Among grasslands torn by the force of battle, dirt scattered like the debris left behind by a violent storm, Yig lay on his back—so exhausted he couldn’t move. He could feel his aura, warm like his mother’s embrace, slowly working to repair his injuries.

  He looked to his right arm. The bandage was still tight but stained with blood and mud. He saw Blū walking toward him, limping slightly. Blū sat beside him, legs crossed, face weary.

  “At what point do you think determination becomes arrogance?” Blū asked.

  “Doesn’t matter. Other people decide that.”

  “How do you think they see you?”

  “Doesn’t matter all that much. You don’t seem to think much of me, though.”

  Blū remained silent, but his eyes revealed a subtle apprehension.

  “That was a weak punch you threw,” Blū remarked.

  “Like you did any better,” Yig replied with a cheeky grin.

  “Don’t worry, Blond Boy—I’ll show you a real punch.”

  “Well, well,” Silver said, walking up with the others trailing behind. “I don’t know about you two, but that looked like a whole lot of wasted time. I’m not sure who taught you that flailing and screaming count as training, but I must say—I’m not convinced.”

  “He said he wanted to spar,” Blū answered.

  Silver scoffed. “That’d be fine—if it hadn’t lasted an hour.”

  “Sorry, Master—”

  “Why are you apologizing to me? It’s your time you wasted.” Silver turned away and waved a hand. “Let’s get back to training.”

  Blū huffed, then stood and walked off with his master toward the next exercise. Yig lay in the mud, limbs sprawled, trying his hardest to move—but not even a pinky twitched. So he stayed, staring at the sky, waiting for his body to repair itself... waiting... waiting...

  ◇─◇──◇─◇

  “Guard! Guard!”

  Joe turned his head at the shout, spotting a middle-aged woman in a pink dress, waving at him from behind her stall. It was a modest setup—really just a wooden table, or maybe a footrest. Whatever it had once been, the woman had decorated it with all the petals and holly ornaments she could find—almost an overdose of whimsy.

  “What’s wrong, ma’am?” he asked, trying his best to sound gentle. It was hard to sound caring all day, no matter how much he meant it.

  The woman jabbed a thick finger toward the street, where a boy was barely visible among the tall legs around him, munching on candy.

  “He’s been stealing from my stall all holiday. One or two treats—I’d overlook that. But ten or twenty? That’s beyond childhood mischief.”

  “I understand, ma’am. Let me take care of it.”

  Joe made his way through the crowd, asking people to move as politely as he could. Unfortunately, even the kindest among them couldn’t hear him over the noise of a traveling flautist, who had jumped on top of an unmanned stall, playing The One Who Visits the Night King. His legs kicked in rhythm, and a few drummers and guitarists on the ground followed suit.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  With a quick, practiced grab, Joe pulled the boy back by the strap of his dungarees.

  “What’s your problem, mate?!” the kid shouted, in a voice far deeper than expected for his size.

  Joe took the candy from the child’s hands as he carried him back to the stall, returning it to the owner.

  “What do you say?” he asked, giving the boy a gentle pat on the back.

  “I’m sorry for stealing your candy,” the child muttered with the grumble of the recently scolded.

  “I suppose I can take it as a compliment,” the woman sighed. “As long as I don’t catch you doing it again.”

  “Don’t worry—you won’t catch me next time.” A light smack to the head corrected him. “I mean, I won’t do it again.”

  ◇─◇──◇─◇

  Joe sighed, finally taking a bite of his sandwich now that he was on break. He had found a doorstep to sit on and let his body recover after rushing about for the past... four, maybe five hours? Felt close to that.

  “Slow down,” said his partner, Fringe. “You’ll choke at that rate. Why didn’t you just eat some on duty?”

  “That’s not allowed,” Joe replied innocently.

  Fringe was a simple fellow. His hair was always trimmed to the shortest, his uniform wrinkled and unkempt, and he handled his duties whenever he felt like it. He stood beside Joe, leaning against the wall, chewing on a treat he’d bought for himself.

  With one last big bite, Joe finished his lunch. He packed away the container and sprang up to return to duty.

  “Shall we patrol the area?”

  “You can. I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind.”

  Of course he minded, but what was he going to do? Guards arguing never inspired public confidence. So Joe walked off, stepping with authority. Some people moved aside; others didn’t. Just one more thing to watch for as he scanned the crowd for wrongdoing.

  He took out his waterskin and drank—a spoonful at most. Joe rolled his eyes. Now he needed to find a tap, all while keeping watch. As dedicated as he was to spotting injustice, the sheer number of people on the streets made it nearly impossible to catch a crime in progress, even if the victim cried out.

  Turning a corner, he spotted a tap on the side of a house with a well-tended garden. The alley was narrow—more than a tight squeeze with the heavy plates of armor strapped to his chest and back. Still, he managed to fit the waterskin beneath the spout and fill it halfway. He took a quick sip and tucked it away. The taste lingered in his mouth: earthy, slightly bitter.

  As he turned back toward the crowd, he spotted a figure who couldn’t have looked more suspicious if they tried—nicking a pouch from a man’s pocket as they brushed shoulders. No one noticed. Not even the victim. Why would they? There was far too much going on to worry about a potential pickpocket.

  Being hidden in the alley had unintentionally worked in Joe’s favor. What sneaky thief would expect a lounging guard? Pleased with his luck, Joe stepped forward, weaving through the crowd toward the pickpocket—still unnoticed.

  ◇─◇──◇─◇

  The station door burst open as Joe kicked it, dragging the suspect in by the cuffs. The room was brick-walled and painted a dreary white. Tables stood in seemingly random positions, papers and documents scattered across every surface. At the far end sat the Captain of the Moonset Guard, Liria—a broad man with a long grey beard, heavy bags beneath his eyes, and thick, curly hair. He scratched at papers with a quill, wearing a metal pin on his uniform shaped like a yellow flower.

  “Mate, you think you could be a little gentler with it?” the pickpocket barked as Joe pulled him across the room. He was young, with scruffy, unkempt hair and an even rougher attitude. A few bruises and cuts still marked his face—likely from a drunken brawl—and a star-shaped earring dangled from his right ear.

  Liria looked up with the snap-speed of a splintering log.

  “Shut him up, Officer! I’m working here!”

  It was spoken with the rage of someone who’d bottled up weeks of stress—but Joe knew better. Liria had sounded like that for months.

  The station had four cells; two were already occupied when Joe arrived. Built as part of the same building, the walls were identical to the front room’s—except unpainted, leaving the bricks exposed and rough. Moss had worsened since Joe’s last visit, crawling through cracks and corners like it was trying to reclaim the space.

  Joe tried to place the man in the cell gently, but the prisoner stayed combative, and the situation quickly spiraled. Joe was forced to toss him inside and slam the door shut. The moment the lock clicked, the man lunged at the bars, rattling them in rage, knowing full well he couldn’t break out.

  Joe leaned against the wall, catching his breath as the man hurled insults. After a moment, he walked away from the cell. As he passed the next one, the other inmate called out:

  “Sir? Sir!?”