In 931 A.E., the nation of Astralyn, nestled in the southwestern sweep of Mythosia, lay unaware of the era ahead—an era that would shape legends. In the forests of its eastern reaches, life continued its quiet rhythms.

  The morning sun carved golden shafts through the forest canopy, dappling the moss-covered ground in shifting patterns of light and shadow. Somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker hammered against ancient bark while smaller birds chattered their territorial disputes. The air hung thick with the earthy scent of decomposing leaves and wild honeysuckle.

  Osaze crouched behind a fallen log, scanning the undergrowth ahead. His breathing was controlled, deliberate, the way his mother had taught him during their rare hunting trips.

  Beside him, Zen adjusted his grip on a worn training sword, its leather-wrapped hilt smooth from years of use. The blade caught a stray beam of sunlight, sending a brief flash across the forest floor.

  "This is stupid," Himeko whispered from their left, her voice barely audible above the rustling leaves. "Completely, utterly stupid."

  Osaze shot her a grin that was equal parts charm and recklessness. "You're the one who said we couldn't take down a boar."

  "I said you shouldn't take down a boar," she hissed back, her reddish-gold eyes flashing with irritation. "There's a difference between 'can't' and 'shouldn't' that any reasonable person—"

  "Since when has Osaze been reasonable?" Zen interjected, though his tone carried the resigned affection of someone who'd been having this argument for years.

  Himeko's glare could have frozen the air. "This is exactly why I should've just let you two idiots get yourselves gored and called it natural selection."

  "But you didn't," Osaze said, his voice dropping to barely a whisper as he pointed ahead. "Because deep down, you know we're right. These wild boars have been tearing up half the village's farmland. Someone needs to deal with them."

  Through the dense underbrush, they could make out a dark shape rooting through the soil near a cluster of berry bushes. The boar was medium-sized—smaller than the massive beasts that lurked in the dense interior of the forest, but still easily the size of a large dog. Its coarse hair bristled along its back, and curved tusks gleamed ivory-white as it foraged.

  "Besides," Osaze continued, his excitement barely contained, "if I'm going to join the military academy, I need to prove I can handle more than practice dummies. Real Eterna face down monsters ten times worse than this."

  Zen rolled his eyes. "You're not an Eterna yet, genius."

  "Yet," Osaze repeated, radiating the kind of absolute confidence that made Himeko want to throttle him. "But when I am, I'm going to be one of the greatest. Level Four, just like the legends. Maybe even strong enough to—"

  A sharp snort from the boar cut him short. The animal had lifted its head, small black eyes scanning the forest with sudden alertness. Its nostrils flared as it tested the air.

  "Shut up," Himeko breathed, kneeling in practiced stillness. "It knows we're here."

  For a heartbeat, the forest held its breath. Then the boar's head swiveled directly toward their hiding spot, and its lips pulled back in a threatening snarl.

  "Go!" Osaze exploded from cover like a coiled spring released, his lean frame moving with restless energy.

  The boar's reaction was instantaneous. It wheeled around with surprising agility and charged, hooves churning up clods of earth as it barreled toward the boy who dared to challenge it bare-handed.

  Osaze dove to the side at the last second, rolling behind a thick oak as the boar's tusks scraped bark where his chest had been a heartbeat before. He came up in a crouch, adrenaline singing in his veins. His thick afro caught flecks of sunlight as he moved.

  Zen flanked to the right with measured steps, dark hair falling across his face as he moved with patient control beyond his years, before he raised his training sword. The blade might be dull, but it was still solid steel—more than enough to give the beast something to think about. "Over here!" he shouted, striking the flat of the blade against a tree trunk. The metallic clang echoed through the forest.

  The boar spun toward the new threat, and Zen pivoted smoothly out of its path, letting it thunder past him with inches to spare. He brought his sword down in a two-handed strike that caught the animal across its hindquarters, eliciting a squeal of rage and pain.

  "Nice hit!" Osaze called, then immediately had to duck as it wheeled back toward him with murder in its small eyes. He grabbed a fallen branch and swung it like a club, the wood splintering across the beast's thick skull. The boar staggered but shook off the blow, its skull too thick for the improvised weapon to do more than annoy it.

  Meanwhile, twenty feet away, Himeko watched the chaos unfold with the resigned expression of someone who'd predicted exactly this outcome. Her brown bob-cut hair swayed as she shook her head. Rather than flee or join the increasingly brutal fight, she calmly selected a sturdy branch from the forest floor—about as thick as her wrist and roughly four feet long. Using a small knife she produced from her belt, she began carving the tip into a sharp point with smooth, practiced strokes.

  "Knowing you idiots, I'm probably going to need this," she muttered to herself, wood shavings falling at her feet.

  The creature launched itself at Osaze in a burst of fury, its flank crashing against his ribs. The impact sent him sprawling, gasping as the wind was knocked from his lungs.

  Zen pressed his advantage while the boar was focused on Osaze, slashing at its flank with calculated precision. The beast wheeled on him, faster than he'd anticipated. One curved tusk caught him across the thigh, tearing through his pants and leaving a bloody gash in its wake.

  "Zen!" Osaze scrambled upright, ignoring the fire in his ribs.

  The battle raged on with neither side giving ground. Osaze had found his rhythm now, using his sharp reflexes and natural fighter's instincts to close the distance and land punishing blows to the boar's head and flanks before pulling back from its retaliatory charges. His knuckles were split and bleeding, but each hit found its mark with explosive force.

  Zen fought with growing confidence, his sword work becoming more fluid as he read the beast's patterns. His observant blue eyes caught the slight dip in the boar's shoulder before each charge. A diagonal slash opened a line across the boar's shoulder. A thrust to its hindquarters sent it stumbling. But for every wound they inflicted, the animal seemed to grow more desperate and dangerous.

  The boar caught Osaze with a glancing blow from its tusks, opening a rent along his forearm. Dark brown eyes blazing with determination, he cursed but didn't back down, immediately retaliating with a vicious uppercut that snapped the creature's head back and drew blood from its snout.

  "It's weakening!" Zen called out, breathing hard as he circled for another opening.

  Working in tandem now, they began to seize the upper hand. When the boar charged Osaze, Zen struck from its blind spot. When it wheeled toward Zen, Osaze capitalized, battering the creature mercilessly. The forest floor became slick with blood—both their blood and the boar's.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity of violence, their combined assault began to tell. The boar's charges became sluggish, its breathing labored. Zen managed a particularly clean cut across its front legs that sent it stumbling to one knee.

  Osaze chose his moment and pounced, interlocking his fingers and driving his joined fists down like a sledgehammer across the base of the boar's skull. The animal collapsed, a wet thud echoing as its massive body met the earth in finality.

  Both boys stood over their fallen foe, chests heaving as pain and exhaustion wracked their bodies. Blood ran from a dozen wounds between them, their clothes torn and filthy.

  "We... actually did it," Zen panted, his sword tip touching the ground as he leaned on the pommel.

  Osaze wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning through the pain. "Told you we had him."

  In the same moment, they both gave out—Zen slumping against the nearest tree, Osaze staggering a few steps away before dropping onto the moss several feet from the motionless boar. For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the whisper of wind through leaves.

  Himeko tested the point of her improvised spear against her thumb and nodded in satisfaction. The boys might have won, but something in the way the boar lay—too still, like a held breath—made her grip the weapon tighter.

  She was right to trust her instincts.

  The boar's eyes snapped open like twin coals. With a sound like breaking thunder, it hauled itself up on trembling legs, drawing on some primal reserve of fury. This wasn't strategy or hunt-craft anymore—this was pure, desperate savagery. It fixed its gaze on Osaze, who lay closest, still gasping and defenseless.

  The final charge came with the speed of the dying—nothing held back, nothing saved for later.

  Himeko was already moving before the boys even registered the threat. She emerged from the underbrush like death itself, silent and inevitable. Her improvised spear took the charging boar just below the ear, the sharpened point sliding between vertebrae with surgical precision. The animal's desperate lunge became a sliding collapse as it toppled mere inches from Osaze's prone form, legs twitching once before going still.

  This time, it stayed down.

  True silence settled over the forest clearing like a burial shroud.

  Himeko straightened up, brushing a strand of brown hair from her face with the back of her hand. She looked down at the truly dead boar, then at her two friends—Osaze staring up at her with wide, grateful eyes, Zen gripping his sword with white knuckles.

  "Guess who landed the final blow?" she said with a smirk.

  Osaze let his head fall back against the moss with a shaky laugh. "Show off."

  "I prefer 'competent,'" Himeko replied, already examining her handiwork. "Clean thrust, instant kill. No unnecessary suffering." She glanced at them meaningfully. "Unlike your approach."

  Zen limped over, testing his weight on his injured leg. His toned frame moved stiffly now, pain evident in every step. "Alright. You saved his life. Happy?"

  "Ecstatic." Himeko wiped her spear clean on some leaves. "Next time, maybe listen when I say something's a bad idea."

  They spent the next few minutes in the grisly work of removing the boar's head, proof of their victory that they could present to the village magistrate for the promised bounty. It was messy, unpleasant work, but necessary. Boars had been damaging farmland for weeks, and the village council had put up a decent reward for anyone brave or foolish enough to help deal with the problem.

  "You know," Himeko said as they prepared to head back, the boar's head wrapped in Zen's spare shirt, "you could've gone after one of the really big ones if you wanted to impress people."

  Osaze shot her a look. "This was plenty dangerous enough, thanks."

  "Was it though?" She raised an eyebrow. "I mean, if you're really planning to become some legendary Level Four Eterna, shouldn't you be setting your sights a little higher than 'medium-sized forest pig'?"

  "It's called building up gradually," Zen said diplomatically. "You don't start by fighting dragons."

  "No," Himeko agreed with mock seriousness, "you start by fighting pigs and barely surviving that."

  They bickered good-naturedly as they made their way back through the forest, following game trails worn smooth by countless animal hooves. Despite their injuries and exhaustion, there was a warm glow of satisfaction among them. They'd done it—taken down a genuine threat to the village with nothing but courage and improvised weapons.

  As they emerged from the forest into the outskirts of the village, the familiar sounds of daily life reached their ears: children playing, merchants calling out their wares, the rhythmic hammering of the blacksmith at work.

  At the far edge of the village, where rolling farmland met the forest's edge, Osunde and Iyabo worked in the morning heat. The couple moved efficiently, their years of tending the same soil evident in every motion, hands darkened by earth as they repaired the damage left by the wild boars.

  Osunde straightened up, pressing a hand to his lower back as he surveyed the churned earth. His short black hair was streaked with premature gray, and his strong build—so like his son Osaze’s—spoke of a lifetime of physical labor.

  "That boy's always running wild," he muttered, driving his spade into the disrupted soil with more force than necessary. "Talking about being an army hero instead of helping out here. These fields won't tend themselves."

  Iyabo paused in her work, wiping sweat from her brow. Her braided hair had escaped its bun in wisps that caught the morning light. She'd been listening to this complaint for so long now, and her patience was wearing thin. "How long would you resist his dreams, Osunde?"

  Dreams?" Osunde’s voice came out tight, not with bitterness, but warning. "Some dreams come with a price you don’t see until it’s too late. They won’t fix damaged drainage ditches, and they sure won’t keep you alive.”

  Before Iyabo could respond, the sound of heavy footsteps and a deep, rumbling growl announced an approaching visitor. They looked up to see Sagan Stirling riding toward them on the back of Ragnar, his massive black grizzly bear companion. Even after decades of friendship, the sight of the former army commander astride his eterna beast partner still commanded respect.

  Sagan dismounted with fluid grace, his tall frame and sharp features radiating the authority of someone accustomed to command. He moved with deadly precision, the gray at his temples hinting at years of hard-won experience etched into his lined features. Ragnar settled beside him with a contented huff, the bear easily the size of a polar bear.

  "Morning, Osunde. Iyabo." Sagan’s voice was measured, revealing how quickly he could read a situation and act. “I see the boars got to your place too.”

  "Half our drainage work ruined," Osunde replied, gesturing at the torn earth. "And my son's off who knows where, playing hero I’m sure, instead of helping fix it."

  Yeah, a lot of villagers are dealing with the same mess,” Sagan said, then his expression brightened. “But there might be some good news. I’m organizing a caravan to the nearby town in four days. Thought you might have goods to trade.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Iyabo's face lit up. "Actually, that’s perfect timing. Osaze's birthday is coming up soon—we could make a celebration of it."

  “A celebration…” Osunde repeated, his tone softening. Despite all his complaints, he loved his son fiercely.

  "Come," Iyabo said, wiping her hands on her apron. "Let me show you what we have ready for market."

  They led Sagan toward the small storehouse beside their modest home, where sacks of grain and preserved vegetables awaited transport. As they walked, Ragnar padded silently behind them, the bear's presence both comforting and intimidating.

  After examining their goods, they hoisted the sacks onto Ragnar’s broad back, their hands sure and steady. Sagan mounted the bear once more, careful not to disturb the meticulously balanced load. "I'll take these to the village center and add them to the caravan manifest."

  As the retired commander and his eterna beast disappeared down the dirt road toward the village proper, Osunde and Iyabo returned to their work. But the conversation about Osaze lingered between them - celebration plans intertwined with the ever-present concern for their headstrong son.

  The village marketplace buzzed with its usual midday energy, but there was an undercurrent of tension that seemed to thicken the air. Farmers hawked fresh produce from wooden stalls while craftsmen displayed their latest creations on blankets spread across the cobblestones. The familiar scents of fresh bread, leather, and horses mingled with something else—the sharp smell of fear.

  A merchant caravan had arrived during the early morning hours, their wagons typical of travelling traders: sturdy but unremarkable, bearing goods from distant villages. Most of the merchants blended seamlessly into the marketplace bustle, calling out to customers and haggling over prices with practiced ease. But among them, one figure stood apart, a weathered man watching the square with the patience born of experience.

  On the opposite side of the square, trouble had already begun.

  Daxton, son of the village chief, swaggered through the marketplace with his usual entourage trailing behind him. He stopped at a jewelry stall run by an elderly craftsman, his gaze fixing on a delicate silver necklace that must have taken days to complete.

  "I'll take this," Daxton announced, reaching for the piece without offering payment.

  The old man's calloused hand moved protectively over his work. "That piece isn't finished yet, young master. And even if it were, the silver alone cost—"

  "Did I ask what it cost?" Daxton's voice carried a dangerous edge, the kind that brooked no refusal. His long black hair shifted around his shoulders as he leaned forward. "I said I'll take it."

  "Please," the craftsman said, his tone carefully respectful despite the tremor of anger beneath. "That necklace was commissioned weeks ago. The family has already paid half—"

  Daxton's fist caught the old man across the cheek, sending him stumbling backward into his own stall. Silver pieces scattered across the cobblestones as the display collapsed, the careful work of hours destroyed in an instant.

  "You're not getting it," Daxton said, casually pocketing the necklace while the craftsman struggled to get back to his feet. "This whole village belongs to me anyway. Everything in it is mine by right." He towered over the old man, pale eyes gleaming with casual cruelty.

  The craftsman pressed a hand to his bleeding lip, his eyes blazing in helpless fury. Around them, other merchants and shoppers had gone quiet, suddenly finding their own business much more interesting than the scene playing out before them.

  "Now clean this mess up," Daxton continued, gesturing at the scattered silver. "It's hideous."

  When the craftsman didn't move quickly enough, Daxton kicked over another part of the stall. More merchandise spilled across the stones, and the old man dropped to his hands and knees, frantically trying to gather pieces before they were trampled by passing feet.

  His gang laughed. Vince, his cousin, stepped forward with a sly grin—always eager to prove his loyalty. He tipped over a basket of apples, sneering as he shoved its owner aside. Kevin, broad-shouldered and loud, knocked a weaver into her own cloth rack, laughing as she cried out. Rink darted between stalls, snatching trinkets and tossing them in the air. Laati smashed a pottery display with a casual swing of his arm. The sound of breaking pottery mixed with groans of pain as their casual violence escalated.

  The marketplace that had been so vibrant moments before was rapidly emptying as people hurried to pack up their goods and escape before drawing attention to themselves. Those who couldn't leave quickly enough—vendors with heavy stalls or elderly merchants—could only try to shield their most valuable items and brace themselves for the inevitable.

  From his position among the merchant stalls, the weathered man in leather watched it all with sharp interest. But his attention wasn't focused on Daxton or the destruction. Instead, his gaze swept methodically through the crowd, still searching, still cataloging faces with the patience of a hunter who knew his prey was near.

  Daxton's rampage continued for several more minutes, each act of casual cruelty met with laughter from his gang and fearful silence from everyone else. By the time he grew bored with ravaging merchants, half the market stalls were damaged and their owners either fled or cowering.

  "Much better," Daxton declared, surveying his handiwork with satisfaction. "Amazing how much more organized things become when people remember their place."

  His gang's laughter echoed across the nearly empty square as they sauntered off, no doubt looking for somewhere to lounge around and boast about their morning's work to anyone unfortunate enough to listen.

  That's when three young voices could be heard approaching from the forest road, arguing good-naturedly about their recent adventure—and carrying proof of a victory that would soon seem very small indeed.

  Osaze led the way into the village square, the wrapped boar’s head slung over his shoulder like a trophy, though his movements were stiff from their earlier battle. Blood had dried dark on his knuckles and a fresh gash along his forearm still wept crimson—badges of the morning’s violence. Zen limped slightly on his injured leg, his training sword swaying at his side with each uneven step, while Himeko followed wearing a long-suffering expression that clearly said she’d been proven right about the stupidity of their plan.

  “—still say you should’ve aimed for a bigger one deeper in the forest,” Himeko was saying, with a slight bounce in her step. She wasn’t letting this drop. “If you’re going to nearly get yourselves killed anyway, might as well make it worthwhile.”

  “This was plenty worthwhile,” Osaze replied, though his voice carried the weariness born of adrenaline and stubborn resolve. “Wait until everyone sees—”

  He stopped short as they entered the marketplace proper. Where there should have been bustling activity, they found scattered debris and overturned stalls. The cobblestones were littered with damaged goods, and an elderly man knelt among the wreckage of what had once been a carefully arranged display.

  It was Mr. Mark—the beloved snack vendor who sold the golden puff puff and roasted plantain chips that had been a staple of their childhood. His usually cheerful face was marked by a fresh bruise, and his weathered hands shook as he tried to salvage his scattered goods.

  "Mr. Mark!" Zen was the first to reach the old vendor, kneeling beside him in the debris despite the pain in his injured leg. "What happened here?"

  The elderly man looked up, unshed tears of frustration and fear glistening in his eyes. “Oh, boys. You shouldn't—it's not safe. Young Master Daxton came through with his friends. They were in a mood today."

  Osaze felt something cold and hard settle in his stomach, the warm glow of their victory turning to ash. Around them, he could see the full extent of the damage: overturned carts, scattered merchandise, and merchants either fled or nursing injuries while trying desperately to pack up and escape before there was more trouble.

  The boar's head suddenly felt impossibly heavy on his shoulder.

  "Where is he now?" Osaze's voice was carefully controlled, but both friends recognized the warning signs—the way his free hand clenched into a fist, the set of his jaw.

  Osaze handed the wrapped boar’s head to Himeko with exaggerated care, his movements sharp with barely contained anger.

  “Osaze,” she said quietly, carefully setting it aside before kneeling to help Mr. Mark collect his spilled snacks. “We should call the guards.”

  “And what will the guards do?” he continued, his voice tight. “Let him get away with it like they always do? Tell everyone to just accept that this is how things are?”

  “This isn’t our fight,” Zen said, but his voice lacked conviction. He kept glancing at Mr. Mark, remembering all the times the old man had pressed little extras into their hands just because.

  Osaze went very still, a focused determination settling over him—the same look he’d worn when facing down that wild boar. “A mighty champion once said, ‘A true hero never retreats, for to step back is to forsake those who trust in you—an unforgivable betrayal.’” The words came out with an intensity that made both friends look at him sharply. “Then whose fight is it? Who’s going to stand up for people like Mr. Mark if we don’t? I’m sorry, but how could I possibly step back?”

  Before either of his friends could stop him, he was striding across the marketplace toward the sound of raucous laughter coming from near the fountain. His movements were slightly unsteady—exhaustion and injury taking their toll—but his resolve was absolute.

  Zen groaned and hurried after him, favoring his wounded leg. "This is going to end badly," he muttered.

  Himeko sighed and continued helping Mr. Mark, but her reddish-gold eyes tracked her friends' movement across the square. "Yes," she agreed quietly. "It is."

  Daxton and his gang had gathered around the fountain, laughing about their morning's work. They looked up with predatory interest as Osaze approached—here was someone who clearly didn't understand how things worked in this village.

  The contrast was stark: Daxton stood tall and unmarked, his imposing presence confident, surrounded by his four older followers, while Osaze stood before them battered and bloodied from their forest battle, but with fire burning in his dark eyes.

  "Well, well," Daxton drawled, taking in Osaze's disheveled appearance and the dried blood on his knuckles. "Looks like someone's been fighting already today. Save some for the rest of us?"

  "Just cleaning up some of the village's problems," Osaze replied, his voice deceptively calm despite the exhaustion weighing on his shoulders. "Speaking of which, I think you've done enough damage for one day."

  Daxton's eyebrows rose in mock surprise. "Excuse me?"

  "You heard me." Osaze stepped closer, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was outnumbered five to one. "Mr. Mark never did anything to you. None of these people did. You had no right—"

  “Rights?” Daxton laughed, and his gang joined in. “Let me explain something about rights, to you, Osaze, you pompous self-righteous nuisance. My father is the chief of this village. That makes me the future chief. These people”—he gestured dismissively at the damaged marketplace—“exist at our sufferance. If they can’t show proper respect, then clearly they need a reminder of their place."

  Zen caught up and stopped at Osaze’s shoulder, his hand resting on his sword hilt. His gaze fixed with clarity. “There’s a difference between respect and fear,” he said evenly.

  “Yes, there is,” Daxton’s smile was sharp as broken glass. “And I’ve found fear to be much more reliable.”

  He signaled his gang with a casual gesture, and they began to spread out in a loose circle, practiced from countless confrontations.

  As they moved, Daxton's sharp eyes took in the details his initial arrogance had missed: the way Osaze favored his left side, the tear in Zen's pants where blood had dried, the exhaustion that made both boys move just a fraction slower than they should.

  "Last chance to walk away," Daxton said, though his tone suggested he was hoping they wouldn't take the offer. "I'd hate for you to get hurt over some old merchant's feelings. You both look like you’ve already had quite a day."

  Osaze rolled his shoulders. "You know what? I think I'd hate that too."

  Then the brawl erupted.

  Osaze threw the first punch, his fist connecting with Vince’s jaw, but the blow lacked his usual explosive force. Vince staggered but recovered quickly, lunging forward to grapple with him.

  "Zen," Osaze grunted as he broke free and dodged another attacker, "remind me why we thought the boar was dangerous?"

  "Because," Zen replied, drawing his training sword to parry a clumsy swing from Laati’s metal club, "the boar was actually trying to kill us."

  Both friends demonstrated why they’d defeated the boar. Osaze moved through his opponents with mechanical precision. Kevin went down clutching a broken nose after taking several solid hits from Osaze, who then drove a knee into his stomach, doubling him over. Kevin landed a punch to Osaze’s already-bruised ribs before collapsing.

  Zen fought more defensively, using his sword's reach to keep multiple attackers at bay while conserving energy. When Rink rushed him with a knife, Zen's blade swept the weapon aside before the pommel of his sword caught Rink’s shoulder, sending him stumbling backward.

  As Osaze knocked down Vince with a final uppercut, he turned his attention to Daxton, charging forward with whatever energy he had left.

  "Now it's just you and me!" Osaze called out, throwing a tired but determined punch.

  But Daxton had been watching, studying his opponents’ weaknesses and limitations. He moved with predatory confidence, easily sidestepping Osaze’s sluggish attack.

  "Is that really the best you can do?" Daxton taunted, his fist catching Osaze across the cheek in a clean combination that the haggard boy never saw coming. "How pathetic."

  Osaze staggered, his guard dropping as Daxton pounced ruthlessly. A hook to the ribs. An uppercut that rocked Osaze's head back. A final cross that sent him crashing to the cobblestones, his vision swimming with stars.

  "You’re a disappointment," Daxton said in a condescending tone as he stood over his fallen opponent, not even having drawn his sword. "At least you tried, though. That's more than most people manage."

  Behind them, Zen had just finished dealing with the last of the gang members, Laati now groaning on the ground alongside Vince and Kevin, while Rink backed away defeated. Seeing Osaze down, Zen charged toward Daxton with his sword raised.

  Daxton's hand moved to his blade, his eyes gleaming with anticipation as he began to unsheath his sword. "At least your friend might be worth my time," he said, steel beginning to sing as it cleared the scabbard.

  "This is my fight!" Osaze shouted from the ground, struggling to push himself up. "Stay back, Zen!"

  But before the confrontation could escalate further, the sound of approaching boots echoed across the square. Half a dozen village guards rounded the corner at a dead run, taking in the scene quickly: Daxton standing over a bloodied opponent, his gang scattered across the cobblestones, and two young troublemakers clearly responsible for the chaos.

  "Stand down!" the guard captain barked. "Lower your weapons immediately!"

  Instead of moving to arrest Daxton—the obvious instigator of the morning's trouble—the guards surrounded Osaze and Zen with drawn swords.

  "These two were disturbing the peace," Daxton said smoothly. "They attacked my friends and threatened me with weapons. I was merely defending myself."

  Osaze struggled to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth. "Are you serious? You destroyed half the market! You beat up defenseless merchants!"

  “So what? They got what they deserved. But you? I was having a perfectly pleasant morning with my friends when you two attacked us without provocation,” Daxton said dismissively.

  The guard captain looked uncomfortable, but his loyalty to the chief's family was absolute. "Put down your sword, boy. You're under arrest for disturbing the peace."

  “There’s no need for that, they’re just insignificant bugs who don’t know any better,” Daxton said, casually dismissing them as he brushed dust from his clothes, as if the entire confrontation had been beneath his notice.

  Zen lowered his blade, his reluctance plain, as the guards maintained their protective circle around Daxton. Around them, the crowd stirred uneasily. Everyone had seen what really happened, but no one was willing to speak up against the chief's son.

  "This is ridiculous," Osaze muttered, accepting Zen's steadying hand. His ribs ached, and his vision still swam slightly, but at least they weren't being dragged away in chains.

  The guard captain's expression was uncomfortable but firm. "I suggest you boys head home and stay out of trouble. Consider this a warning."

  As the guards began to disperse, Osaze straightened up despite the pain and called out, "This isn't over, Daxton."

  Daxton paused and looked back with a cold, scoffing laugh. "Really? Maybe next time I’ll have you grovel properly." Then he turned and swaggered away with his remaining followers.

  Osaze and Zen made their way slowly back across the marketplace, both limping slightly from their injuries.

  The marketplace slowly returned to some semblance of normal activity as the immediate drama ended. Merchants emerged from hiding to assess the damage to their stalls, while others helped their colleagues salvage what they could from the wreckage. The mood was subdued, angry, but ultimately resigned. This was far from the first time Daxton had caused trouble, and it wouldn't be the last.

  Himeko knelt beside an elderly woman whose vegetable cart had been overturned, helping her gather the produce.

  "I'm so sorry about this," she said, placing the salvaged vegetables back into the wooden crate.

  "Not your fault, dear," the woman replied with a tired smile. "These things happen when young men get their blood up."

  From the shadows, a figure watched the young woman with brown hair.

  The weathered man who had arrived with the merchant caravan that morning, though he’d shown no interest in their trade goods or business when the fight broke out, stood apart from the others. Like everyone else, he stepped back to avoid the violence, but unlike them, his attention wasn’t on the brawling men or even the dramatic scene that followed.

  His eyes had found Himeko immediately.

  Himeko moved efficiently and silently as she helped the elderly vendor, her brown hair catching the afternoon light. To anyone else, she was simply another villager lending a helping hand. But the weathered man's gaze remained fixed on her.

  Slowly, careful not to draw attention, he reached into his coat and withdrew a small, worn photograph. The edges were frayed from years of handling, the image faded but still clear enough. A younger face smiled back at him—the same delicate features, the same eyes, though these held an innocence that the girl in the square no longer possessed.

  The weathered man's lips curved into something that might have been a smile, though there was no warmth in it.

  "Found you" he whispered, his voice barely audible above the ambient noise of the settling crowd.