Thank the Saints that David Kostyk wasn't a difficult person to find.

Unlike Genya, who somehow managed to exist in a thousand places at once, David had a predictable orbit—one that rarely strayed more than a few hundred yards from his workshop. He practically lived there. Not that he didn't have a proper room in the Little Palace (right next to Valeriya's, actually), but that was more of a technicality. As far as she knew, he only used it for storing books and taking the occasional accidental nap amongst the shelves.

The only reason it took Valeriya ten minutes to track him down was because it took that long to get from Alina's too-grand-for-its-own-good room to the dusty, chaotic, yet undeniably beautiful Fabrikator workshop.

The workshop itself was tucked away in the basement of the Little Palace—a location that Valeriya never let David forget. She had an ever-growing collection of ghoul jokes she liked to bring out whenever the mood struck. David, to his credit, was impressively good at ignoring her.

The space was sprawling, filled with more workbenches and tools than she could count. She was sure that if she asked, David would have an exact number ready to go, but she didn't care that much. The first thing you saw when walking in were the Durast workshops, open and buzzing with activity. Further back, behind sealed doors, were the Alchemi workshops, closed off for safety. Down the hall from there was the Corporalki workshop, where Heartrenders and Healers fine-tuned their crafts.

And the Summoners?

They had to practice outside. Losers.

Anyway, David was right where she'd last left him months ago, hunched over a workbench, completely absorbed in whatever latest project had captured his attention.

"Hello, gorgeous," Valeriya greeted, walking up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist in a loose hug.

David let out a deep sigh—the long-suffering kind—but didn't push her away. That was progress.

He set down the delicate metalwork he'd been focused on and tapped her hands. She released him, allowing him to turn around, and there he was—messy-haired, sharp-eyed, dressed in his signature purple kefta with silver embroidery. Handsome as ever, in that effortlessly disheveled way of his.

"Hi, Vale," he said, giving her a brief but proper hug before pulling away. His affections were rare but sincere. He was never sure why Valeriya had stuck around all these years, but he supposed he shouldn't question it. She was weird, after all.

He turned back to his work without another word, examining some sort of intricate gadget that looked like it belonged to a Summoner.

"Wow, no welcome home banner?," Valeriya said, laughing at David's eye roll, leaning against the bench. "I was sent back with Alina—you know, the girl who saved us in the Fold."

David frowned slightly, still not looking up. "I heard," he said, voice even. "Glad you made it out okay. I do worry about you out there from time to time."

Valeriya blinked.

For David, that was the equivalent of a grand declaration of concern.

She smiled. "Well, my kefta took the brunt of it."

That got his attention.

David turned around fully, eyes flicking over her, finally registering that she wasn't wearing a kefta at all. Instead, it hung over her arm, looking...

"Sad," he muttered.

Valeriya scoffed. "Excuse me?"

"The only way to describe it," David said, completely serious. "It's sad."

She rolled her eyes as he stepped closer, inspecting the damage like a battlefield medic assessing the wounded.

"Do you have any other keftas?" he asked, reaching out as if debating whether it was worth touching the thing. "Like your winter one?"

"David, it's warm outside. I can't wear wool."

He looked at her boots. "But you're wearing the boots that go with your winter kefta."

She narrowed her eyes. "Since when are you a fashion critic, David?"

That shut him up. Without another word, he snatched the ruined silk from her arm and strode off toward another workbench.

Valeriya followed like a duckling, dodging scattered tools and half-finished projects as she trailed him through the room. The other Fabrikators barely glanced up, accustomed to David's single-minded determination when he was on a mission. They moved aside without being asked, knowing full well that if they didn't, David wouldn't.

As he walked, he ran his hands over the fabric, muttering under his breath—words Valeriya only half-caught, most of them complaints about her constant destruction of expensive garments.

"You could just take better care of them," he grumbled, spreading the kefta out over a worktable.

"I could," Valeriya agreed easily, watching as he examined the tears with the precision of a surgeon.

David sighed through his nose and gestured vaguely toward a row of closets in the far corner of the workshop.

"There are spare keftas in there," he said, already distracted by his work. "Just take one."

Valeriya smirked. "See you at the Grand Palace later?"

He didn't look up. Just hummed in acknowledgment, already lost in the fabric, the weave, the tiny repairs only he could see.

Valeriya watched him for a moment longer, warmth pooling in her chest. Saints, she'd missed him while she was in Kribirsk. His presence always brightened her mood.

She turned and walked toward the spare keftas, leaving him to his work.

David Kostyk: the closest thing to a ghost the Little Palace had, tucked away in his workshop, stitching things back together.

Including, apparently, her.