He worked through the day and into the night. The caravan made camp. Fires were lit. Yuki sat by the flames, leather and mana stone in his hands, stitching enchantments into a purse while Lira watched.
By morning, it was done.
The bag was beautiful. Dark boar leather, smooth and fitted, about the size of a large pouch — perfect for a belt. The stitching was invisible, the mana thread woven so finely it looked like ordinary leather from the outside. The blue stone was hidden inside the flap, pulsing faintly.
He held it up. The interior space was roughly the size of a wardrobe — far larger than the physical bag. Temporal stasis active. Spatial anchor stable.
He handed it to Lira.
"For you."
She took it. Turned it over. Opened the flap and looked inside — her eyes widened as her hand kept reaching in past where the bottom should have been.
"Yuki..."
"It should hold your bow, a full quiver, supplies, whatever else you need. The interior's in stasis, so nothing will spoil or degrade."
She looked at him. "This is a magic bag."
"Yeah."
"The kind that costs more than a house."
"I made it from boar leather and a rock."
She held the bag against her chest. "I'd yell at you for giving me things worth more than entire estates, but I think I'm past that." She clipped it to her belt. Tested the weight — nearly nothing. Pulled her bow from her shoulder and slid it into the opening. The bow vanished. She reached in and pulled it back out.
"It's perfect," she said quietly.
"Good. Because I'm going to make more. Bigger ones. Your father doesn't have a preservation bag — if I make cargo-sized versions, the caravan won't need to rent space from that other merchant anymore."
Her eyes lit up. "My father would actually cry. He's been complaining about rental fees for years."
"Then let's make him cry."
That evening, Lira brought him a plate.
He was sitting by the fire, surrounded by leather, mana stones, and half-finished enchantments. The second bag was taking shape — larger, sturdier, meant for cargo. He'd been working since they'd made camp.
She set the plate in his lap. Stew — thick, well-seasoned, better than anything he'd made at the homestead.
"You cooked this?"
"Don't sound so surprised. I've been cooking on the road since I was baby."
"It's delicious."
He ate. She sat next to him. Close. Her shoulder pressed against his. He looked up mid-bite and she was right there — her face centimetres from his, watching him eat with an expression that was half affection and half amusement.
He could smell her. Wood smoke and something floral from the soap she used. Her long hair was loose again, falling across her shoulder, almost touching his arm.
His face went red. The stew suddenly required intense concentration.
She giggled. That same giggle from the day of the battle — bright, warm, completely aware of the effect she had on him.
"Tchh, You're teasing me."
"A little."
"You enjoy this."
"Enormously."
He shook his head. But he was smiling. He couldn't help it. She was impossible and beautiful and sitting close enough that their arms were touching and he didn't want her to move.
"Here." He set the plate down and pulled the pile of leather toward them. "Help me with this. I need pieces cut to size for a magic bag."
She scooted closer — impossibly, she found more closeness — and started sorting leather. He showed her the dimensions, the grain direction, where to cut. She worked with the quick, sure hands of someone who'd handled materials her whole life.
They worked. They talked.
She told him about travelling with her father as a child. The time a bandit crew ambushed them in a forest pass and Varlen talked his way out by convincing the bandits he was carrying plague-infected textiles. The time she'd gone hunting for camp dinner and accidentally wandered into a wyvern's territory — spent four hours in a tree waiting for it to leave, came back to camp with no dinner and a story that got longer every time she told it.
He told her about his old world. Not everything. But pieces. School. Friends. What were families like? Did people fall in love the same way? Were there stars?
"The same stars?" she asked.
"Different ones. I can't find any of my old constellations here."
She looked up at the sky. Then at him. "I'll teach you ours."
They worked until the fire burned low. The cargo bag was half finished — he'd complete it tomorrow. The camp was quiet around them. Other fires flickering. The sound of the draft animals shifting in their sleep.
Yuki looked at Lira in the dying firelight. At her hands sorting leather. At the stone pulsing at her throat. At the way she bit her lower lip when she concentrated.
His chest was warm. Not mana-warm. Just warm.
He thought about his old life. The walk to the convenience store. The math test he'd never finish. The bedroom he'd never sleep in again. The mother he might never see.
And he thought about this. A fire. A road. A girl who teased him and fought beside him and kissed him on a rooftop. A world that was dangerous and strange and bigger than he could comprehend.
He was happier here.
The thought surprised him. It shouldn't have — he'd been building toward it for weeks, maybe months. But hearing it clearly in his own head, stated without qualification, was different.
I am happier here than I ever was at home.
He didn't know what to do with that. So he filed it away, picked up another piece of leather, and kept working.
Lira leaned her head against his shoulder. He let her.
The fire crackled. The stars turned. The road stretched west toward the capital, and whatever came next.