Chapter 7 New Shoes, New Start.

“Ahem.”

Three heads whip toward me at once. Shit. Well, this isn’t intimidating or anything.

“Uh…” I point toward the dripping crates at their feet. “Your ice has melted.”

One of the men lets out a sharp laugh; another just stares, unimpressed. “Wow, really? We had no idea,” he deadpans.

Right. Sarcasm. Got it. “I just mean—uh—I can help with that.”

The third man, broader than the rest and with sun-creased eyes, steps closer. The other two exchange a look, shrug, and go back to hauling fish.

“You got ice?” he asks, wiping his hands on his apron.

I beam, far too proud of myself already. “I am ice!”

That earns me the look. The one that says ah, she’s crazy.

“I mean,” I rush to clarify, “I’m an ice elemental. So, yes, technically, I can make ice.”

His eyebrows shoot up, surprise flickering across his face. “We haven’t had one of those around here in… gods, decades. Thought you lot were extinct this far south.”

He gestures to the open crates. I take a tentative step forward, heart hammering.

All right, Bella. Don’t screw this up. Small ice. Not the whole damn village.

I breathe in, steady and slow, and raise my hands over the fish. The air cools instantly; frost blooms over my palms like lace. A single flurry spills out between my fingers, delicate and perfect.

“Easy,” I whisper to myself. “Small.”

The snow thickens, spiralling into a swirl of glittering crystals that harden into cubes as they fall. I guide them, coaxing the frost into neat, packed mounds around the fish until the crate gleams with fresh ice.

The man whistles low. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“I know, right?” I grin, clapping my hands together as the last sparkle fades. “Functional and fabulous.”

A couple of the other fishermen glance over, impressed despite themselves. One even mutters something about me saving them a trip to the cold cellars. Warmth blooms in my chest—strange, sweet, and new. My power isn’t breaking or hurting or freezing something that shouldn’t be frozen. It’s helping. Before things go too far, I rein in my emotions. This is fine; this is normal. Breathe it out, Bella. No need to get carried away and flash-freeze the local fishermen.

“We could use an ice elemental.” The man nods toward the small shipping boat bobbing gently at the dock behind him. His tone shifts, more businesslike now. “Would be useful to stay out longer, make sure the fish stay fresh. You interested in a job, or just passing through?”

A job? Like, actual employment? With money? My heart stutters. I could definitely use money… and I guess this wouldn’t hinder my travel plans because, well, I don’t technically have travel plans. Plus, it would give me somewhere to sleep for a while, which is a definite upgrade from accidentally breaking into other people’s homes.

“A job would be great!” I blurt, far too quickly.

Okay, that was maybe too eager. Tone it down, Bella. Act like a normal, definitely-not-magically-starved adult.

He hums thoughtfully, eyeing me up and down in that assessing, not-quite-suspicious way. Then he digs into his pocket and pulls out a few folded notes. “Advanced pay for saving the shipment today. Get yourself some shoes, clothes, and whatnot, and meet back here before sundown. I’m Eddie, by the way.”

My breath catches. Actual paper money. It’s warm from his hand when he presses it into mine, and I can’t stop the grin from splitting my face. “Bella,” I reply, clutching the notes like they’re made of gold. “Thank you, Eddie. Really.”

He nods, already turning back to bark orders at the other fishermen, but I don’t miss the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. As soon as his attention shifts, I practically skip away. My pulse is electric, my magic thrumming under my skin like it’s dancing with me. A job. My first real job. My first bit of freedom that isn’t running or hiding. By the time I reach the far edge of the village, the excitement is bubbling too strongly to contain. The air crackles cold around me, tiny motes of snow swirling off my fingertips.

“Just a little,” I whisper to myself, stepping behind a stack of barrels where no one will see. “Just to let it out.”

I open my palms, and the frost pours out like breath. It spills into the grass in delicate veins, spreading into glimmering spirals before freezing into a perfect pattern of crystalline lace. It’s beautiful—controlled, balanced, mine. I exhale, chest heaving, cheeks flushed with cold and pride.

“Okay,” I murmur, smiling to myself. “Shoes, clothes, job. Easy.”

Then I dust the frost off my hands, tuck the notes safely into my bag, and head toward the market, trying very hard not to skip like a child who just discovered she can make magic and money at the same time.

The market is busier than I expected—voices shouting prices, children darting between stalls, the smell of salt, fish, and fried bread all tangling together. I clutch the notes in my hand like someone’s going to snatch them away. Maybe they can smell the “I’ve-never-had-money-before” energy radiating off me.

I pass a few clothing stalls first, pretending I know what I’m doing. Shoes. I need shoes. Simple enough. Except, apparently, shoes come in a thousand different shapes and sizes, and half of them have laces. I stare at a pair of brown leather boots until the woman behind the stall clears her throat.

“Trying them on might help, love,” she says, a faint smile tugging her lips.

“Oh. Right. Yes.” I slide them on, wiggle my toes, and gasp—warmth. Actual, toasty, ground-between-me-and-the-world warmth. “I’ll take them,” I say immediately, nearly shoving the money at her before remembering that’s not how normal people pay. She laughs softly, gives me a discount, and I beam like a fool. Next, I find a rack of worn trousers and a loose white shirt that doesn’t smell too fishy. The fabric is soft, thin but clean, and when I pull it over my head behind a curtain, I nearly sigh in relief. It feels good to look a little less like “escaped hermit” and a little more like someone who belongs here.

My last stop is a small stall tucked near the back, where the scent of parchment and ink hits me like home. I hover over the table, fingers tracing the spine of a blank book. The vendor—a kindly older man with ink-stained fingers—smiles at me knowingly. “For writing dreams or recording sins?”

“Both,” I say, without missing a beat.

He chuckles, adds a small pot of ink and a quill, and I hand over the last of my notes. When I step back into the street, my bag full of beginnings, I can’t stop grinning. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel trapped and now? Now I get to travel the sea.