Morning returned with the ringing of bells that echoed across Birmingham 's rooftops. The Harvest Feast had ended in revelry, but the second day was no less important—it was a time for games, contests, and wagers, when villagers tested strength, wit, and courage.
Darrel rose late, his head fogged with restless dreams. He remembered fragments of Marcus's voice, soft yet commanding, threading through his sleep. Trust me… you are strength unshaped… The words clung to him like cobwebs, both comforting and suffocating.
By the time he arrived at the square, the games were in full swing. Children chased hoops through the streets, men strained at tug-of-war ropes, and women balanced jars of water on their heads to prove grace under pressure. Laughter rolled in waves.
Marcus found him instantly, as though he had been waiting. "There you are," he said with that easy grin. "I thought you'd decided to hide away from the fun."
Darrel tried to smile. "I overslept."
"Then we'll have to catch up," Marcus replied, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Come. Today's the day you show them who you really are."
Darrel hesitated. "I'm not sure—"
"You'll be fine," Marcus cut in smoothly. His grip tightened just slightly, firm enough to remind Darrel that resistance was pointless. "Trust me."
The first contest was a simple one: the ring toss. Villagers stood in a circle around a row of wooden stakes, each competitor throwing rope rings in hopes of landing them true. The prize was laughable—a small leather pouch filled with sugared almonds—but pride was at stake, and pride was worth more than gold in Birmingham .
Darrel joined the line reluctantly. He had never been skilled at such games; his hands always seemed to betray him. As he clutched the rings, laughter echoed from somewhere in the crowd. He glanced up to see Jonah and Marcus watching, smirks plastered across their faces.
"Careful, Darrel," Jonah called. "Don't hit yourself in the foot."
The crowd chuckled. Darrel's ears burned.
"Focus," Marcus murmured at his side. His voice was calm, steady, a thread pulling taut. "Breathe. Block them out. Hear only me."
Darrel swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the stakes. He tossed the first ring. It arced neatly through the air and landed squarely on the center peg. Gasps rippled through the onlookers.
The second ring followed, then the third. Each landed perfectly, as though guided by an unseen hand. Cheers erupted.
Darrel blinked, stunned. He had never thrown so well in his life. He turned to Marcus, whose smile was serene, almost knowing.
"You see?" Marcus said softly. "You only needed me."
Darrel accepted the pouch of almonds with shaking hands, though victory tasted hollow. The laughter had stopped, but he couldn't tell if it was because he had proven himself—or because Marcus had pulled his strings once more.
The contests grew bolder as the day stretched on. There was log-lifting in the square, where men strained until their muscles trembled; there was knife-throwing at painted targets, and even a race through the narrow alleys of the village.
Marcus entered them all, dragging Darrel along with him. Where Marcus was charming and confident, Darrel felt like a shadow at his side. Yet each time he faltered, Marcus was there, whispering commands that steadied his steps, corrected his aim, sharpened his focus. The crowd began to murmur—not mocking this time, but astonished.
By midday, whispers spread that Darrel had been "blessed by the harvest moon." Some said fortune favored him, others muttered that he had finally grown into his strength.
But Darrel knew better. The strength wasn't his. It never had been.
Later, as the sun dipped low and shadows stretched across the cobblestones, Marcus led Darrel to the edge of the square. A crowd had gathered around the largest contest of all: mock duels with wooden blades.
Darrel froze. He remembered too well the blindfolded fight, the laughter, the strange pull of Marcus's voice.
"Not this one," he whispered.
Marcus tilted his head. "Why not?"
"They'll laugh again. They'll—"
"They'll cheer," Marcus interrupted smoothly. "Because you have me."
Darrel's chest tightened. He wanted to resist, to walk away, but Marcus's gaze held him fast. The crowd's roar swelled, and before he knew it, his name was being shouted, pushed forward by eager hands.
He stepped into the ring. His opponent was Marcus, the same boy he had bested yesterday. Fury burned in Marcus's eyes, his pride still raw.
The duel began.
Marcus charged, swinging with brutal strength. Darrel's instincts screamed at him to run—but Marcus's voice cut through the panic.
"Step back. Raise your guard."
Darrel obeyed. The strike glanced harmlessly off his blade.
"Now strike low."
Darrel's sword darted out, catching Marcus's leg. The older boy stumbled, cursing.
"Again. Harder."
Each command flowed into Darrel's limbs like fire through veins. His fear melted into precision, his strikes sharp, unerring. The crowd gasped as Marcus faltered again and again, beaten back by the boy they once mocked.
At last, Marcus collapsed into the dust. The crowd erupted into cheers.
Darrel stood trembling, sword raised, staring down at his fallen opponent. For a heartbeat, pride surged within him. He had done it. He had proven them wrong.
Then he looked at Marcus.
The grin on Marcus's face was wide, satisfied, almost triumphant. His eyes gleamed with something darker than friendship.
Darrel's stomach twisted. The cheers blurred into jeers in his mind, echoing cruelly. He wasn't the victor. He was a puppet dancing on invisible strings.
As night fell and lanterns lit the square, Darrel sat alone at the edge of the meadow, the wooden sword lying limp across his knees. His body ached from the day's contests, but his mind ached more.
Marcus joined him, dropping lightly onto the grass. For a while, neither spoke. The festival sounds drifted faintly on the wind.
At last Marcus broke the silence. "You were magnificent today."
Darrel's throat felt dry. "I wasn't myself. You… you were in my head."
Marcus tilted his head, studying him. "Does it matter? You won. They respect you now. Isn't that what you wanted?"
Darrel clenched his fists. "But it wasn't me. It was you."
Marcus leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "We are brothers, Darrel. There is no me without you. No you without me. Together, we are stronger than either alone. That is what they don't understand."
Darrel looked away, heart hammering. Marcus's words coiled inside him, tightening like chains. He wanted to protest, to break free—but another part of him, the part that craved respect, whispered agreement.
"When shadows rise," Marcus murmured, almost to himself, "no one will stand against us."
Darrel shivered, though the night air was warm.