A pair of chefs sauntered into city hall as Mills was leaving. They would be providing food during the festival. Mills was tempted to grab them by their shoulders and tell them not to worry about it. Relics were marching on the city, and their talents would be better spent feeding people who stood watch. The mayor’s warning was in the back of Mills’ head though, and from the look in Price’s eye, that warning had weight behind it. He’d wait a little longer until he caused a stir.

  When leaving, the hot-head guard got into his face.

  “Let me see your weapons,” he demanded.

  “I’m leaving,” Mills said.

  “Yeah? And are you leaving with clean weapons, or are they bloody?” The kid demanded.

  “If he started a fight, the statues in there would have ended it,” the older guard drawled. “Get out of his way.”

  The kid wrinkled his nose, then stepped to the side.

  “If you’re itching for a fight, I might have one for you,” Mills said, “We might have relics marching on the city. The mayor won’t give me support, but I could use experienced people keeping an eye out. What do you say?”

  The kid went through a variety of expressions so quickly that Mills didn’t have a chance to read any single one.

  “I…shouldn’t,” the kid said. “The captain wants me here, and that’s where I’ll be.”

  Seriously? The kid had all that rebellious attitude, but he’d follow his captain’s orders?

  Mills shrugged, and hoped his frustration didn’t show on his face.

  “If you change your mind, I’ll be…” Mills had nowhere to stay in Cheau. He should have enough coin for an inn, but he wasn’t sure where he’d want to stay.

  “I’ll come back around,” Mills said.

  He stepped down city hall’s steps, and glanced over the performing artists. An artist wasn’t a soldier, but Mills hadn’t met an artist who couldn’t get into a fight. As a writer, Mills could shift the flow of a fight. A painter could create deadly summons. A sculptor’s statue was inherently heavy and durable–perfect for a soldier. Singers could rally their allies and dishearten enemies with song. Mills wondered if their talents would do anything against the reaver.

  He scanned over the crowd again, but he knew he wasn’t going to recruit anyone from here. All of these artists would perform at the festival, and if Mills poached any of them, he was sure Mayor Price would toss him out of Cheau.

  Mills would be okay even without those performers. He walked a few blocks down Main Street before making a turn. He found himself in a plaza. The bakery tugged at Mills’ stomach, and he could no longer resist the smells.

  He turned to the shop. Then he froze.

  The woman walked toward the bakery with quick, precise steps. Her bob of red hair glittered in the sunlight. Her hair used to be at her shoulder. She never wore a hat, either. The woman stopped, and glanced to the side. She saw Mills. Her verdant eyes locked onto Mills’ one.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  The woman’s expression tightened as she focused. She recognized Mills, but she had to make sure it was really him and not a look-a-like. Her eyes widened when she came to her realization.

  The woman turned away from the bakery, and walked with quick, precise steps up to Mills. The pair stared at each other, shoulders rising and falling as they breathed.

  The woman stood straighter than Mills remembered.

  “Hello,” Tress tested. Her voice was more confident, too.

  “Hi,” Mills whispered back.

  Tress stopped a few steps away from Mills, then she looked him over. Mills was dirty, and his left cheek was still bruised from when he’d met a plank of wood. Tress’s eyes stopped at Mills’ neck. He instinctively reached up, and touched the red, polka dotted scarf around it. Tress’ hat had the same pattern, made from the same piece of fabric.

  Tress leaned forward. Mills held a hand out. Tress leaned back; she wasn’t looking for a handshake. Mills let his arm fall. Tress held her arm out. After a pause, she stepped closer, and draped her arm around Mills’ shoulders. He gave her a one-armed hug back. Then Tress slipped back.

  “Your jacket looks good on you,” she said.

  “Uh, thanks. You cut your hair,” Mills answered.

  Tress looked confused for a moment, then she lit up.

  “Oh! I’d shortened my hair a few months after you left for Camp 33,” Tress said. She’d had her new hairstyle for nearly three years then, and Mills hadn’t known.

  “May I ask why you aren’t still at Camp 33?” Tress asked.

  “The camp was destroyed by relics. A reaver showed up, Tress,” Mills said.

  “A reaver,” Tress muttered. She wasn’t entirely convinced of this point, though she knew Mills had good observational skills. She’d carefully consider what he said.

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

  “I’m here because these relics might march on Cheau. I came to warn the city,” Mills said.

  “You have come at the beginning of Artist Appreciation Week,” Tress mumbled.

  “Yeah, I know. The mayor already told me,” Mills said.

  “He won’t help?” Tress asked.

  “At least I wasn’t tossed out of the city, right?” Mills smiled. Tress didn’t smile back. She never did appreciate when he tried to put a positive spin on a disaster.

  Tress glanced to the sky, which is how she thought. Mills had seen that expression plenty of times.

  “I’ll help,” Tress stated.

  That wasn’t the response Mills had expected.

  “What?” Mills asked.

  “You want people to watch what approaches Cheau, correct? I can help with that,” Tress said.

  “You really don’t have to do that,” Mills said.

  “No, I do not, but this is my home.” Tress opened her mouth, but shut it again. She was going to add, “and your home, too,” but Cheau wasn’t Mills’ home anymore.

  “I’m not sure what you can do,” Mills said.

  “I can talk to others, and convince them to help us,” Tress said.

  “It can’t be anybody working in the festival,” Mills said. “The mayor doesn’t want me interrupting his precious celebration for something as trivial as protecting his city.”

  “That will be fine,” Tress said. “Cheau has more artists than it can use for the festival; I will speak to those who won’t be participating.”

  It was a good idea. Tress would know the city and its people far better than Mills. Still, this wasn’t what Mills had planned.

  “Are you sure you want to do this? Aren’t you going to be in the festival?” Mills asked.

  “Seamstresses aren’t invited.” Which meant Tress could help without disrupting the mayor’s plans.

  Mills rubbed his chin.

  “Okay. While you talk to people, I will scout around and find good spots to post sentries at,” Mills said.

  “I’ve got some vantage points in mind,” Tress said.

  “I’ve got some ideas too, but I need to investigate them in person,” Mills said.

  Tress frowned at Mills. She understood what was going on–Mills wanted to be useful. She could see through Mills as well as he could see through her.

  “Okay,” Tress said, “while you scout, I will speak to those who might help. When I’m through, I will wait at my shop.”

  “Your shop?” Mills tried to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  A smile played on Tress’ lips.

  “It’s down this street.” Tress pointed. “I’m the only seamstress there, so finding the shop should be simple, once you come back.”

  While Mills was walking along the edge of the Abyss, Tress had set up a shop. What else had changed since he’d left?

  “Then I will see you in a few hours,” Mills said.

  Tress looked him over again.

  “It’s good to see you.” She walked off before Mills could reply.

  Tress stepped across the cobblestone with sure steps. She already knew where she was going. Mills realized that he was staring at Tress, and he tore his gaze away. He had a job to do.

  Mills headed along the edges of Cheau, where the waterfalls were more prevalent. He already knew of some places people could go, like the clocktowers, but Mills needed time to air out. He spent some time at a market, where he bought small servings of whatever looked tasty, then scarfed it down. As he noted the tall buildings around, Mills couldn’t get Tress out of his head.

  She was wearing a red, polka dotted hat made from the same material as Mills’ scarf. The more Mills thought about that, the more he was certain this was coincidence. Mills wore his scarf because it was warm. Yes, it reminded Mills of Tress, but over the years, that became a distant ping. That had to be the case for Tress, too; she wore her hat because it kept her warm and it fit her fashion sense. The hat would sometimes make her think about Mills and the scarf she’d made for him, but the memory would blow away as fast as it came. But there was a chance that Tress wore the hat because it reminded her of Mills and the time they’d spent together. What happened if that was the truth?

  The sun was coming down and bathing the city in golden light. Mills legs burned from his hours of walking. He’d given the west part of Cheau a good look, and even scouted some of the other sectors by climbing into a clocktower and looking over the buildings. Sure Mills knew where he was going to place everyone already, but it was good to actually see what was in Mills’ head. Also, climbing into the clocktower reminded Mills of his childhood, and that was fun.

  Mills made it down the street Tress had pointed out, and there, he found her shop. The front was simple and clean. The building had only a small window, where Tress had placed a mannequin wearing an embroidered dress. The lamp inside was on, revealing Tress leaning over a desk.

  Mills pushed his way in, and a little bell above the door chimed. Tress looked up from her papers, and offered her tight smile. Mills smiled back. This was basic courtesy and nothing more. There was no subtext to read from those smiles.

  “I’ve talked to a handful of people who agreed to help,” Tress said. “They will scout out others who will, hopefully, join our cause.”

  Mills glanced over the shop. Tress had more two more mannequins up–one man and one woman–who had casual, yet colorfully patterned clothing. Tress had a sewing machine in the corner, and in the walls waited a variety of rolled fabrics.

  “Are our conspirators upstairs right now?” Mills asked.

  “No. The others had errands to run today,” Tress said. “However, tomorrow morning, those people will come to the shop, along with volunteers they recruited. We can discuss logistics once everyone has arrived.”

  Mills nodded. That night, Cheau would only be defended by those already at the gates. If a reaver was coming in, it wouldn’t be enough.

  Mills pulled out his blank cards and pen. Tress tensed.

  “I’m going to make sure the relics don’t come tonight,” Mills explained.

  “Could it be harmful?” Tress asked.

  “I will be as precise as I can,” Mills spoke slowly. “I don’t think we’ll have any issues.”

  Tress stared at the blank card.

  “I understand,” she finally said.

  Mills wrote his card, then burned it. He held the card between both his hands, so it would stay with him when it burned. He didn’t want to burn down Tress’ shop by accident. Once the card burned to nothing, Tress relaxed.

  “Do you have someplace to stay?” She asked.

  “It shouldn’t be too hard to find something,” Mills said.

  Tress chuckled.

  “I have enough space that we can be out of each other’s way,” Tress said. “I also prepared enough food for two, so you don’t have to worry about dinner tonight, either.”

  “You’ve thought it through, then,” Mills said.

  “I always do.”

  Mills stared into Tress’ eyes, and she stared back. There was more to say, not about the preparations, nor of dinner. A question was stuck in the back of Mills’ throat. The storm clouds brewing in Tress’ eyes said she wanted to bring up the topic, too, but couldn’t convince herself to do it.

  Tress looked away.

  “There’s also a bathhouse behind these stores. You’ll be welcome to it,” she said.

  “I stink that bad?” Mills grinned.

  Tress grimaced instead of giving an answer. The tension burst. The opportunity to delve into deeper waters dried up.

  “You really should use the bathhouse before dinner,” Tress said.

  “That sounds like a good idea. I’ll see you in fifteen, then.”