The streets of Arathor by night were a different world.
By day, the capital blazed with life—carts clattering over cobblestones, merchants hawking their wares, the ring of hammers from a hundred forges, voices raised in laughter and argument and song. But after the curfew bell tolled its mournful note across the city, the streets transformed. Shutters slammed closed, torches guttered in their sconces, and the bustling thoroughfares emptied like water draining from a basin. The silence that followed pressed down like a physical weight, broken only by the distant bark of a dog or the scurry of rats in the gutters.
This was the city the Watch protected. This vulnerable, sleeping version of Arathor.
Adrian marched in his assigned squad of ten, Edric at his side, Brann and Finn a few paces behind. At the head walked a grizzled patrolman—one of Sir Aldric's veterans—his lantern-staff held high. The carved runes glowed with steady white light, carving narrow islands of safety in an ocean of shadow. His armor bore the dents and scratches of long service, and he moved with the cautious economy of a man who'd survived more nights than he'd lost.
"Eyes sharp," the patrolman growled without turning. His voice was rough as gravel, seasoned by years of shouted commands. "City sleeps on your watch. Thieves waiting for opportunity, smugglers moving contraband, worse things lurking in forgotten corners. Don't let the quiet fool you. Quiet's when they move."
The squires shifted uneasily, their boots scuffing against cobblestones, the sound too loud in the empty streets. Hands tightened on wooden training swords that suddenly felt inadequate. Nervous glances darted toward every dark alley, every shadowed doorway.
Adrian alone walked with steady rhythm, his breathing controlled, his movements fluid. His eyes flicked methodically—down alleys to check for movement, up to rooftops where a clever thief might wait, across shadowed doorways where ambushers could hide. He had led legions through darker nights than this, commanded armies across demon-infested wastes where every shadow held death. These city streets, for all their unfamiliarity, were tame compared to the battlefields he'd walked in another life.
They turned down a narrow lane near the merchant quarter, where warehouses loomed on either side like silent sentinels. The lantern light barely reached the upper windows, leaving most of the buildings shrouded in darkness.
A crash split the silence.
Every squire froze, hearts hammering. The sound had come from somewhere ahead—wood splintering, something heavy falling.
The patrolman raised his lantern higher, light spilling across stacked crates and barrels. For a moment, nothing moved. Then a figure burst from the shadows between two warehouses, clutching a bulging sack, his cloak flapping behind him as he ran.
"Smuggler!" someone shouted, voice cracking with excitement and fear.
"After him!" the patrolman barked, already moving. "Stay together! Don't scatter!"
The squad surged forward in a ragged line. Edric stumbled over an uneven cobblestone but caught himself, cursing. Brann whooped as if this were some grand game rather than actual duty, his longer legs eating up ground. Finn moved with silent focus, his fisherman's balance keeping him steady even at speed.
Adrian sprinted smoothly, his legs carrying him without apparent strain, his breathing still controlled. His eyes tracked the fleeing figure, analyzing. The smuggler was quick—quick enough to have evaded patrols before—but panic made him sloppy. He darted between market stalls left out for the morning, scattering loose fruit and cloth in his wake, his path erratic. Adrian's mind calculated trajectories, predicted routes. The man would have to turn left at the next intersection—the right path dead-ended at a warehouse wall.
He cut across a side street, angling to intercept rather than simply chase. The others followed the smuggler's direct path, but Adrian took the shorter route, his knowledge of tactics overriding the instinct to simply pursue.
The smuggler rounded the corner and skidded to a halt, eyes going wide.
Adrian stood directly in his path, gray eyes flat and cold, wooden training sword leveled at the man's chest. No threat in his posture, no anger—just absolute certainty and the promise of consequences.
"Drop the sack," Adrian said, his voice calm, almost conversational. "There's nowhere else to run."
The smuggler's eyes darted left and right, searching for escape. Finding none. His face twisted with desperation, and his hand flashed to his belt, drawing a wicked-looking dagger—the kind with a serrated edge meant to rip and tear rather than simply stab.
He lunged, the blade slashing toward Adrian's throat.
Time seemed to slow, the world narrowing to the arc of that blade cutting through lamplight. To Adrian, the attack was clumsy, telegraphed, the desperate strike of someone who'd never received proper training. He could read the angle, the timing, the exact moment of commitment that made the smuggler vulnerable.
Adrian sidestepped with minimal movement—just enough to let the blade whistle past his throat, so close he felt the displaced air. His left hand snapped out, catching the smuggler's extended wrist. His grip was iron, fingers finding pressure points with practiced precision. The smuggler gasped as his hand spasmed involuntarily.
Before the man could react, Adrian drove his knee up into the smuggler's gut. Air whooshed from the man's lungs. Adrian twisted the captured wrist, forcing the dagger to clatter onto the cobblestones, then swept the smuggler's legs out from under him. The man hit the ground hard, and Adrian's boot came down on his chest, pinning him firmly but without excess force.
The entire exchange had taken perhaps three seconds.
The others caught up moments later, skidding to a stop. Edric bent double, hands on his knees, wheezing for breath. His face was flushed, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool night air.
Brann let out a wild laugh, clapping Adrian on the shoulder hard enough to rock him slightly. "Fast work, Blackthorn! Gods above, you didn't even break a sweat! Did you see that move?" He mimicked the disarm clumsily. "Just—whoosh—and down he went!"
Finn crouched beside the dropped sack, his clever fingers working at the knot. When he pried it open, gold coins glinted in the lantern light alongside smaller objects—rune-etched trinkets, small weak light-runes of the kind merchants used in their shops. Stolen goods, clearly. Enough to feed a family for months, or to bribe a corrupt official.
"Light-runes," Finn said quietly, holding one up to the lantern. The carved symbols glowed faintly in response. "Fresh-carved. Probably stolen today, meant to be fenced tonight."
The patrolman arrived, lantern raised high, his eyes sweeping the scene with practiced efficiency. He took in the smuggler gasping on the ground, the spilled goods, the squad standing around Adrian. His gaze lingered on Adrian a moment longer than the others, sharp and assessing, reading something in the boy's calm stance.
Then he grunted, something that might have been approval. "Good catch. Fast thinking, faster feet." He hauled the smuggler roughly to his feet, producing a length of cord from his belt and binding the man's wrists with efficient knots. "First rule of patrol—speed and position win fights before they start. You cut him off instead of just chasing. Smart. You stopped him before he could hurt anyone or hide his goods."
The smuggler spat a curse, trying to wrench free. The patrolman cuffed him casually across the ear, silencing him. "Save your breath for the magistrate."
He turned back to the squad, his scarred face serious in the lamplight. "Remember this, all of you. Not every fight will be with sword or beast. Sometimes it's vermin like this—" he shook the smuggler slightly "—gnawing at the city's bones. Stealing from honest merchants, dealing in black-market runes, feeding the criminal networks that undermine everything we protect. A knight's duty is not only to fight wars beyond the walls, but to guard the peace within them. The demons are obvious enemies. These?" He gestured at the smuggler with disgust. "These are the rot that weakens us from inside."
The squires shifted, the weight of his words settling on them. Some had clearly expected—perhaps even hoped for—something more dramatic than catching a common thief. Monsters, demons, epic battles. But the reality of a knight's duty was broader, less glamorous, more essential.
A knight was shield and blade—defending both outward and inward, against both obvious threats and insidious ones.
They marched the smuggler back toward the nearest guard post, the man stumbling between two of the burlier squires. Along the way, Edric sidled closer to Adrian, his voice dropping to barely a whisper.
"You moved like you knew exactly what he'd do before he did it," Edric said, his eyes searching Adrian's profile. "Like you'd seen it before, practiced against it. That wasn't luck."
Adrian shrugged, his expression unchanging. "He was sloppy. Desperate men make predictable moves."
"That's not what I mean." Edric's voice carried a note of something between awe and unease. "The way you positioned yourself, the calm when he drew the knife, how you took him apart without even seeming to try... Adrian, you've done this before. Really done this."
Adrian's gaze flicked ahead to where the patrolman walked, then back to Edric. His voice was quiet, matter-of-fact. "I grew up on the border. We don't have the luxury of training against straw dummies for years before seeing real threats. You learn fast, or you die."
It was truth, as far as it went. Just not the whole truth.
Edric frowned, clearly wanting to press further, but something in Adrian's tone—or perhaps the flat certainty in his eyes—made him fall silent.
When they reached the guardhouse, warm light spilling from its windows, the patrolman handed the smuggler over to the watch captain. The man was dragged inside, still cursing, his stolen goods confiscated as evidence. The captain counted the coins with practiced efficiency, making notes for the magistrate.
Sir Aldric stood waiting outside, his lantern-staff blazing like a small star in the darkness. He must have been observing from nearby—watching how the squads handled their first real test. His eyes swept across the squad, measuring each of them, lingering briefly on Adrian with that same unreadable intensity the patrolman had shown.
"Your first night," Sir Aldric said, his voice carrying despite its quietness. "And already the shadows tested you. Good." A pause. "The streets will not always be so simple. Remember—patrols sharpen courage as much as steel. This was only a taste of what vigilance means."
He dismissed them with a gesture, and the squad turned back toward their dormitory. Fatigue settled heavy in their limbs, the adrenaline high of the chase fading into bone-deep weariness. Yet something else lingered too—a spark of pride, perhaps, or the beginning of understanding what it meant to stand the Watch.
Brann slung an arm around Finn's shoulders, his earlier wild energy dimmed but not gone. "A thief for our first test. Easy pickings." He grinned, though it looked slightly forced. "Tomorrow, maybe they'll throw us a troll, eh?"
Finn shook his head, his expression thoughtful. "Be careful what you wish for. Thieves bleed easy. Other things don't."
Edric said nothing, walking in silence. But his eyes kept flicking to Adrian, watching the way he moved through the shadows with that same unnerving confidence. The image was burned into his mind—Adrian stepping into the smuggler's path, not reckless, not panicked. Cold. Certain. Deadly, even with a wooden practice sword and a body still growing into its full strength.
Adrian walked slightly ahead of the others, letting the silence settle around him like a familiar cloak. The city's shadows curled through the streets, and he was aware of all of them—every alley, every doorway, every place where danger might wait. To the others, this was their first night of true vigilance, their first taste of what the Watch meant.
To him, it was nothing more than a reminder.
The night was never empty. It always had teeth.
And he had survived far sharper fangs than anything Arathor's streets could offer.