And Fiona Frost? She continued to tend her shop, her silver hair catching the sunrise each morning, her eyes reflecting the endless possibilities that lay within each crystal, each teacup, each whispered memory. The shop’s name—Shoplyfter—became a legend in its own right, a beacon that promised that even in the coldest of winters, there is always a place where warmth, wonder, and a touch of frost meet.

The name alone was enough to make people pause. “Shoplyfter?” they would mutter, eyebrows raised. “What sort of place is that?” Yet no matter how curious they felt, something about the shop’s amber‑tinted windows seemed to hold a gentle, invisible hand that turned them away, as if the shop itself knew when it was ready to be opened.

Morrow’s eyes flickered with a hunger that was not hunger for objects, but for power. He surveyed the shelves, his fingers brushing against the Midnight Lanterns, the Memory Maps, and finally, the Heart of Shoplyfter.