The street narrowed into a steep stone stairway, flanked by violet-painted signs and hanging steam lamps that glowed faintly in the snow-flecked air. Ilya followed Lilya and Anna up the stairs, his boots echoing off damp stone.
A wooden sign hung above the entrance, carved with elegant script and burnished brass, The Violet Hearth.
The building itself was old, patched in places with mismatched stone and frost-bitten brick, but it stood tall, three stories of stubborn charm. The scent of roasted barley, spiced root, and wet wood drifted through the walls.
Lilya pushed the door open with her boot.
The tavern door swung open with a creak, releasing a rush of warm air, the scent of spiced bread and old ale, and a wave of overlapping voices. The walls inside were lined with dark oak, candles burning low in amber glass, and a hearth glowing behind a stone half-wall near the bar.
They were barely through the doorway when a loud voice snapped from the back.
"Long time no see, Ms. Falcon."
A woman emerged from behind the bar, hands on her hips, a dish towel slung over one shoulder.
Nadia Luchnikova looked to be in her early thirties, taller than Lilya, with dark auburn hair pinned into a loose bun and sharp eyes that could pin a drunk to the floor with a glance.
There was flour on her sleeves, burn marks on her apron, and strength in her stance, someone who ran her space like a general, not a hostess.
Lilya grinned. "Miss me?"
"Not even slightly," the woman deadpanned, then crossed the room in three strides and pulled Lilya into a hug that would've snapped bones in someone less durable.
"Are these the children you were talking about?"
She stepped back and gave Ilya and Anna a once-over, hands on hips again.
"You two have names, or should I assign some?"
"I'm Anna," Anna chirped, instantly at ease.
Ilya gave a stiff nod. "Ilya."
"Right," the woman said, eyes flicking over both of them with a much gentler gaze now. "Well, Anna, Ilya, welcome to The Violet Hearth. If Lilya dragged you here, you're either unlucky or important. Maybe both."
"I like her," Anna whispered to Ilya.
"I don't," he muttered.
The woman turned back toward the bar. "Dima! Get off your steam-pot and guide them upstairs."
Crashing, clattering. A spoon hit the wall.
"Coming!"
A younger man, maybe in his early twenties, burst from the kitchen looking slightly scorched and very proud. Dima Luchnikov had flour in his hair and sauce on his sleeve. He bowed with unnecessary flair and motioned toward the stairwell. "Penthouse suite, please follow me."
As they disappeared up the stairs, Anna chattering and Dima halfway ranting about how the railing was "probably fine," the tavern noise resumed.
Nadia stayed still for a beat, watching the stairs.
Her eyes softened as she took in Anna's wide-eyed wonder and Ilya's pale wariness. Her tone shifted slightly.
"She hasn't been pushing herself again, has she?" she asked, voice lower now. "You know how she gets."
Lilya's grin faded. "Nothing more than usual."
"That's great," she folded the towel across her arms, and turned away to the kitchen again. "Tell her I said hi."
"Alright," Lilya said, "But don't hold your breath for a reply."
Dima led them through the narrow stairwell until someone passed them on the stairs.
A girl, around Ilya's age. Dark coat, boots worn thin, tray in her hands. She didn't say anything, just glanced at Ilya for a second.
It wasn't curiosity.
It was the kind of glance that saw him.
Then she was gone, slipping around the corner into the tavern with practiced grace.
"That's Yula," Dima said over his shoulder. "Ignore her if she doesn't talk. She's a little shy."
Ilya said nothing.
But he kept thinking about that glance.
Dima continued to lead them up to the third floor, humming something tuneless and stomping like he was trying to challenge the architecture to collapse.
The stairwell creaked with every step.
Anna followed behind him, peeking curiously at the framed sketches along the narrow hallway, portraits of past tavern guests, faded signatures, and a dented frying pan nailed to the wall like a trophy.
Ilya walked last.
Every footstep echoed in his skull.
When Dima finally shoved open the apartment door at the end of the hall, it let out a shriek that might've once been a hinge.
The space beyond was warm, slightly tilted, and cluttered with half-dismantled gear.
A hammock swung loosely above the only bed. The floorboards sagged in the middle, and one corner was propped up with a stack of books titled Basic Mechanica and How Not to Explode.
"There we are!" Dima said proudly. "One slightly fireproof room, complete with questionable plumbing and exactly two and a half windows."
Ilya stepped inside.
The apartment was a battlefield of laundry, scattered tools, old flight manuals, and Lilya's partially disassembled Astra engine sitting in the corner like it was sulking.
A single crooked bed leaned against the far wall. A hammock swung over it like a trap. The floor had a slope that made Ilya feel like he was standing on the edge of a ship.
Anna gasped in delight. "This is amazing!"
"This is tilted," Ilya muttered. "It's got a list of building code violations."
There was a loud thunk from below, followed by laughter and what sounded suspiciously like a table flipping.
Anna was already throwing herself onto the bed. It groaned dramatically under the impact.
"I feel like this place is alive," she said.
"It is," Ilya said grimly, staring at a water stain shaped like a screaming face on the ceiling. "And it wants us gone."
Dima clapped him on the back. "You'll get used to it. If not, the ceiling leaks are soothing."
He vanished down the stairs with the grace of a man who'd made peace with structural instability.
The door thudded closed. The room leaned ever so slightly to the left.
Ilya lay back on the bed with his arms folded over his chest like a buried prince.
He stared at the ceiling.
And sighed like a man who had finally accepted his fate.
---
The table was long, slightly uneven, and crowded with more dishes than it had surface. Bowls of potato stew steamed beside trays of pickled vegetables, roasted mushrooms, and something Lilya called "hunter's surprise," a name Ilya did not trust.
Anna was already chatting animatedly with Nadia across the table, eyes bright, hands moving with every sentence.
Dima was telling a story about someone falling through the roof of the distillery last winter. Half the table was crying from laughter, including Lilya.
Ilya sat silently between two people he didn't know, holding a spoon like it was a grenade pin.
Yula was seated on his left. She had said nothing so far. She slurped her soup and stared at him like he'd committed a minor crime by existing.
On his right, an old man was explaining with great passion how to cheat at dice in three different ways, occasionally elbowing Ilya to make sure he was following.
"I once bet a noble's son a week's wages," the man grinned, "and walked out with his boots and girlfriend."
Ilya blinked. "...Congratulations?"
The table rocked with noise, laughter, clinking, yelling, arguing about whether to put cream or vinegar in soup. A spoon hit the floor. Someone passed a bottle that definitely wasn't tea. Nadia tried to scold them, but she was also laughing too hard to finish a sentence.
Ilya leaned toward Anna. "Are they always like this?"
Anna looked perfectly at home. "It's great, isn't it?"
He glanced at the table again. Someone was arm-wrestling. Someone else was betting on it.
He whispered, "I think I liked the demon forest better."
Anna laughed and ruffled his hair. "That's because you're a cryptid."
"I might be."
Dima let out a loud laugh at something across the table and knocked over a stack of tin plates. One fell off the edge, right toward Anna's bowl.
Ilya moved without thinking.
His hand shot out and caught it mid-fall, fingers steady, the metal barely making a sound.
Dima whistled. "Forest kid's got moves."
Even Yula gave the smallest nod.
Ilya sighed, set the plate aside, and stabbed a beet.
Laughter followed again, some loud, some quiet, but all genuine. Anna leaned her head against his shoulder. Lilya said something about teaching him tavern etiquette with a broom.
He didn't smile.
But he didn't scowl either.
And for the first time in a long while, he didn't want to stand up and leave.