The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of Miager Manor's main hall, casting shadows across dark wood paneling. Roasted pheasant and wine scented the air. Above Janson's head, King Adrian III Solaris gazed down from his gilded frame—close enough to invoke, too far to interfere.

  Mikel Luckard slammed his fist on the table with a grin. “Haha! Absolutely not, Janson! Us over at Fathbelle will be celebrating Semlong in the comfort of our village!”

  Glory Small leaned forward, her slight frame tensing beneath her flowery dress. "What is the meaning of this proposal? Is this really just about the festival, or is it a declaration of intent?"

  Barbara Paintly’s voice rose sharply, her jaw tightening. “You Miagers—a bunch of presumptuous bast—”

  "I can see you're all heated." Janson cut her off. "Let's calm down for a second. Tell me, my fellow chiefs—" His hands formed fists on the table. "—have you never wished to grasp control of your destiny with your own two hands?"

  The tapestries rustled as a servant moved behind them, adjusting a lamp against the failing light. The smell of lamp oil mixed with roasted meat and wine.

  Glory's expression softened . "Of course. Who doesn't wish for that?"

  “No, no, no—stop this!” Barbara jabbed a finger across the table. “I won’t let you slime your way into convincing us! This is what he does—rosey words that blind your eyes!”

  “Barbara.” Janson’s voice cut low and sharp through her panic.

  Glory shifted uncomfortably. “I was just agreeing with what he said, not the proposal itself—”

  “That’s how it starts!” Barbara’s voice cracked with desperation.

  “Answer this, Barbara: alone, what are you? What is your house, hmm Barbara? What is Fathbelle to the crown, Mikel? What voice does Briarford have in regional affairs, Glory?” Janson let his gaze sweep across each of them in turn, holding eye contact long enough to make them uncomfortable. He paused. “What are we all?”

  Barbara’s knuckles went white around her wine glass. Glory averted her eyes. Mikel sat back in his chair.

  "Insignificant." Janson let the word hang. "Insignificant lower-class houses in some random district of Astralyn. No voice. No control. No power to change our own fates."

  The silence stretched.

  "Do not be blinded by mistrust," Janson pressed. "Stop asking what I will gain. Ask what we can gain!"

  Barbara remained speechless, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. Sweat beaded at her hairline.

  Hahaha! Excellent, Janson! Go on! Something quickened in Mikel’s chest. Here, let me spice things up.

  He pivoted to Venile almost sheepishly. "Goodman Venile, what are your thoughts on this matter?"

  Why would you do that, Mikel? Janson's jaw tightened. Pull in the only variable I haven't accounted for.

  Barbara sparked back to life. "Yes! Goodman Venile! The Martors are the leaders of this district! This proposal—no, the Miagers! They are challenging your authority!"

  Venile Martor remained still at the table’s far end, his weathered hands flat against the wood. You think I don't know this? For you to do this right in my face Janson—is it Sir Stirling that gives you this confidence? How, why did a legend have to go to bed with this drunken bastard?

  A smile formed on Venile’s face—measured, the expression sitting there like a mask only partially secured. "You exaggerate, Barbara. It is just a festival. If you all wish to celebrate it together, go ahead. Or do you think me so unethical as to even try and stop your celebration of our beautiful nation?"

  Janson kept his expression neutral. Sagan, you gift that keeps giving. Even in your absence, you've muzzled this shrewd man.

  Before Barbara could rally for another objection, Janson pounced on the opening Venile had provided. "Yes, Barbara, the Goodman is an upright man. Why would he have a problem with our plans?" He leaned forward. "After all, the Martors have led this district for generations and have never once proposed such a festive gathering. This is for the small people like us—they have their sights set on bigger things! Isn't that right, Goodman Venile?"

  Venile's jaw tightened.

  "Bigger things?" Venile's tone gave nothing away. "We've simply never wanted to pressure you all into doing something just for our benefit."

  "But Goodman," Glory interjected, her soft voice cutting through with surprising sharpness, "it wouldn't have had to be just for your benefit, right?"

  Barbara’s head whipped toward Glory. Whatever she’d been preparing died somewhere before her lips.

  “Exactly, Glory! We would all benefit! I mean—” The words tumbling out in their rehearsed order. “Haven’t we all seen it? Threebridge started as scattered villages—now it's a cornerstone of trade in our Pearl region. Millwheel was literally nothing until five houses pooled their resources. Now they send representatives to the regional council." Janson gestured broadly, his momentum building. "A handful of villages become thriving towns. A cluster of towns becomes a cornerstone city."

  He paused, scanning their faces. "And Astralyn itself? Seven tribes who were at each other's throats. Seven. Now look at us." He leaned forward. "What has always been the key to their success?"

  “Cooperation!” Glory leaned in with the answer.

  Barbara's fingers dug into the leather arms of her chair. "And what if we are to do this joint festival?!" Her voice rose, each word sharp as broken glass. "If our four villages are to join hands, who is it that will lead us?! Where will we be celebrating Semlong?! Here in Okorodu?!" She was nearly shouting now, her composure completely shattered. Veins stood at her temples. "What gives you the right?! Your village isn't even as big as ours!"

  Every lamp in the hall flickered at once. Janson and Barbara locked eyes across the table. Somewhere in the manor, a door closed. Water dripped from the courtyard fountain.

  Mikel's voice cut through the tension. "Barbara, Barbara—how did you get your position as head of the Paintly house? Chief of Lamber Village?"

  Her gaze snapped to him. “I inherited it. You know this! Where are you going with this?”

  "It's the same for me and Glory," Mikel continued, his tone conversational but his eyes sharp. "Out of all of us, Janson and his brother are the only ones who've risen from nothing. Local trader to village chief and head of house." He spread his hands wide. "Who better to illuminate the path forward than the one most accustomed to the fight?"

  Oh Mikel, it’s always nice to have a greedy man in the room. But why support me to lead? A problem for later.

  Glory said, “While I agree that Janson should lead, since all this was his idea, do not be mistaken. If this festival doesn’t go well, you can expect the Smalls to take no part in this assembly of yours.”

  Janson replied, “I expect nothing less, Glory.”

  "Now Barbara." Janson's voice softened, became almost kind. Almost. "It seems you're the only one left undecided. Are you in or out? You decide the future of the Paintly House."

  Silence. Barbara's chest heaved. Sweat ran down her temples. Her eyes darted from face to face, finding no support.

  Barbara’s shoulders sagged. She slumped back into her chair, the leather creaking under the shift. "Argh!" The sound was half growl, half sob. "Fine. Fine, you scheming bastard." She turned to Glory, gesturing weakly. "See how stressed out he gets me? I told you coming here isn't good for my skin."

  Glory's chuckle was genuine, the sound breaking the last remnants of tension. "You jest."

  "Haha!" Janson clapped his hands twice. "Now that that's settled—time for a feast!"

  The doors at the hall's far end burst open. Platters of roasted meats, glazed vegetables, and fresh bread steaming from the ovens swept in, followed by desserts sparkling with crystallized sugar.

  "Amazing!" Mikel's eyes lit up as he surveyed the spread. His stomach rumbled audibly, drawing laughs from around the table.

  Venile remained still, his face unreadable.

  Dishes found their places around the table. Rosemary and thyme mingled with roasted garlic and caramelized onions. Wine bottles clinked as they were opened, splashing into crystal glasses.

  Conversation rose with the wine. Laughter echoed off the walls as courses came and went, plates cleared and refilled in a seamless rhythm.

  Warmth spread through Janson’s chest. He hid his smile behind his wine. It was happening. They’d agreed.

  "Let's make a toast!" Janson raised his glass high. "To a successful joint Semlong festival!"

  Mikel lifted his own glass, his eyes fixing on Venile's face. "To a successful partnership."

  The four village chiefs brought their glasses together with a chime of crystal on crystal. Wine sloshed slightly, catching the light. Barbara's hand shook as she drank, but she drank nonetheless.

  Venile merely sipped his wine.

  Long after the sun had gone down and the world had gone to sleep, the bandit hideout reeked of blood and failure. Men lay strewn across the dirt floor, the stillness of them wrong in a way that took a moment to place. Moonlight filtered through gaps in the ramshackle structure, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow. The smell was overwhelming—copper and shit and fear-sweat mixing into something that would linger in fabric and memory.

  Sagan stood in the middle of the carnage, his hand wrapped around the last survivor's throat. The bandit's feet kicked weakly at the air, finding no purchase, his fingernails clawing uselessly at Sagan's iron grip. Blood bubbled at the corner of the man's mouth, running down his chin in dark rivulets.

  "I know you know something," Sagan said, not raising his voice. "Tell me what happened to half of the bandit groups in this district. Where did they all go?"

  The pressure on the bandit's windpipe eased just enough to allow speech. He gasped, sucking in air with a wet, rattling sound. His words came out choked, desperate. "I'm not sure where, but I did hear that they gathered and left with Wilco to go live their lives as mercenaries. Word is they joined the Laden Sword Guild—they're known for their openness to us outlaws!"

  "And who is this Wilco?" Sagan's fingers tightened fractionally.

  "Wilco is—was—the leader of the largest and most notorious bandit group in the Eon Province. The Mercy Thieves." He wheezed. "That's all I know! I've never even heard the name Landon in my life! I swear it!"

  Sagan studied the man's face. His pupils were blown wide, pulse hammering at his temple. "Fine. Thank you for your help. A pity it doesn't undo your transgressions."

  The crack of the bandit's neck breaking echoed through the hideout. Sagan released his grip, letting the body crumple to the dirt. He stood for a moment looking down at the corpse. Then he stepped over it.

  "Well, that's a bust." He turned to where Ragnar waited in the shadows, the massive bear's bulk barely contained by the hideout's remains. "Looks like Landon has nothing to do with the bandits after all."

  But this Wilco consolidating all the bandit groups just to go serve in the Laden Sword? Ragnar's voice rumbled through his mind. Not something the leader of a notorious group would do. Did they somehow get word of our hunt?

  Sagan stepped over a body, his boots squelching in pooled blood. The night air that filtered through the broken walls smelled cleaner than the charnel house interior, carrying hints of pine and distant rain. "A leak at Reldo town? It's not impossible. The Laden Sword... They're a mercenary guild based in Yermo City, right?"

  Yes. Want to go check them out?

  "No, no, there's no need—at least not right now." Sagan moved toward the exit, his footsteps barely audible despite the bodies and debris. "We've essentially quashed all bandit activity in our district. Since they say they're turning a new leaf, let's give them the benefit of the doubt."

  But no mercy if they act up again?

  "Well, they've stolen all the mercy." The corner of Sagan's mouth pulled once. "So where would I find it?"

  He swung onto Ragnar's back, settling into his familiar position. The bear's fur was warm beneath him, each breath shifting Sagan subtly with its depth.

  We still don't know anything about this Landon, or the ambush lookout that got away. Ragnar's voice came through flat.

  "I still have a bad feeling about all this." His hand came to rest on Ragnar's shoulder. "Well. Job's done here. Time to head home."

  Someone's eager to see their kid.

  "If you know, then move." Despite the levity in his words, Sagan's eyes remained hard as he scanned the darkness. "Come on, full throttle. Let's get out of here."

  A loud boom broke the air, more felt than heard—a shockwave of displaced air. Then they were gone, treeline and road dissolving into darkness at their backs. Behind them, the bandit hideout stood silent except for the buzzing of flies already beginning their feast.

  Morning sun lit Miager Manor's front entrance, the stone facade gleaming. The scent of horses and leather mixed with lingering traces of yesterday's feast—roasted meat, wine, expensive perfume.

  Janson stood at the top of the manor's steps, Carson beside him, watching their guests prepare to depart. Behind them, Daxton and Vince maintained respectful positions, shadows under their eyes from a night entertaining the nobles' children.

  Glory Small's carriage stood ready first, her coachman checking the horses' harnesses. The animals stamped and snorted, eager to move.

  "Well," Glory said, adjusting her gloves, "we'll be seeing you more often now, Janson, as the festival draws closer. Take care—this was a very productive outing."

  "Yes, safe journey to you both." Janson smiled warmly as he nodded to Glory and Barbara.

  But Barbara's mood had soured overnight. Her jaw was set, lips pressed thin. She hissed at Janson, then turned to her carriage. As she climbed in, she called out to her son, "Harvo, come on. Don't waste my time. Let's get out of this pigsty!"

  Harvo turned to Daxton as he left, smirking. "Catch you later, little piglet."

  Daxton chuckled. Carson stepped into Harvo's path, his frame filling the space between the boy and his carriage.

  "I'm sorry," Carson's voice was silk over steel. "Could you repeat what you just said to the young master, Mr. Harvo?"

  Harvo jerked back, his smirk dissolving. He stumbled, nearly losing his footing. "Oh, nothing, nothing." The words came out ahead of his composure.

  Barbara's voice cut through the moment like a whip crack. "Get out of his way, Carson!"

  Carson looked to Janson, who gave the barest nod. He stepped aside. "Remember, Paintlys—no one cares what you say in private. But decorum should be kept in such a setting—"

  "Oh whatever." Barbara cut him off from inside the carriage. "I've heard enough from you Miagers! Let's get moving!"

  Harvo scrambled into the carriage, pulling the door shut behind him. The driver snapped the reins. The horses surged forward, wheels kicking up dust. The carriage shot down the drive at a pace that suggested flight more than departure.

  Glory's carriage followed at a more sedate pace, her driver maintaining proper dignity.

  "I guess it's my turn now." Mikel's jovial voice contrasted with the tension that had just dissipated. "I hope this festival of yours is a success, Janson!"

  “Our festival, Mikel… Rest assured it will be a success.”

  Mikel smirked as he settled into his carriage, the springs groaning under his weight. Hahaha, not if I have anything to say about it. Really think I'll let a peasant lead this coalition? Delusional.

  Jonny waved to Daxton and Vince before getting into the carriage with his father. The vehicle rattled down the drive, leaving trails in the dust that the morning breeze was already beginning to erase.

  Carson whispered to Janson once Mikel’s carriage had pulled away. "That man is not to be trusted."

  "Don't worry, brother. He's a merchant. I know my people well."

  Mikel’s carriage rode off, leaving Venile Martor beside his carriage. His driver held the door, but Venile lingered, looking toward the heart of the village

  Janson approached. "You really won't wait a bit more for Sagan, Goodman?"

  "No." Venile's response was clipped. "It's unfortunate I didn't get to meet him on this trip. Give him my thanks for his help with the bandits—this is the lowest bandit activity has been in the district for years. Truly a remarkable man."

  He climbed into his carriage without a farewell, without even a nod. The door closed with a solid thunk. The carriage pulled away smoothly, Venile’s face already turned toward the window.

  Carson waited until the carriage cleared the manor’s grounds before speaking. “Didn’t we get a report of Sir Stirling’s return last night?”

  “That man must never meet Sagan again until we have solidified our position.” Janson’s words came out harder than he’d intended.

  “I told you, brother.” Carson turned to face him fully, his expression grave. “This game you’re playing with Sir Stirling—drop it before it gets us killed.”

  “Trust me, brother.” Janson met his gaze steadily. “I got us here, and I will lead us to even greater things.”

  Behind them, Vince spoke up, gesturing at the departed carriages. “So what has all this been about, Daxton?”

  A smirk played across Daxton’s features. "The beginning of a better life, Vince. We're moving up."

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  "Oh yeah, I couldn't tell you before, but the boys came around to see you yesterday."

  Daxton's smirk faded slightly. "What did they want?"

  "..." Vince’s gaze dropped to his boots. “They were beaten pretty badly and wanted you to help them out.”

  “This nonsense again.” Daxton’s expression hardened. “Instead of looking for revenge, they should go get stronger. How can my people keep getting beat? So who did it?”

  “…”

  “Vince, who did it?”

  “A girl from the orphanage.”

  Daxton’s face went through rapid changes—confusion, disbelief, then cold fury. “Wait, all seven of them were beaten up by one person, and it was just some orphan?!” His voice rose, attracting the attention of servants who quickly found reasons to be elsewhere. “Pass my words to them for me, Vince. If I ever lay eyes on any of them again, I will skin them alive.”

  Carson nodded, his expression hardening to match his nephew’s rage. “Rightly so, young master. Weak fools like them who can only run to us for help are infections that should be cut off before they contaminate us.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better. Seven against one—pathetic.”

  Vince nodded slowly, his jaw tight. He glanced toward where he knew the gang would be waiting— Those idiots will probably come over now that the last guest has left, I better stop them before they make things worse.

  At the edge of the manor grounds near a low stone wall, the seven gang members sat in a dejected cluster. A day had passed since their humiliation, but their bruises had only deepened to ugly purples and yellows. Kevin paced restlessly while the others leaned against the stone.

  “The last carriage just left,” Kevin said, watching Venile’s vehicle disappear down the road. “We can go in now.”

  “Finally,” Rink muttered, touching his swollen nose gingerly. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Laati pushed himself up from the wall with a grunt. “The Young Chief will set things right.”

  Vince emerged from around the manor’s corner. The gang turned toward him, surprise flickering across their battered faces.

  “Going somewhere?” Vince asked, his expression unreadable.

  “Vince.” Rink straightened. “We were just about to come find the Young Chief now that—”

  “Don’t,” Vince cut him off. He stopped a few paces away, maintaining distance. He held it a beat too long before speaking. “I already told him about yesterday.”

  Kevin's head snapped up. “And? What did he say?”

  Vince’s expression hardened. “He said if he sees any of you again, he will skin–you–alive.”

  Kevin’s face went slack. Rink’s eyes widened. Even Laati, who’d tried to maintain dignity, shrank.

  “What?” Kevin’s voice came out small, disbelieving.

  “Seven against one,” Vince continued, each word deliberate and cutting. “Why even comeback here after yesterday? Was it not obvious you are no longer welcome here.”

  "But we—" one of the others started.

  "You lost," Vince said flatly. "To one girl. Do you understand what that means? What that says to us?" His voice hardened. “The Young Chief wants nothing to do with failures. And neither do I.”

  He turned to leave, then paused. “Don’t come back. Not tomorrow. Not ever. You’re not one of us.”

  As Vince's footsteps faded back toward the manor, the seven sat in stunned silence. The afternoon sun painted everything in amber and gold.

  Kevin's hands clenched into fists, his whole body trembling. "That bitch. This is all because of her."

  "I won't rest until I have that girl begging for mercy," Rink said.

  "Shut up." Laati's voice cut through the fantasy. "We can't beat her. We all know it."

  Rink's head snapped toward him. "Then what do you want us to do?"

  Laati's jaw worked, his eyes distant. "The orphanage will be empty during the festival, right? Everyone celebrating?"

  Kevin's eyes narrowed. "Yeah. Even them."

  "Then we burn it down."

  Silence. Rink stared at him. "What?"

  "Their home. The orphanage." Laati's voice was flat, final. "We can't touch her. But we can take everything from her."

  A slow grin spread across Kevin's face. Then Rink's. One by one, the others caught on.

  Across the village, the orphanage courtyard echoed with children’s laughter. Tom cupped his hands over his eyes, counting loudly against the courtyard wall. “Eight… nine… ten! Ready or not, here I come!”

  Behind a rain barrel, Teo stifled giggles, his small shoulders shaking with barely contained excitement.

  Nearby, Himeko sat on the orphanage steps, her breathing controlled. The morning sun warmed her shoulders through her simple dress. She watched the twins play—Tom’s careful searching and Teo’s poorly hidden delight at his “perfect” hiding spot. For a moment, everything felt normal. Safe.

  “Found you!” Tom’s triumphant shout rang out as he spotted Teo’s shoe.

  “Aw!” Teo emerged from behind the barrel, pouting. “How do you always find me?”

  “Because you always giggle!” Tom said, already running to take his turn hiding. “Now I hide, you seek!”

  Teo covered his eyes and began counting, his numbers coming out in an enthusiastic jumble. “One-two-three-four-five…”

  Himeko’s gaze drifted from the twins. How could I not help when they were bullying these cuties? They’re my little brothers… She shook her head. No. I did the right thing.

  Then she slumped, her shoulders curling inward. Then why do I feel so awful? Zen, Osaze, Teo, Tom, everyone… I hope this mistake hasn’t cost me everything.

  Then Hanni’s voice cut through the peace. “Follow me. Now.”

  Himeko looked up, catching Hanni’s expression—tight-lipped, face carved into something between fury and restraint. Cold spread through her chest.

  “But the kids—”

  “They’ll keep playing without you.” Hanni was already walking. “Now come.”

  Himeko followed, each step feeling heavier than the last. They wound through the orphanage’s corridors—past the dormitory, past the dining hall that still smelled of morning porridge, deeper into the building where sound became muffled.

  Hanni pulled her into the corner near the storage rooms. Dust motes danced in a single shaft of light. The air tasted stale, unused.

  “So when were you going to tell me?!” Himeko flinched at the whisper. She looked away, studying the floor’s worn boards. “Tell you what?”

  “Don’t play coy with me!” Hanni’s hand shot out, gripping Himeko’s chin and forcing eye contact. “Did you really think Elle wouldn’t tell me what happened?”

  No, this is it. I can’t let it happen.

  Himeko jerked her chin free. “Fine. I messed up yesterday. I’ve drawn attention to myself! But before you start talking about how we now have to move, we can’t! I’ve finally built a life for myself here after all these years! I won’t leave my friends. I can’t start all over again!”

  Her eyes burned. She grabbed Hanni's sleeve with both hands. “That’s an order, Hanni. I don’t want to lose my friends.”

  Hanni stared at her, silent. Her expression softened. She pulled Himeko close, wrapping her arms around the girl’s trembling shoulders. “Calm down, Himeko. Maybe before, when they were hot on our heels, we would have had to move if any small attention was drawn to us. But we’ve evaded them for three years now. This incident alone won’t change that—just a girl stronger than expected…”

  “Really, Hanni?” Himeko pulled back just enough to see her face, searching for any hint of deception.

  “Just don’t make a habit of it.” Hanni’s expression firmed slightly. “This is why I tell you not to hang out with those boys—always fighting, they’re a bad influence.”

  “Hanni, I’ve told you to stop saying that.” Himeko’s protest was automatic, familiar. “You only say it because you don’t really know them.”

  “Mm-hmm. I know troublemakers when I see them.”

  “Stop it, Hanni.”

  Silence fell between them, but it was a different silence now—comfortable, companionable. They stood facing each other in the dim corner.

  “Are we really not moving because of this?” The question came out smaller than intended. Her fingers twisted in her dress.

  Hanni’s sigh was long and heavy. “Again, really? No. If we move now, we could easily end up somewhere where they have eyes already. How many times has that happened? We’ve been safe here all this time, and even if they do come, better they catch us here than elsewhere.”

  “Because of Mr. Stirling?”

  “Yes.” A soft smile crossed Hanni’s face. “Who better to have around than a man known as the Reaper?”

  She held Himeko close, feeling the girl’s breathing gradually steady, her trembling ease. Hanni’s arms tightened once. Sorry, my dear. We will be leaving right after the festival. I’ll let you have that last memory with everyone.

  Better a broken heart than none at all.

  The next week passed like any other—but the one after was everything but normal. News spread through Okorodu: the festival was just a week away. The joint celebration that Janson had proposed became the only topic of conversation, in every shop and doorway, at every well and corner.

  Seven Days Before Semlong:

  The first decorations went up in the village square. Ribbons in Astralyn's colors—crimson red and gold—wrapped every post and railing, snapping in the breeze. Children ran through the streets with smaller ribbons tied to sticks, trailing streams of color behind them as they played. Hammers rang against wood. Workers hung banners from the taller buildings, securing them against the wind. Laughter echoed off through the streets. The village thrummed with anticipation.

  Six Days Before Semlong:

  "Kids, there's no need to work so hard." Boe wiped sweat from his brow, studying the partially constructed booth. "I can handle this—you go have fun."

  "No, Mr. Boe, you're always working." Zen hammered another support into place, the wood solid beneath his hands. "Take a break for once."

  Osaze grunted under the weight of wooden posts, his muscles straining as he maneuvered them into position. "Yeah, just relax. We want to help out." He set the posts down with a thud that sent dust puffing up from the packed earth.

  "Well, some of us do." Himeko checked measurements with careful precision, her hands steady despite the morning's exertion. "Osaze is only helping because he sees it as extra exercise."

  Osaze's face went crimson. "What?! That's not—"

  They all laughed at his expense. Boe chuckled along with them, his round face creasing with pleasure. The booth's frame was taking shape—sturdy posts supporting crossbeams, space marked out for the cooking area and serving counter.

  The Adeoti-Stirling Pleasantries Booth had become something of a tradition over the years, known for Zora and Iyabo's exceptional cooking. Even after Zora Stirling's passing, both families kept the tradition alive. This year, with the joint festival, they'd need to expand their usual offerings to accommodate the larger crowd.

  Five Days Before Semlong:

  Traders from Lamber, Fathbelle, and Briarford Village arrived in convoys throughout the day. Their wagons groaned with goods—barrels of salted fish, crates of pottery, bolts of fabric dyed in colors rarely seen in Okorodu's modest market. The sound of wheels on cobblestones became a constant rhythm, punctuated by merchants' calls and the stamping of tired horses.

  Janson and Carson stood at the village's main entrance, overseeing booth assignments. Janson's smile was constant, his greetings warm. Carson's eyes cataloged every arrival, every interaction, calculating how each piece fit into their larger strategy.

  "The Fathbelle contingent is larger than expected," Carson murmured. Mikel's merchants were claiming prime real estate in the square.

  "All the better," Janson replied, his voice pitched low beneath the surrounding bustle. "More participants means more visibility. More visibility means more importance. Watch, brother—soon the crown will take notice."

  Four Days Before Semlong:

  The central tent rose in the middle of the village square, its peaked roof catching the afternoon sun, glowing white against the blue sky. Inside, workers constructed a proper stage for performances—sturdy enough to support full theatrical productions, high enough to be seen from the surrounding crowd.

  On one side of the village, melodic choir music drifted through the air. Himeko stood with Hanni and Elle, watching Tom and Teo practice with the children's choir. The boys' voices blended with the others in a song celebrating Astralyn's founding. Their small faces were serious with concentration, trying to remember the words their instructor had drilled into them.

  "They're doing wonderfully," Elle said, her gaze lingering on the boys.

  Hanni smiled faintly, watching them.

  On the other side of the village, actors rehearsed plays depicting King Regulus I's legendary founding of the nation. Their voices rose and fell dramatically, gestures broad and theatrical. Osaze watched from a safe distance, mimicking their movements with exaggerated flair.

  "Behold!" Osaze declared in his best theatrical voice, striking a heroic pose. "I am King Regulus, founder of—"

  “—a kingdom built on terrible acting,” Zen finished, copying the pose and holding it until Osaze cracked—then burst out laughing.

  “Next—” Osaze snorted. “Do the sword part!”

  Zen obliged, drawing an imaginary blade in a grand arc, a crooked smile breaking through as he followed Osaze’s lead.

  Iyabo watched them from nearby, her laughter unrestrained. For a moment, the noise of preparation faded.

  Three Days Before Semlong:

  The Adeoti farmhouse kitchen had become a battlefield of culinary experimentation. Pots bubbled on the stove, their contents filling the air with competing aromas—sweet and savory, spiced and herbed. Flour dusted every surface like fine snow, and the heat from the ovens intensified the already warm dry season afternoon.

  Iyabo moved between stove and counter, adjusting flames and seasoning by instinct. She pointed Osaze toward the cooling racks. "Start plating those." The boy had surprisingly capable hands in the kitchen when properly motivated, though his tendency to "test" the food created its own challenges.

  Around the dining table, Osunde, Sagan, Hanni, Zen, Himeko, Boe, Tom, and Teo gathered as official taste-testers. Plates and bowls covered every inch of available surface—roasted vegetables glazed with honey, savory meat pies, delicate pastries filled with spiced fruit, flatbreads topped with herb-infused oils.

  "Are you sure you aren't just messing things up?" Zen asked, as Osaze set down another tray. "Stop hovering over the pots before you burn your house down."

  "You say this every year," Osaze shot back, gesturing at the tray with exaggerated pride, "yet these hands never fail to make the most delicious dishes!"

  "Nonsense." Zen turned to the twins with mock seriousness. "Hey, Teo and Tom, would you eat this guy's cooking?"

  Both boys' faces lit up. "Big bro Osaze's?"

  "Of course!" Teo said, already reaching for the fresh pastries.

  "Of course not!" Tom shot back, crossing his arms. "Don't worry, Zen. I'm with you."

  Zen smirked. "At least one punk can play along."

  "Not everyone needs to agree with you, Zen." Himeko reached for her own sample. "And just ask Osaze for more—you know you want to."

  Zen turned away with theatrical dignity. "Hmph!" Tom immediately copied the gesture, chin raised in the same exaggerated pride.

  Boe's laughter boomed through the kitchen, his round belly shaking.

  Near the window, Osunde leaned close to Iyabo, his voice pitched low beneath the surrounding chatter. "This is ridiculous, darling. You're really outdoing yourself this year, continuing to take my breath away."

  Iyabo's smile was radiant. "Hehe, look at you."

  In the corner, Sagan leaned against the wall, still as something waiting.

  Hanni watched him from across the room, her own smile fading. Why does he look so worried?

  Two Days Before Semlong:

  The decorations were nearly complete—ribbons straightened, banners adjusted, lanterns tested. More people swarmed into the village as news of the joint festival spread beyond the immediate district. Merchants from neighboring regions arrived hoping to capitalize on the larger crowd. Travelers came simply to witness what people were calling the biggest Semlong celebration the district had seen in years.

  The eastern watchtower at the village outskirts stood silent sentinel over the approaching roads. Sagan sat at its top, Ragnar beside him, both gazing out over the forest that stretched toward the horizon. Stars pressed down over the treeline, the village lights a dim glow at their backs.

  He will be back, Sagan. We both know this. The only question is whether he'll be alone or not.

  "Ragnar, you have his scent, right?"

  Yes.

  "After the festival, we're going to sweep through the Eon Province." Sagan's jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists. That hostility... it won't let me rest. We must find him, Ragnar."

  Ragnar's teeth bared in a silent snarl, lips pulling back from fangs.

  Boots sounded on wooden stairs. Osunde's head appeared at the top of the ladder, then the rest of him as he pulled himself onto the platform. His eyes went immediately to Sagan's tense posture.

  "Sagan, so this is where you were. I've been looking for you."

  "Oh, what for?"

  "No, before that—what's up?" Osunde gestured at the palpable tension radiating from both man and bear. "Want me to ignore the heated atmosphere in here? Something I should know?"

  Sagan scoffed. "It's not like I'm hiding it. I just have a nagging feeling in my gut."

  "From what, Sagan?" Osunde moved closer. "A nagging feeling from you is worth more than most people's certainties. Talk."

  The explanation came in fragments—Landon a month ago, the ambush on their return from Reldo that had been no random attack but a calculated setup, the way Landon's expression had shifted upon recognizing Sagan.

  "You think he's targeting us?" Osunde's voice had gone flat.

  "Us or someone here, and he thinks I'd be in the way." Sagan's eyes never left the forest.

  "'In the way.'" Osunde smiled slightly. "Humble as ever. I can assume you're on it?"

  "Yes. After the festival, want to come along?"

  "I've left that life behind, Sagan."

  "I know, I know." Sagan finally turned from his vigil, meeting his eyes. "So come on, what made you come here?"

  "It's nothing big. With all the festivities, I've just been in a reminiscent mood, and it got me thinking about something..." Osunde paused, choosing words carefully. "You know what happened when you guys first got here. It was nothing personal..."

  "Oh, that?" Sagan's face registered surprise. "Yes, I know. What makes you bring this up now after all these years?"

  "I don't know." Osunde settled beside him at the tower's edge, both men looking out over the forest and the village behind them. The buzz of preparation reached them even here. "I just can't imagine all these years without you guys. I'm so glad you found this place."

  Silence settled between them. Behind them, Okorodu Village reached its peak of preparation as Semlong drew closer. Ahead, the forest stretched to the horizon.

  That same night, somewhere deep in the forests of eastern Eon Province, darkness fell complete. No moon rose to light the landscape. Stars salted the black overhead.

  Commander Raido stood at the center of a military staging area, surrounded by dozens of operatives who waited with the stillness of predators before the strike. The camp smelled of weapon oil and leather. Fires had been doused an hour ago. Now only starlight illuminated the assembled force.

  "Everyone is ready, Commander." Brute stood nearby, waiting.

  Raido nodded once, the gesture barely visible in the darkness.

  Near the edge of the gathering, Sudion danced in place—small, jerking movements he didn't bother to stop. His whisper carried an almost sexual pleasure. "Exciting, exciting."

  Brasin turned to Maiko. "It's finally starting! Maiko, let's have a competition—see who can kill more of those runts, Mr. Assassin!"

  Maiko's face remained impassive, his eyes forward, giving no indication he'd even heard the challenge.

  "Such a killjoy. Forget him, Brasin. I'll take your bet—twenty gold coins that Maiko drops more than you. Hehe."

  "What?—" Brasin started.

  "Can't even bet on yourself, Marsy?" Sage emerged from the shadows, three fresh scars visible across her neck.

  Then all voices fell quiet as Raido exhaled.

  "I see. I see." Raido looked over the assembled operatives. "Commence day one of Operation Eon."

  Brute's shout echoed across the assembly, carrying with it all the weight of their unified purpose. "And all of you remember—leave no man, woman, or child alive! Day 1 is zero tolerance!"

  As one, every operative present performed the Hearts Vow—hands forming claws over their chests. Their voices crashed into a single word: "GLORY!"

  Then they were moving, breaking into groups heading westward. Each team knew its target, had studied the approach. They scattered into the darkness, weapons ready, moving with military precision.

  The first village never knew what hit them.

  Doors exploded inward on families preparing for the festival. Blades found throats. Arrows punched through chests. Screams tore through the dark—high, desperate—then died.. Children. Parents. Grandparents. It didn't matter.

  Village after village fell the same way. Ten settlements across the eastern region, hit simultaneously by coordinated teams moving with ruthless precision. No hesitation. No mercy. No survivors.

  Zero tolerance.

  The smell of blood choked the air. Bodies littered dirt streets. By the time the last screams faded, over a thousand lives had gone dark. The eastern Eon Province had become a graveyard.

  In one village, Raido crouched beside a body, dipped two fingers, and walked to the central hall wall. He began to paint.

  PRO AETERNUM, SINE FAVOR.

  Around him, his operatives replicated the message on every major structure—walls, doors, barns. Everywhere the words appeared in stark crimson, still dripping.

  When the last message was complete, Raido turned to his operatives. "Let's get moving. Day 2 awaits."

  The operatives dispersed into darkness, leaving behind them lanterns guttering out and doors swinging open on broken hinges.

  Two days remained until the Semlong Festival. Two days until Okorodu Village.

  Two days until Operation Eon reached the special target.

  Do you have a favourite character so far?