the dark maw of the cave exactly where the map indicated. The wind was calm today, a small mercy. As she approached, a low, harmonious buzzing reached her ears. Bees. Here? They moved with a strange purpose, tending to small, cultivated flower patches near the entrance. They were not wild.

  She uncoiled her rope and clicked on her head torch. The beam cut a sharp white line through the absolute black. The entrance was a tight squeeze, the rock scraping against her pack as she shimmied through a claustrophobic passage. The air grew warmer, carrying the scent of earth, honey, and something else… smoke. After a final, tight corner, the passage opened into a surprisingly large cavern. A small, tidy campfire crackled in the center, casting a warm, flickering glow.

  Two people sat by it. One was Honeya Vicinage, her bright yellow and black attire unmistakable. The other was a girl Cerra had never seen before. She looked wild, her clothes little more than stitched-together furs, her face smudged with dirt. But her hair… it was a shade of blue so vibrant it seemed to almost glow in the firelight, a stark, luminous blue that made Cerra’s own Skylar hair feel dull by comparison.

  Honeya leaped to her feet, her face a mask of relief. “Cerra! Oh, thank the skies! Did someone send you to rescue me?”

  Cerra blinked, caught off guard. “Rescue you? I didn’t even know you were here. I’m just looking for some mushrooms.”

  “Oh.” Honeya’s face fell. She gestured a thumb towards the wild-looking girl, who was watching them with silent, curious eyes. “Well, this is Molly. She gave me such a fright when I crawled in that I jumped and landed badly. Damaged my wings. Now I’m stuck up here.” She brightened again. “But she’s really cool! She tends to the mushrooms just like I tend to my bees outside. Look!” She pointed to a corner of the cave where clusters of fungi pulsed with a soft, mysterious light.

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  “What’s so special about them?” Cerra asked, her gaze fixed on the glowing crop.

  “No idea,” Honeya chirped. “Molly can’t tell me. She’s a mute.”

  Cerra’s practical side took over. “Let me see your wings.”

  Honeya looked shocked. “You know about mechanics?”

  “I worked for a while as an assistant to Mecha and Techa Torqueburn,” Cerra admitted, a faint blush rising on her cheeks. “Helped them with some of the gearing on Robina’s giant robot.”

  “A Skylar working for a Torqueburn?” Honeya’s jaw dropped.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” Cerra said quickly. “Sometimes rich people aren’t really that rich.”

  Honeya carefully unstrapped the magnificent contraption from her back. They were a work of art, a filigree of brass and copper, intricate as a clockwork dragonfly. Cerra ran her fingers over the delicate framework, her eyes scanning the complex system of gears, pistons, and pneumatic actuators. Her time in the workshop had taught her to see machines not as a whole, but as a series of tiny, interconnected relationships. And one of them was broken.

  “Ah, here it is,” she murmured. “The primary pinion on the port-side rotational joint has slipped. It has knocked the whole gear train out of alignment.” Using a multi-tool from her belt, she carefully loosened the housing, her movements precise. With a pair of fine-nosed pliers, she gently re-seated the tiny, toothed gear. It clicked back into place with a soft, satisfying sound. She tightened the housing, then worked the wing’s joint by hand. It moved smoothly. “Try them now.”

  Honeya strapped the wings back on and engaged the mechanism. They whirred to life, flexing and extending with perfect, fluid motion. She let out a squeal of pure joy. “You fixed them! You actually fixed them!”

  Molly, who had been watching with rapt attention, seemed impressed. She disappeared into a deeper recess of the cave and returned with a leather pouch, which she handed to Cerra. It was heavy and pulsed with a soft inner light. The mushrooms.

  “Molly’s going to stay,” Honeya said, already buzzing with energy. “But I cannot wait to get down this mountain and have a proper bath. I feel disgusting. You should join me! Spa day at Kayla’s, my treat!”

  Cerra’s mind immediately went to the cost. Even if Honeya was paying, there would be extras, tips… luxuries she couldn’t afford. The sensible thing was to say no, to take her payment from Floris and make it last. But the thought of the warm water, of an afternoon without worry, was a siren’s call. She looked at the glowing bag in her hand, then at Honeya’s beaming face. A slow smile spread across her own.

  “You know,” she said, her voice light and clear in the quiet of the cave. “Let us do it. Coin, afterall, is for spending, not for counting.”