After making sure everything was paid for in the shop, Sil and Yig stepped outside to see if they could do anything to calm the gathering crowd. It seemed on the brink of turning violent, but the tight circle of onlookers made it nearly impossible to tell what the argument was about—or how it had started.

  As Sil tried to get a better view of the confrontation, she realized a town guard—or perhaps a tall child who’d stolen a set of armor—was standing beside her in a dark blue suit, speaking in a hushed tone, asking the men to step back and let him handle it.

  Using her enhanced strength, Sil began pulling people aside, tossing them out of her way as she forced her way into the crowd. One man she touched nearly stumbled, then stormed up behind her, shouting about his connection to the situation. Before he could lay a hand on her, Yig caught his arm and twisted it until the man dropped to his knees.

  Now in the center of the mob, Sil could finally see the fight itself: two men locked in a sloppy, undignified wrestle. She conjured some parchment and bound them both by the wrists, making it far easier to drag them toward the timid guard. She said nothing—just nodded to the officer and handed them over.

  “Thank you very much, ma’am,” the guard said.

  “It’s no problem, really,” Sil replied.

  Still trapped in Yig’s grip, the man shouted something about his brother being innocent and demanded he be released. Yig held firm, clearly wary of what could happen if he didn’t.

  “What’s your name?” the guard asked. Sil answered gladly.

  “Shouldn’t you have a partner while on duty?” she asked.

  The guard gave a weak grin, clearly uncomfortable. “He went to grab a snack across town.”

  “Sounds like an excuse to me!” a deep voice boomed. All heads turned to the source.

  The figure stood just under six and a half feet—not the tallest, but his posture made him imposing. He wore silver armor like the other guards, with a dark blue uniform beneath and a golden crescent emblem on the right side of his chest.

  “Scatter,” he commanded, and the crowd obeyed—everyone except Sil, Yig, the guard, and the restrained men.

  Sil had no shortage of opinions to fire off, but considering they’d arrived in Moonset only minutes ago, it wasn’t the best time to share them.

  “Sorry, Captain,” the guard said quickly, handing over the detainees.

  Any resistance from the troublemakers vanished in the presence of this man. The captain’s stern face looked carved from stone—unchanging and unrevealing. A heavy brow sat over eyes that gleamed a deep, almost crimson brown depending on the light. His slicked-back black hair framed a clean-shaven face, blemished only by small scars—one below his eye, another running vertically along his jaw.

  With a sigh, he pulled a length of rope from his belt and bound the men together at the wrists.

  “Really, Captain, I—”

  “Leave it, Joe. Just remember this.” The tone was sharp—verging on hateful. But true hatred wouldn’t look at the young man like that. If you looked closely, as Sil did, there was no hatred—only disappointment.

  “Were you watching the whole time?” Sil snapped. “Why didn’t you help?” She realized her mistake immediately, but stood her ground.

  The captain stared at her for a long second before answering with a grimace. “You complain that I trust my men?” With that, he turned and walked away, not waiting for a reply.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Go find Fringe and get back to your duties,” he barked at the guard before vanishing into the crowd, presumably to sort out the detainees at whatever station Moonset had.

  The guard—short by normal standards and certainly by his captain’s—ran a hand through his blond hair in frustration. He turned to Sil, his freckled face soft and apologetic.

  “Thanks again. I have to go, but if you need anything while you're here, don’t hesitate to ask a favor of me.”

  “Actually, could you point us to an inn?”

  “Of course,” Joe replied, pointing behind him. “Follow this street, then take two lefts. The Sad Paladin—you can’t miss it.”

  And just like that, the street scuffle was over. Joe hurried off to find his partner, and the townsfolk resumed their business—manning stalls, browsing shops, their festive spirit restored. It was as if the pink ornaments themselves had come back to life.

  “That uniform,” Yig murmured, thoughtful. “I’ve seen it before. They came to Chestnut.”

  “What?!” Sil blurted. “The guards? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “It wasn’t them specifically,” Yig clarified. “But it was the same uniform.”

  “You’re talking about the ones that attacked you, right?”

  Spartan yawned and hopped up into Yig’s arms, wriggling until she was comfortable.

  “Well, that happened a couple of times in one week. But they were the first—two of them, dressed just like that. But hey, what can you do?” Yig wandered off, clearly less concerned by their appearance than Sil was.

  “Don’t you think we should do something?” Sil pleaded.

  “Why? They didn’t attack us,” Yig said, gesturing toward the guards they’d just met. “I’m not going after someone just for how they dress.”

  Sil rolled her eyes. “Fine. Let’s just go take a nap, then.”

  “I’m good.”

  “What? I thought you were tired.”

  “Yeah, but that bandit attack kind of woke me up.”

  “That won’t last long.”

  “Eh, I wanna visit some places around town. But you go ahead and nap.”

  “If you say so. Just be back at the inn by dusk. We’ll check in then.”

  “Got it.”

  With that, the two walked down the street, backs turned to one another, curious about what they’d discover amid the vibrant celebrations.

  ◇─◇──◇─◇

  Spartan woke a little later, while Yig was still walking. She leapt to the ground, eager to stretch her legs. So that’s what they did. Yig led his companion through the streets of Moonset, past rows of food stalls with vendors pushing their wares into the faces of passersby. A few buildings sat at the base of a staircase carved into the hillside, connected by a stone arch etched with animal caricatures—some of which Yig recognized.

  From ground level, the path to the temple looked far longer and steeper than it had from atop the valley. With Spartan bounding beside him, Yig began the climb.

  After a good few minutes, just as reaching the summit started to feel possible, Yig cursed himself for refusing Sil’s offer of rest. Every bone in his body ached with each step. He hadn’t even thought to drink water at the bottom. Now, near the peak, he would’ve given anything for just a glass—or even a drop.

  The stone steps were worn and chipped along the edges. Statues of varying craftsmanship lined the path, depicting mythical beasts of all kinds. The mountainside itself was mostly bare of grass, save for a few scraggly patches. But before long, it all faded from his mind.

  He looked down—and realized Spartan was gone. Turning back, he spotted her dragging herself up the steps, clearly exhausted. He descended a few steps and scooped her up, tucking her under his arm as they continued.

  The silhouette of the temple, though hazy and rippling, appeared through the fog. It was a sprawl of interconnected rooms and buildings—some tall, some wide—assembled like a labyrinth. Its size had been impressive from the valley and from the base of the stairs, but up close, it was something else entirely.

  Yig choked on a breath and froze, one leg ahead of the other. A shock ran through him, like lightning down his spine. A presence—familiar yet alien—made his thoughts jump to those he’d fought beside in Sharirun. As his eyes locked on the mist, a shadow emerged: a beastlike figure with feline eyes glowing faintly in the fog, its back to the light of the sky.

  Yig’s hand flew to Icarus’s hilt just as the figure leapt forward, revealing a human body cloaked in swirling mist—a young man with rough skin, snowy white hair, and a loose-fitting, pale blue outfit of sleeveless shirt and leggings. On instinct, Yig unsheathed his sword. The clash of mana-empowered foot and blade dispersed a pocket of fog, revealing their battlefield on the mountain.

  The stranger unleashed a flurry of precise punches, forcing Yig down several steps. Behind him, Spartan tumbled back as well.

  The man charged, his fist cocked for a finishing blow. Their eyes met, and all Yig saw was raw, beastly intent. Balancing on the slope, Yig slipped upright just in time to block the strike with the flat of his blade.

  The attacker recoiled, his stance loosening.

  “You’re no master,” the man said.

  “Not at all.”

  The man raised an eyebrow. “I suppose I owe you an apology. I thought you were someone else.”

  Yig sheathed Icarus, and Spartan, panting, scrambled back to his side. Skipping pleasantries, he got to the point. “That’s fine. I’m here to see Master Silver. Can I?”

  “Ahh,” the white-haired man replied, his aura finally relaxing. “No.”

  And with that, he turned and walked back into the temple.