The levy squad entered the dead lanes like a blade. Mail creaked. A haft struck stone in a steady rhythm. People thinned into shutters and curtain folds. The lane took a breath and held it.
Their leader stepped into the bend. He was larger than most Exalted. Broad enough that iron looked tight on him. A pale scar ran from ear to jaw. He let his gaze sweep the street, then settle on the boy in the center. Toma stood with a wooden sword and a leather strap biting his forearm.
"No protectors today," the man said. His voice sounded like a butcher ending a long morning. "I will relieve you of the burden of life."
Toma swallowed. He did not lower the blade. He kept it across his chest the way the stranger had shown him. He set his feet and tried to be as big as he felt small.
Sera shifted forward. Her knuckles whitened on the spear.
Estaron slid a hand across her path and cut his voice to a thread. "He will not be hurt. If I am wrong, we move."
The big Exalted shifted his weight as if to give an order, then changed his mind. He stepped in without stance or measure. He simply ripped a raw swing of his war axe across the boy's chest line. Fast. Mean. Confident that speed and weight would be enough.
The stranger stepped out of the dark beside a doorway. One hand pressed flat into Toma's sternum and shoved him back a single pace. The other brought steel up. Axe met the flat of a sword with a hard bell sound. The edge skittered, bit a post, and spat splinters.
The Exalted blinked once, then grinned.
He came on with the axe in both hands. The head carved bright arcs. The stranger gave ground in short steps and never crossed his feet. He slipped his head when he had to. He turned when he needed a cleaner angle. He struck only to clear space. A wrist. An elbow. A quick rake along a strap. He fought to keep the boy alive, not to win the lane.
"Nice moves," the Exalted said. His smile did not reach his eyes. "Let us take it further."
A dull glow crept through the rings of his mail. Not fire. Essence waking in his muscles. Veins of wrong light under skin. Strength climbed his arms and sat heavy in his shoulders. He lifted the axe and brought it down three times like a verdict. The first chop chewed furrows under the stranger's boots. Sparks walked across the stones. The second slammed him sideways into a wall and shook dust out of the mortar. The third came low and across. Steel caught flesh. The cut tore across his chest. New skin split where old scars lived. Blood shined black for a breath, then bright red. He dropped to one knee and braced on the stones.
Sera hissed and slid a foot forward.
Estaron's hand closed on his hilt.
The air changed.
He had stood near this man twice. Before today he had felt nothing. No hum. No pressure. Only a fighter who knew where to stand.
Now heat rose from the stranger's skin. Not warmth. A dry kiln breath with no flame. Anger turned into weather. It raised the hair along Estaron's arms.
The stranger's eyes washed pale, then settled into a deep red that belonged to no good light. A small crooked smile found one corner of his mouth. It was not friendly.
He let the blade fall.
He stepped in and drove a straight punch into the Exalted's chest. The sound was thick. Iron dented inward. Breath left the big man with a hurt animal rasp. He staggered, then fell flat on his back.
The stranger followed in one clean hop and took the mount. He hit the face once. Then again. He hammered until the helm buckled under his knee. Teeth lodged in the skin over his knuckles and stayed there. Bone gave way. The skull lost its shape and tried to be something else and failed.
The squad that had swaggered at the bend forgot how soldiers stand. One dropped a crossbow and ran. Another turned and discovered there was no formation to join.
The heat climbed. Estaron tasted it at the back of his tongue. Dry. Wrong. The stranger's breath shortened. His shoulders trembled as if he carried a charge that would not sit still.
The blast rolled off him without light. A hard shove in every direction at once. Dust jumped in a ring. Jars split with a dull crack. Nails in a beam sang. Toma flew sideways. He hit the wall and slid down. He left a smear.
Estaron was already moving. He reached the boy on the first step after the wave. He went to one knee and scooped him. He turned his back to the lane. A second pulse came. Thinner. Mean. The kick of a body that could not hold any more. It slapped stone and skin. Estaron rolled and took most of it in his shoulder and hip. He dragged the boy into the mouth of an alley and looked down.
Toma's hand lay open. The wooden sword rested beside it. Blood pooled dark under his head and then stopped. His chest did not lift. His lips parted as if a question had almost found its way out.
Sera slid in beside them and set her spear across her knees. She gave them her back and watched the lane while Estaron did what there was to do. His fingers searched the neck for a beat. Then another. He felt nothing except the echo of his own pulse in his hands.
The last of the soldiers scattered. One glanced back and then looked at his own feet as if the stones had spoken and he did not like the words.
The Stranger pushed himself up from the wreck he had made. It did not look like a man anymore. He turned toward the corner where Estaron had set Toma. The sight hit him like a hammer inside the ribs. The boy lay still, wooden sword by his hand, eyes open to nothing. His chest tightened. A single tear cut through the dust on his cheek. Before another could form, his legs gave out and he collapsed unconscious from sheer exhaustion.
Sera stayed where she was, eyes forward, spear steady. Estaron lifted the boy and stood. He did not change his face. He felt the weight. That told the truth.
"Now," he said.
They left by the other ways. Through a yard where damp shirts hung and did not stir. Over a beam that breaks for a foot it does not like. Under a wall with a stone that loosens for two fingers and no more. Behind them the lane filled with people who had seen nothing and knew better than to say otherwise.
The hill took them. Pines fixed the air. The ruin on top had a name. The Wolf's Den opened its gate and asked no questions.
They set Toma in a cool room and lit candles. Light held steady. It did not help. It was still right. Estaron handed Sera a shovel. He took one for himself. Dirt thudded. The sound is always the same. A small marker went into soft ground. Estaron put the little wooden wolf in the boy's hand and folded the fingers around it. He stood there until his breathing forgot the fight.
On a bench by the doorway the stranger lay where Sera had dragged him. The cut across his chest had clotted into a dark seam. Old scars along his ribs stood out pale. His hands were torn and full of other people's teeth. His face was quiet again. Too quiet. As if he had put everything painful behind a wall and was waiting for it to find him.
Estaron remembered the heat on his skin. Not fire. Anger turned into weather. He had stood near this fighter before and felt nothing. No hum. No pressure. Only footwork and sense.
Now there was more. It had saved a boy for one breath and killed him in the next.
Sera sat with the spear across her knees and watched the door. The candles burned down a little. Wind found a seam in the stones and made a small sound.
Estaron did not write in his book. He walked into the yard and stood until the night loosened its hands from the city. When the first light came it made the pines look like smoke. He closed his eyes for a breath and opened them again. Then he went back in to see who would wake first.