It was Lucien who spotted it first: a small knife, carved simply, elegant, beautiful, white and blue— its hilt gleamed like diamond. Like Elias's.
The children crowded the stall.
Elen snatched it up, grinning with that reckless spark.
"Tell me this isn't screaming his name."
Leya, quiet as ever but glowing faintly, nodded and touched the blade with one finger as though it were sacred. Lucien said nothing, but his hand lingered over the hilt too long, eyes unreadable.
Mary trailed just behind, her braid bouncing, her basket swinging like she was just another girl at the market. Simple dress, plain shoes, freckles across her nose—yet her smile, bright and childlike, made passersby glance twice. She looked at them now with a small, sad curve of her lips.
"You love him a lot, don't you?" she asked softly.
Elen stared at her like she'd asked if water was wet. "Obviously."
Leya finally spoke louder than a whisper: "He's… Elias." That explanation was enough.
Mary's gaze dropped, fingers fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. "You know… when I first met him, I thought he was cold. Like he didn't need anyone. I was just a silly girl, doing odd jobs, trying not to starve. He was the first one who… noticed. Treated me like a person. Like a big brother, not a master. That's why… even when he disappears like this, I… believe he'll come back. He always does."
The children didn't answer, but their silence carried the weight of all the nights they'd waited for him.
And then—shouting.
At the end of the street, a boy no older than them was dragged by the collar. His fists clutched a single loaf of bread like it was life itself.
"Thief!" a voice cried.
But the people of Veirdan did not roar with it. They muttered, frowned, exchanged looks. They had seen worse. They had known hunger. A child with bread was no monster.
At the center of it stood Sam.
Tall, polished, gleaming with that false radiance. His hand gripped the boy's collar too tightly as he declared, "See, people of Veirdan! Justice must be done, no matter how small the crime! This is how villains are born—stealing, lying, refusing the righteous path! Some children are just born wrong—it's better to leash them before they poison the world."
The crowd didn't cheer. A few scoffed under their breath. One woman spat, "Born wrong? You calling my son wrong, too?"
And beside him, Sylvia stepped forward with golden curls and tear-bright eyes. She cried, "Think of the poor woman he stole from! Silent children like him are useless—they don't even think for themselves. Justice is mercy!"
The "poor woman" was draped in silks, jeweled fingers clutched over her stomach. Rich. Disdainful. She didn't need that bread.
A butcher shouted back, "That hag eats better in one meal than my family does in a week! Mercy, my ass!"
The crowd chuckled, the tide leaning away from Sam and Sylvia.
Sam and Sylvia stood in the square, faces lit with the false glow of righteousness. They weren't yelling. They didn't need to. Their calm words dripped like oil, slow and heavy, painting judgment as kindness.
"Children must be corrected early," Sam said, voice gentle, almost tender. "Otherwise, they grow into monsters. Don't you agree?"
The crowd didn't shift. A few muttered. One old man spat on the ground.
Leya's nails dug into her palm. Corrected early. The words slammed against her chest. She was small again, crouched in the trial hall, the whip cutting air above her head. Corrected—that was the word they used before they dragged her friend away. He never came back.
Elen's grin faltered. Monsters. He remembered the stink of blood on the training ground, the overseer whispering that word before snapping a boy's neck like kindling.
Lucien's throat closed. The air stank of punishment. For a heartbeat, the marketplace blurred, replaced by cold chains rattling in the dark.
They wanted to walk away. . Their bodies froze, caught in invisible chains of memory.
But then—
Elias rose in the back of their minds. Not with speeches. With moments.
The night on the hill, when he stood beneath the moon. Blindfold hiding mismatched eyes, yet somehow he seemed to see everything. His voice had been calm, almost detached:
> "The world breaks those who bow too quickly. Don't give them that pleasure."
Another memory—Elias by the fire. His words steady, unshaken:
> "Fear won't vanish. You only decide what to do with it."
Not lessons. Anchors. Elias had never asked them to be strong. He simply was. And that made their trembling feel less shameful, more… survivable.
Leya's breath steadied, though her chest still ached.
Elen's fists curled tighter.
And Lucien stepped forward.
Sam smiled wider, as if this was all rehearsal. "Ah. Brave children. Will you stand for justice?"
The word justice tore something open.
"Funny," Elen called, voice loud enough to slice the tension. "You talk of justice while choking a child half to death."
The crowd stirred again.
Sylvia's lips quivered, tears spilling just so. "You—how dare you accuse Sam! He's protecting the weak!"
"The weak?" Lucien's voice was low, but it sliced sharper than steel. He pointed at the jeweled woman. "That woman could feed twenty children with one of her rings. Who here is weak?"
This time, the marketplace roared again, supporting them.
"That's right!"
"Let the boy go!"
"Your justice stinks worse than rotten fish!"
Sam's face reddened. He had come here expecting to bask in applause, to play hero, like always.
Instead, every glare, every jeer weighed him down.
"You dare defy me?" he barked, but it rang hollow. "Children with no understanding, daring to speak of justice? Then villain I shall be called, if carrying justice brands me so!"
Theatrics. Nothing but theatrics.
Elen laughed, sharp and raw. "Then congratulations, you already look the part."
The people didn't laugh—they jeered. Loud, unrelenting. Sam's hand tightened on his sword hilt, but Sylvia tugged his sleeve, eyes narrowing as she hissed, "Sam. Enough."
He let the boy go. The child ran into the arms of the butcher's wife, who embraced him like a mother.
The crowd moved, like a single living creature, pushing Sam and Sylvia back. Not fools. Not sheep. Elias's people.