Ayron slowly walked out of the narrow, dirt alleyway. The rough, uneven ground gave way to the smooth, cold surface of the cobblestone street. The architecture of the city was imposing; tall buildings crafted from solid, grey stone loomed on either side, forming a structured perimeter that enclosed a large, central rectangular plaza.

  Observing the townsfolk immediately put the young man on edge. A sudden, sharp realization hit him – he was going to stick out like a sore thumb. His own attire, a simple tattered shirt and plain black pants, was a stark contrast to the lively and varied clothing of the locals. His simple look was going to attract unwanted attention no matter how much he tried to remain inconspicuous.

  He took a moment to truly see the civilian’s clothing. It was clear that the fashion here was refined and consciously styled. Leather wasn't just used for rugged utility; it was incorporated into belts, cuffs, and small bags as accessories. Different media of fabric: perhaps silks blended with durable wools, or intricately woven cottons, were mixed. This created layered, stylish ensembles that spoke of a certain attention to detail. He knew instantly: he was going to need a change of clothes if he had any hope of blending in.

  ‘I look like a beggar who’s slept in the streets. This might be a problem.’

  Ayron cautiously peered into the bustling square. Relief washed over him as he glanced at the signs hung above the shop entrances. The characters were in a language he could understand. As an individual who spoke four different dialects, Ayron quickly recognized the script as neutralian, thought to be a dead language, and he was completely fluent in it. Having a lot of time at home as a kid, Ayron picked up textbooks instead of toys, learning everything he could that interested him.

  The square was a vibrant, chaotic spectacle. There were a myriad of vendors, their temporary stalls and carts selling everything imaginable; clothes that shimmered in the afternoon light, intricate jewelry catching the eye, fragrant food wafting tempting aromas, household goods, and even specialized services. The air was thick with sound—the enthusiastic shouts of vendors trying to draw in crowds, mixing with the lively chatter and haggling of patrons on the street. From the sheer scale of the temporary setups and the celebratory atmosphere, it looked as though a massive fair or festival had completely taken over this part of the town.

  “Fresh ember buns! Only five krediti for the Sunstone festival!!” A food vendor with a booming voice and a broad, flour-dusted apron called out, holding a tray of steaming, savory pastries.

  ‘Krediti?? Is that the form of currency here?’ Ayron’s mind raced, his heart beginning to pound a nervous rhythm against his ribs. A fundamental problem had just presented itself – if he wanted to buy anything, even a simple meal or a new shirt, he would need to exchange whatever currency he possessed. He reached into the inner pocket of his tattered pants, pulling out the small, thin stack of bills. Thirty debiti in total, his homeland's standard currency.

  ‘I hope the exchange rate doesn’t absolutely kill me. This is going to be a problem if my money is worthless here.’ The young man slid the bills back, then reached into his other pocket, his fingers closing around the warm, smooth metal of the payment card he’d been given. ‘Would they even be able to process transactions from this card? Do they have the technology?’

  “Pretzels! Get soft as a baby’s bum pretzels, right here!” Another salesman hollered from the opposite side of the square, his voice high-pitched and grating. It pulled Ayron out of his spiral.

  “Need a handyman? Torvyn’s your guy! Sunstone Festival special discount!” One of the toolsmiths yelled. Several patrons immediately veered in his direction, interested in the special offer.

  “Softest linens in all of Laudmuth! Come try them for yourself!” A seamstress called. Her stall was draped with colorful, flowing fabrics. Several caught a glint from the sun, making them shimmer.

  ‘Laudmuth?’ Ayron mused to himself, storing the name away. ‘Is that the name of the town? Or the kingdom, or perhaps a larger region?’ The name was utterly unfamiliar. He’d never heard it referenced in connection to any known location or map. An unsettling thought returned with force — Was he still on his home planet? He considered himself well-traveled, having visited numerous kingdoms. The fact that he was drawing a complete blank concerned him deeply.

  The young man decided he couldn't afford to linger in the shadows any longer. He needed information, and standing hidden wouldn't provide it. It didn't matter if his clothes made him stand out; he needed to talk to the locals, or at least observe them up close. Nothing would be solved by simply remaining a nervous spectator in the alleyway.

  Ayron took a deep breath and stepped fully onto the cobblestone path, instantly mixing in with the flowing current of locals. To his surprise, they seemed to pay him no mind, or perhaps simply didn't notice his quiet presence as he slipped through the bustling stream of people. It was a skill he'd honed over his entire life: the ability to slip under the radar in most situations. His footsteps were light as a feather, and he had learned precisely how to carry his body; a combination of posture, pacing, and intentional non-engagement that had essentially turned Ayron into a ghost in crowded spaces.

  ‘Where to start,’ the young man contemplated while his eyes scanned the crowds and storefronts. He weaved through the masses, still thankfully undetected. ‘I should probably find a bank or a money changer first. I need local currency. Do they even have a formal banking system here?’

  Suddenly, a civilian’s voice, sharp with irritation, cut through the general of the festival crowd. “The lady said no thank you!”

  Ayron’s attention snapped in that direction. A small crowd was beginning to form a circle around three central people: two males and one female. A young man with bright blonde hair was positioned protectively in front of the girl, who was slightly concealed behind him. From the slight familial resemblance, the similar nose, and the shape of the chin. Ayron instinctively felt they could be brother and sister. He then glanced at the third man. He was an older, heavier man who was swaying visibly, a crude, half-empty bottle of some alcoholic beverage held loosely in his hand. This man looked nothing like the other two. Ayron quickly, efficiently sifted through the festival-goers, moving closer to the outskirts of the crowd while trying to decipher the situation without being noticed.

  “Stay outta this, buddy,” the drunken man slurred, his words thick, pointing an accusatory, wavering finger at the young blonde man defending the girl.

  The blonde man attempted a peaceful resolution. “How about I buy you another drink?” He extended what he hoped was an olive branch, a genuine attempt to de-escalate. “We can head to the tavern down the street, my treat.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I said stay out of this!” The drunk man roared, his eyes narrowing in drunken fury. He swung a clumsy but powerful fist, connecting squarely with the young man’s jaw. The punch caught the young man completely off guard, the force sending him staggering backward several steps. He lost his footing and fell hard against the stone facade of a nearby building. The sharp smack of impact was loud, echoing for several meters and causing multiple patrons to stop their shopping and turn their heads.

  Ayron’s eyes widened slightly, genuinely surprised that the situation had escalated to physical violence so quickly. He watched the swaying man, momentarily emboldened by his success, stumble forward. His eyes were still fixed on the young lady, clearly intent on harassing her once again.

  “Do you like to pick fights in the middle of a family festival?” Ayron’s body reacted purely on instinct. Within moments, his compact frame had slipped through the final barrier of onlookers, and he was standing firmly between the young lady and the aggressive, drunken patron. In the background, Ayron could now hear several bystanders call loudly for authorities.

  “What are you going to do about it, shrimp?” The man guffawed, a high-pitched and unpleasant sound, gripped his stomach as he laughed at Ayron’s slight stature.

  Standing slightly over one and a half meters, Ayron was indeed a compact warrior, but one built of tightly coiled muscle and honed reflexes. The young man felt his right eye twitch in irritation. It wasn’t the first time he’s been called out for his height. As he gauged his opponent, he could sense that the man possessed little genuine fighting ability; the man’s actions were merely the predictable, slow-motion impulses of a drunk. All the young man had to do was use the drunkard's lack of balance and training against him.

  “I’m going to make sure she gets where she needs to be, safely,” Ayron iterated slowly, his voice calm and level. The tone only seemed to fuel the drunken man’s irritation further. Out of the corner of his eye, Ayron caught a glimpse of the young woman. She had rushed past the developing confrontation to aid her fallen brother, kneeling beside him to check his injury.

  “You won’t even be a challenge! All I have to do is sit on you.” The man roared, his free hand shooting out and reaching straight for Ayron’s collar, clearly intending to grab, shake, and intimidate him.

  Ayron stood his ground. As the man’s hand made contact, Ayron quickly grabbed the man’s extended wrist. With precise, minimal movement, his middle finger applied a significant amount of pressure to a specific nerve on the wrist, causing the drunkard to yelp sharply and instantly loosen his grip.

  “That’s not very nice,” the foreigner commented matter-of-factly, his expression unchanging. “First this young lady, then her friend, and now me? You’re batting a thousand for poor behavior, aren’t you?”

  “Watch it, shrimp!” the man slurred, attempting to pull his wrist free. Ayron maneuvered the man’s arm with an unsettling fluidity, forcing it up and behind his back, twisting it into an uncomfortable lock. He used his other hand to push upwards on the man’s elbow, intensifying the pressure on the shoulder joint.

  “Ah! Okay! Okay!” the drunkard cried out, his drunken bravado instantly dissolving into panic.

  “Say you're sorry,” Ayron chided, his voice a low, firm command.

  “I-I’m sorry!” the man cried out miserably. “You’re going to dislocate my shoulder!!”

  “It doesn’t sound like you mean it,” Ayron stated, a light, almost imperceptible chuckle in his tone. He pushed even harder, a fraction of a second later, hearing a sickening pop as the joint strained beyond its limit. With the shoulder compromised, the drunken man’s legs gave out, and he fell to the cobblestone ground, crying out now in agonizing, immediate pain.

  It was at that moment that four men in dark blue, crisp uniforms pushed through the remaining crowd that had gathered. Each wore a golden emblem prominently displayed on their chests. They read: Enforcer - Laudmuth Division. Ayron’s heart, which had slowed down during the physical confrontation, began to pound frantically against his ribs. He realized that he had completely zoned in on the fight, forgetting for a crucial few moments that he was in a crowded, family-friendly public area.

  “What seems to be the problem here??” One of the enforcers questioned, his voice authoritative and sharp as he looked from the man writhing on the ground to Ayron.

  A bystander was the first to speak up, pointing. “The man on the ground needs to be arrested! He started the fight!”

  “Yeah! He was hitting on the girl and couldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer!” Another patron of the festival loudly piped in, his face set with moral indignation.

  The enforcers nodded, their expressions professional. Two of them moved immediately to the man on the ground, carefully but firmly lifting him to his feet. The metallic clink of handcuffs could be heard as one officer quickly secured the drunk man’s hands behind his back. The other two officers began the process of taking statements from the crowd. One, specifically, approached Ayron. He took in his strange, simple clothing, a brow rising in curiosity.

  “You don’t look like you’re from around here,” the enforcer commented, his eyes briefly sweeping over Ayron’s tattered attire and then back to his face.

  “Yeah,” Ayron admitted easily, consciously trying to keep his demeanor lighthearted and open. He even offered a slight, apologetic shrug. “I was just popping in. I’ve never been to the Sunstone Festival, but I wanted to see it for myself.”

  “Hm,” the officer replied, pulling a small, thin notepad from his pocket and quickly jotting something down. “Can you tell me what happened here today, from your perspective?”

  “I heard the young man over there,” Ayron said, pointing with his chin towards the brother and sister duo, who were still near the wall. “He was trying his best to de-escalate the situation peacefully. From what I gathered, the man on the ground asked the girl on a date, and she firmly said no. He didn’t accept the rejection. When the drunk man punched the young one and knocked him out of the way, I decided to step in to offer my assistance. I’m human enough not to turn away from a person in obvious distress. The man reached for my collar, so I acted in self-defense to subdue him. I only wanted to neutralize the threat and prevent further violence.”

  “I’ll admit,” Ayron sighed. “I didn’t mean to be so rough with him; probably shouldn’t have dislocated his shoulder.”

  The enforcer finished writing a final line in their notepad before snapping it shut and offering Ayron a quick, formal nod of thanks for his statement and intervention. He turned on his heel, heading toward the other officers and the people still gathered.

  Watching as the intoxicated man, now subdued and miserable, was escorted away by the authorities, the foreigner couldn’t help but draw a bitter, striking comparison. The man’s drunken, clumsy fighting style and easily triggered rage reminded him uncomfortably of his own past. That shared pattern of behavior had, ironically, made the man’s actions very easy to predict and counter.

  “I can’t thank you enough!!” A young woman’s voice, full of relief and gratitude, broke through the dissipating crowd. Ayron’s head turned to see the young lady walking briskly towards him, her eyes bright as tears threatened to fall from them.

  “You’re a lifesaver! Seriously,” the blonde young man said, walking up beside his sister. He gently rubbed the back of his head, wincing noticeably as he touched a tender spot where he’d hit the stone wall. “My name’s Jak, and this is my sister, Jaysi. I don’t know how to repay you. Thank you for protecting her when I couldn’t.”

  The foreigner was about to ask for directions to the nearest bank when his stomach revealed his true desires. “That’s right,” Ayron muttered to himself while he touched his growling abdomen. “I haven’t eaten anything since the hospital served breakfast.”

  “I’ll buy you as much as you can eat!” Jak grinned. “Can’t enjoy the festival on an empty stomach.”

  “You’ve got me there,” Ayron admitted, a half-smile creeping onto his features. “Thank you, I’ll take you up on that offer.”

  “Let’s head to the tavern down the road! It’s one of the best in town!” Jaysi grinned.