Chapter 19: Chapter 19: Fishtail Braid

They had, it must be said, crawled quite a bit.

The tunnel had not been straight. Or sane. Or, arguably, built with knees in mind.

It was a winding, whimsically undulating thing, carpeted in something that felt like moss but occasionally blinked, and smelled faintly of cinnamon, old dreams, and shoe polish. Lights twinkled from the walls,small enchanted lanterns shaped like grumpy toads,and the whole passage gave off the air of having been designed by a particularly excitable child and a disgruntled gnome with a flair for interior whimsy.

Leonor, of course, hated every minute of it.

Not that you could tell from her face, which remained a mask of carefully cultivated princess disdain, nor her posture, which absolutely did not resemble someone who had recently taken up recreational caving.

No. She did not enjoy tunnels. Certainly not the feeling of wriggling her way through velvet-slick corkscrews and gravity-defying spirals, nor the occasional slidey bit where she had to yelp and grab Kaz’s foot before tumbling into what might have been a tunnel or a very large worm.

The narrator would like to clarify that Leonor did not,repeat, not,develop a fondness for enclosed passageways after spending nearly a month hiding and living inside her family castle’s vast, haunted ventilation system. That experience had left her with nothing but a deeply practical knowledge of airflow, a twitchy relationship with dust, and a healthy disdain for decorative grates.

…She definitely did not find it fun.

Which was why, when the tunnel abruptly curled up and spat them out…

Right back into the very same bathroom they’d left twenty minutes ago…

She was totally calm. And composed. And definitely not giggling under her breath.

Kaz, meanwhile, stood and dusted himself off with an air of practiced drama. “Hmph. Thought we updated this.”

The enchanted towels rattled guiltily. One tried to hide behind a hairbrush.

Kaz clicked his tongue. “We agreed: first loop, solemn bathroom. Second loop, hair salon. Someone was supposed to rearrange the mirrors and enchant the conditioner.”

A loofah flopped over in shame.

He sighed. “It’s fine. Just,just remember for next time.” Then, brightening immediately, he turned to Leonor. “Soooo. Want to go again?”

Leonor crossed her arms, lifted her chin, and said with perfect composure, “Most definitely.”

And then added, with the air of someone attempting plausible deniability:

“Not because I enjoy tunnels. No, sir. Not because I spent three weeks mapping the south vent system using only a candlestick and a stolen quiche. And absolutely not because I once crawled into the Duke’s fireplace and lived there for five days to avoid etiquette lessons. This is a strictly strategic decision. I do not, repeat, do not, enjoy caving.”

Kaz grinned like a boy who had just found a secret passage in someone else’s heart. “Of course not.”

Some time later

After the Fifth run through the tunnels .

Kaz cleared his throat with theatrical gravity no small feat, considering he was currently standing in the middle of a hair salon and using a stubborn toilet who refused to leave as a podium.

The toilet excuse him, styling chair had been wheeled reverently to the center of the room, like it was about to deliver a eulogy for a dearly departed shampoo bottle. It had a glittery cape tied around its tank, a velvet cushion on the lid, and an aura of deep-seated defiance, as if daring anyone to suggest it was not, in fact, the height of salon fashion.

Kaz spread his arms. “Now that we are in a suitably private, aesthetically solemn chamber,”

“You mean a salon, ” Leonor muttered.

Kaz wobbled. Only slightly. “I mean… yes. But a very dignified salon . With ambiance.”

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Leonor sighed. It was the sigh of someone who had, against all odds, begun to expect this.

Kaz steepled his fingers. “So. The Circle. In its vast, ancient, runic wisdom,”

“Uh-huh.”

“, has asked me to deliver a sacred message.”

“A message.”

Kaz nodded, solemn as an owl in a little hat. “A reward, actually. For your help stabilizing it. And also, because it noticed you’ve been struggling.”

Leonor narrowed her eyes. “With what.”

He gave her a slow, meaningful look. “Your hair.”

“Hey!” she snapped, immediately reaching up to check if it was sticking out in eleven directions (it was).

“It’s not an insult,” Kaz said, grinning. “It’s just… observational sorcery.”

She huffed. “My maids have tried for years. Ribbons, oils, hexes, nothing sticks. It’s like taming a lion in a wind tunnel.”

Kaz nodded, very seriously, in response while pretending “Cabbage”, hadn't just blown her cover completely, yet again. “Exactly. So the Circle, in its gratitude, wishes to bestow upon you… a hairstyle.”

Leonor blinked. Once. Twice.

“…A hairstyle.”

“A magical hairstyle,” Kaz corrected. “Forged in honor and gratitude. A style fit for only the bravest of Cabbages.”

There was a beat.

Leonor stared. “What did you just call me?”

Kaz gave her the most innocent grin imaginable. “Miss Flowerpot. First name Cabbage. From the Academy of Prestigious Spellery and Decorative Candling, wasn’t it?”

She stared harder. He smiled wider.

“Right,” she muttered. “Absolutely. That’s me.”

“Mm,” Kaz nodded. “With credentials in Advanced Field Observations and... uh… agricultural enchantments?”

“Definitely. I was… top of my compost class.”

“Impressive.”

They stood in silence. A single enchanted towel coughed politely from a rack.

Leonor coughed too. “Is this hairstyle the same one the Bryndleward girls wear when they’re... you know. Doing laundry. Or fishing rats out of the storm drains.”

Kaz clutched his chest in mock outrage. “Miss Flowerpot! How dare you accuse the Circle of stealing working-class hairstyles!”

Leonor raised an eyebrow. “So it’s a yes.”

“Absolutely yes. But with a leviathan in front for dignity.”

Another silence. Then, without looking at him, she said stiffly:

“…Would it be improper for you to touch my hair?”

Kaz tilted his head. “Was it improper when you rolled around on my bed?”

“That,!”

“And cuddled all my plushies.”

“Those plushies initiated contact,” she sniffed.

“Ah. Of course. You were simply overwhelmed by their emotional availability.”

Leonor looked away, scowling at a shell-shaped sink. “Fine. You may proceed. But this means nothing.”

“Nothing,” Kaz agreed cheerfully, already moving behind her. “Purely professional.”

He lifted a handful of her curls. The air shifted.

And Leonor,regal, snide, occasionally flammable,sat utterly still.

Kaz worked quickly. Cleverly. His fingers were warm, steady, and maddeningly gentle. Like a raccoon who’d learned embroidery. Like someone who had no business knowing how to braid this well and was doing it purely to be difficult.

“So,” he said casually, weaving strands like secrets. “Do you know why it’s called a leviathan braid?”

“Because you’re making it up as you go along?” she mumbled.

“Because it starts as a regular fishtail.” His tone was easy, but there was a rhythm to it, the faint lilt of a line spoken before. “And over time we add more and more to it, until it becomes something truly incredible. Unique. Like a leviathan shedding its skin again and again, until it reaches maturity. One trinket, one charm, and one conditioner at a time.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, polished smooth by repetition, as though they had lived in another mouth once.

“Overwhelming when done all at once,” he added, quieter now. “But beautiful, if done with care.”

“Like you,” Leonor muttered.

Kaz beamed behind her. But for a heartbeat,barely long enough to notice,his smile faltered, and a shadow crossed his face, as though some distant echo had caught him off guard. Then the brightness returned, practiced and effortless.

“You do understand,” he said.

She didn’t respond.

The hush between them filled with the soft sounds of braiding: the hiss of hair, the whisper of silk. A spell made from rhythm and laughter held in check.

Leonor’s eyes fluttered.

She didn’t say thank you.

But her silence was different now.

And Kaz braided as if it was the only magic that had ever mattered.

Because maybe if he did, it would distract him from the real reason he brought her their

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System Trivia:

The fishtail braid is a popular hairstyle among the women of Brindleward, a district not so much governed as it is gently threatened into cooperation by a variety of gangs, grannies, and one extremely territorial goose.

While many wear it for style, the Mudlark girls have made the look entirely their own.

Tight, elegant, deceptively practical, the braid serves not just as fashion but as functional smuggling infrastructure. A well-trained Mudlark can hide no less than six thimble-charms, a skeleton key, and a foldable lockpick set between the twists,and still have room left for a backup snack.

Some say the braid is a symbol of unity.

Others say it's just really good at hiding evidence.

Either way, no one trusts a Mudlark with a tidy braid and nothing jingling inside it.