In the early afternoon, Jack, Zia, and their mom went walking together. They wandered down cobbled lanes shaded by flowering trees. Baby Richard, strapped to their mother’s chest in a woollen wrap, babbled nonsense while Zia held Jack’s hand.

  At first, Jack was worried about running into the adventurers Linda and Sam. But they’d said they were going to go into hiding, so he thought there was little risk of running into them.

  “Richard likes you,” their mom said, glancing at Zia.

  “I like him too,” Zia replied, her face flushing a light pink. “He makes funny faces and smells nice… most of the time.”

  They all laughed.

  Jack leaned over and blew a raspberry at Richard, who squealed with laughter.

  They passed a street vendor selling caramelised nuts. Jack bought a large cone and crouched beside Zia, offering her the first pick. “These are magic,” he said. “Try one.”

  She picked a glossy almond and took a bite from it. “Mm! It crackles… and it’s sweet and smoky.”

  Their mom told them stories from her days at the Marquis Banquet, how nobles insisted on food shaped like flowers, and how one Viscount thought butter was a kind of imported cheese. “He offered me a hundred silver to make him a butter-steak,” she added with a grin.

  Jack snorted. “Did you?”

  “Of course not. I served him mashed potatoes and told him it was rustic mousse. He cried at the taste.” Anna chuckled at the memory.

  Zia looked confused. “What’s a… rusty muse?”

  “Rustic mousse,” Anna corrected, “is what you call mashed potatoes when you’re lying to a Viscount.” She smiled. “We’ll make some meringues later, then you’ll understand what mousse means.”

  As they walked through the market, Anna stopped at various stalls, picking out herbs and spices, a few small trinkets, and a length of cloth that had caught her eye.

  Jack and Zia had just browsed a stand with art supplies. He’d bought the little girl a drawing pad and a bundle of coloured pencils. She held the new treasures tight to her chest, smiling like she’d won a prize.

  Then, as they passed a merchant selling weapons, Jack felt her hand grip his like a vice. A very weak vice, given she was only eight. He glanced down to find her staring, stricken, at the merchant’s stock. The half?eaten caramelised nut dropped from her hand, forgotten. “Zia?” he asked, crouching down beside her. “Are you alright?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she pointed a shaking finger towards the weapons on display. “Th-that’s Daddy’s,” she whispered, her voice almost too faint to hear.

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  Jack followed where she was pointing. There were multiple weapons for sale: a spear, a large sword, and a pair of daggers. But one stood out, a long blade leaning in a barrel, its surface spotted with rust. A frayed blue ribbon was tied just below the hilt. He glanced at the blue ribbon in Zia’s hair.

  Then she buried her face in Jack’s shoulder and began to sob. “That’s my d-daddy’s. That’s my daddy’s sword…”

  Jack pulled her close, cradling her as she shook. He pressed his hand to the back of her head, brushing his fingers through her hair to comfort her.

  Anna arrived, a bag of fresh herbs and cooking supplies hanging from one hand. She stopped, brow furrowing. “What happened?”

  Jack met her gaze, his voice low. “Zia said something here…” he nodded towards the weapons. “was her dad’s.”

  Anna knelt down, brushing a hand over Zia’s back. “Are you alright, sweetie?”

  Zia didn’t speak. She only shook harder, pressing herself closer to Jack.

  Jack scooped her up, rising to his feet. The little girl wrapped herself around him, burying her nose in the crook of his neck as the rest of the world blurred away. “It’s alright,” he said, voice wavering despite himself. “I’ve got you. We’ve got you.” He looked to his mom for help.

  Anna pulled out a handkerchief and wiped Zia’s damp cheeks. “We’re here for you, love.” She pressed her forehead to Zia’s as the baby gurgled from the sling on her chest and waved tiny hands towards the little girl’s face.

  Zia stopped crying for a moment, blinking down at the tiny hand brushing her skin, and gripped it as if it were a lifeline. For a few moments, they stayed like that. Other shoppers passed by, brushing past the quiet scene, too wrapped up in their own business to notice the heartbreak in that tiny circle.

  Then Zia spoke, voice shaking. “Th-that’s Daddy’s sword.” She pointed towards the weapons again.

  Jack looked at the blade resting in the barrel. It was long, the handle and scabbard looked well-made, but the guard was spotted with rust and scuffed from use. A blood-stained, faded blue ribbon was tied around the hilt. He felt a lump rise in his throat as he glanced at the matching ribbon in Zia’s hair. Her mom and dad are dead. He remembered his own grief when he lost his family.

  He realised someone must have found Zia’s father’s sword and sold it here in Lundun. It wasn’t an uncommon story. A caravan raided by goblins or bandits, a fallen warrior stripped of weapons and gear, another passing group salvaging what remained. Just another day in the Kingdom of Merciar.

  Jack drew a breath and waved towards the weapon. “How much for the sword?” he called to the merchant.

  Zia tightened her grip around him as she watched.

  “That’s a fine blade, young man. 1 gold and 25 silver,” the merchant replied with a glint in his eyes.

  It was far more than it was worth, but Jack didn’t hesitate or haggle. He nodded. “I’ll take it.” Fumbling one-handed in his coin purse, he counted out the coin and handed it over.

  The merchant smiled and passed him the blade.

  Anna watched her son with a faint frown but said nothing.

  Jack adjusted Zia in his arms and showed her the weapon. “It’s alright,” he said. “I’ve got your daddy’s sword. It’s yours now.”

  Through fresh tears, Zia smiled and pressed herself closer to him, brushing a tiny hand down the rust-spotted ribbon.

  “Where did the sword come from?” Jack asked the merchant.

  The man shrugged. “A young fellow, not much older than you, sold it to me as part of a batch a few days ago.”

  Jack nodded.

  “We’ll head home early,” Anna said.

  Jack tightened his grip around Zia as he started towards their home, the weight of the sword resting in one hand and the weight of the moment resting in his heart. Poor kid.

  Zia pressed her head to Jack’s chest as he carried her home, while whispering words of comfort too faint for the bustling market to hear.