The market day in Rothenburg arrived with a cacophony that set Norn's teeth on edge.

  Vendors' shouts cut through the morning fog, competing with the clatter of wagon wheels on cobblestone and the bleating of livestock. Multicolored banners snapped in the autumn breeze, a jarring contrast to the muted palette Norn had grown accustomed to in his solitary existence. The small village had swelled to twice its size overnight, strangers pouring in from neighboring settlements with goods to trade and stories to tell.

  Norn watched from the shadows of an alleyway, shoulders pressed against rough stone. His daily routine of silent patrol had been disrupted by this influx of chaos. Every new face was a potential threat; every loud noise a reason for his hand to drift toward his dagger.

  "Too many people," he thought, scanning the crowd with narrowed eyes. "Too many blind spots."

  Dark clouds gathered on the distant horizon, promising a storm by nightfall. The wind carried the scent of rain and livestock, along with something else—something that made the Ashmark beneath his sleeve pulse with a dull heat. He yanked his cuff down, concealing the brand.

  "Bad day to be outside," he muttered to himself. "But worse to be trapped indoors."

  Movement caught his eye—a flash of blonde hair, a too-wide smile. A young man, perhaps nineteen, wearing mismatched clothes that somehow formed a deliberate ensemble: threadbare shirt, high-waisted trousers held up by knotted scarves, one knee-high boot paired with a normal boot, a rusted pauldron strapped to his left shoulder. He moved through the crowd with the fluid grace of a pickpocket, but instead of stealing, he seemed to be...performing.

  The boy—Norn couldn't think of him as a man despite their similar age—had gathered a small audience around a makeshift table fashioned from an upturned barrel. His hands moved with practiced flourish over three wooden cups, a dried pea supposedly hidden beneath one of them.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, watch closely!" the blonde called out, his voice carrying a mischievous lilt that drew more onlookers. "The hand is quicker than the eye, but is it quicker than your wits? Place your bets!"

  A few copper coins clinked onto the barrel top. The boy's smile widened, revealing a chipped front tooth that somehow enhanced rather than diminished his charm. His amber eyes glinted with something that made Norn's hackles rise—not danger, exactly, but chaos. The purposeful kind.

  Norn recognized a scheme when he saw one. The cups moved with deliberate slowness at first, giving marks the false confidence to bet higher on the next round. Then the boy's hands would blur, the cups dancing across the surface too quickly to follow.

  A burly merchant with a beard like steel wool slammed his fist down after losing a silver coin.

  "You're cheating, boy!" the man growled, his face flushing beneath his weather-beaten skin.

  The blonde's expression shifted so quickly Norn almost missed it—fear flashed across his features before being replaced with an even wider grin.

  "My good sir, I cannot help if your eyes are slow and your wits slower!" the boy quipped, backing away with hands raised in mock surrender. "Perhaps the blacksmith could forge you a pair of spectacles?"

  The crowd's nervous laughter turned the merchant's face from red to purple. He lunged across the barrel, sending cups and coins scattering. The blonde darted backward, surprisingly nimble, but not quick enough. The merchant's meaty hand caught his collar, lifting him until his boots dangled above the dirt.

  "I'll teach you respect, whelp," the merchant snarled, drawing back his free hand.

  Norn tensed, but remained still. Not his business. Not his problem.

  A blur of motion from the right side of the market disrupted the confrontation. Something—no, someone—barreled through the crowd with focused determination. A young woman, blonde hair cropped short, slammed into the merchant with surprising force. Her shoulder caught him squarely in the ribs, sending him staggering backward, gasping for breath.

  The boy dropped to the ground with a theatrical flourish, as if he'd planned the rescue all along.

  "Perfect timing, sister!" he crowed, dusting himself off. "Though you could've been gentler with the poor man. He's simply overcome with admiration for my talents."

  The woman didn't smile. Her amber eyes—identical to her brother's—blazed with practiced annoyance. She wore a reinforced leather vest over simple clothes, steel-toed boots planted firmly in the dirt. Her knuckles were scraped raw, and a steel knuckle-duster glinted on her right hand.

  "Koen, you absolute jackass," she hissed, grabbing her brother's ear like a mother disciplining a child. "What did I tell you about the cup game? Every. Single. Time."

  The boy—Koen—winced theatrically. "That I'm exceptionally skilled and should charge more?"

  The merchant had regained his footing, drawing himself up to his considerable height. Two companions flanked him now, equally large, equally angry.

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  "You'll pay for that, girl," the merchant growled, cracking his knuckles.

  The sister released Koen's ear and stepped forward, positioning herself between her brother and the threat. Her stance shifted subtly—weight balanced, hands loose at her sides. Not a trained fighter, Norn assessed, but someone who'd been in enough scraps to know how to handle herself.

  "Three against one, Karima," Koen whispered, his smile never faltering even as tension thickened the air. "Terrible odds."

  "For them," she replied through gritted teeth.

  The crowd backed away, forming a loose circle around the impending brawl. Some villagers hurried off to find the town's sole constable; others settled in to watch the entertainment. Market day diversions were rare in Rothenburg.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance as the first drops of rain began to fall, fat and heavy, splattering the dust.

  Norn should have walked away. Should have returned to his small rented room at the edge of town. Should have minded his own business.

  Instead, he watched.

  The merchant made the first move, lunging forward with surprising speed for his size. Karima sidestepped, using his momentum against him, her steel-knuckled fist connecting with his kidney. He howled, stumbling forward as one of his companions swung a meaty fist toward her head.

  She ducked, but not completely. The blow glanced off her temple, sending her staggering sideways. Blood trickled from a split eyebrow.

  Koen darted in, no longer smiling, a jagged, forward-curved shortsword appearing in his hand as if by magic. The blade glinted dully in the fading light.

  "Now, gentlemen," he said, voice suddenly cold, "let's discuss appropriate market behavior, shall we?"

  The three men hesitated, reassessing the odds now that a blade had entered the equation. Rain began to fall in earnest, plastering Karima's short hair to her forehead, blood mixing with water to paint pale pink streaks down her cheek.

  The merchants exchanged glances, a silent calculation passing between them. Three unarmed men against a swordsman and a brawler—not good odds after all. With mumbled threats about finding them later, they backed away, disappearing into the dispersing crowd.

  As quickly as it had begun, the confrontation ended. Market-goers hurried to cover their wares from the strengthening downpour. Koen sheathed his sword beneath his tattered cloak, the blade vanishing as mysteriously as it had appeared.

  Karima prodded her eyebrow, wincing. "That's going to swell."

  "Beauty was never your strong suit anyway," Koen quipped, earning a half-hearted swing that he dodged easily.

  "If you'd stop antagonizing every merchant with more than two copper pieces to his name—" Karima began.

  "Then life would be unbearably dull," he finished for her, stooping to collect scattered coins from the mud. "Besides, we need the money."

  Norn was about to turn away when Koen froze, amber eyes locking onto him with unnerving precision. The boy's head tilted, like a fox that had spotted something unusual in its territory.

  "Well, well," Koen drawled, straightening up. "We have an audience."

  Norn remained still, neither advancing nor retreating. Rain soaked through his threadbare shirt, plastering it to his scarred torso. A rivulet of water traced the line of his jaw, dripping onto the concealed Ashmark beneath his sleeve.

  Karima followed her brother's gaze, her expression shifting from irritation to wariness as she assessed Norn. Not as a threat—but as someone who might cause trouble for them.

  "Leave it, Koen," she muttered, tugging at her brother's arm. "We need to go."

  But Koen was already moving forward, that too-wide smile returning to his face. He approached Norn with the confident swagger of someone accustomed to charming his way out of trouble.

  "Enjoyed the show, friend?" he asked, spreading his arms wide, rain dripping from his elbows. "Next performance is tomorrow, weather permitting. Admission is just one silver piece."

  Norn said nothing, his face a mask of indifference. But his eyes took in everything—the way Koen's right hand stayed close to the hidden sword, the protective stance Karima had adopted behind her brother, the faint outline of what looked like stolen Reaver braces concealed under Koen's sleeves.

  Something twisted in Norn's gut. Recognition, perhaps. Or warning.

  "Not much for conversation, are you?" Koen persisted, undeterred by Norn's silence. "Let me guess—brooding hero type? Dark past? Mysterious scars?"

  Karima grabbed her brother's shoulder, fingers digging in with visible force. "Enough," she hissed. "Rain's getting worse. We need to get back before the river rises."

  As if to punctuate her words, thunder cracked overhead, closer now. The few remaining market-goers scattered, seeking shelter from the downpour that had transformed from scattered drops to sheets of water.

  Koen shrugged, apparently losing interest in his baiting game. With a mock bow that sent water cascading from his hair, he backed away.

  "Until next time, silent stranger," he called, already turning to follow his sister through the emptying marketplace.

  Norn watched them go, noting the way they moved—Koen with deliberately exaggerated gestures that drew the eye, Karima with practical efficiency, always positioned to intervene if her brother's antics turned dangerous. They disappeared around a corner, arguing loudly enough for their voices to carry through the rain.

  Alone again, Norn remained motionless, rain streaming down his face. The encounter left him uneasy, though he couldn't pinpoint why. Perhaps it was the way the twins moved through the world—chaotic but purposeful, reckless but somehow surviving.

  His hand drifted to the fragment of emerald pendant against his chest. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what Elia would make of the twins. Would she have smiled at Koen's antics? Would she have admired Karima's protective instincts?

  The thought was unwelcome. Dangerous.

  "Not my problem," he muttered, turning toward his lodgings as lightning split the sky above Rothenburg.

  But even as he walked away, Norn knew he would see them again. People like that—blazing so brightly, causing such chaos—they inevitably crossed paths with darkness.

  And Norn had lived in the shadows for too long to believe in coincidences.