Zaric's thin, frail body was even shorter than Lyra Terran's. He looked like a child; yet in Lyra's heart, Zaric was the man of the house—the one who would one day carry their family.
As Lyra gripped his hand, Zaric felt the heat of her palm and the tremor in her fingers. Facing hunger and the tribe's unfairness, she hadn't expected anyone to speak for her. If no one would, then this fifteen-year-old girl would face a ring of stout men alone.
The square fell silent, then the grain-handlers burst into laughter.
"He's your household's man? Hah!"
"Little lass, ever seen a real man? Want me to show you?" one jeered.
"A runt who doesn't even shave," another snorted. "Kid, how many days since you stopped wearing diapers?"
They guffawed. Lyra flushed, fists knotting, but no one in the crowd stepped in. The tribe's ruling class were strongmen and labor warriors; the weak didn't challenge the strong—everyone had their own meager rations to protect.
"Eh, I remember that brat," someone said. "Didn't he die a few days ago?"
In a small tribe, death was common. Zaric's prior life had carried no standing, so his "death" was barely a rumor.
"That's him. Sickly, wind could knock him over."
"Who said my brother died!" Lyra snapped, eyes flashing like a cornered leopardess. She looked tiny against the deacon's bulk—sparrow before vulture—but she didn't yield. A single arrow was hidden along her spine, the shaft taped beneath her blouse. If it came to it, she would draw.
The deacon—one of the warrior preparation camp and a minor official—scowled. Being stared down by a girl needled his pride. "Foolish lass. Keep glaring and I'll dig out your eyes!"
Lyra's grip tightened on the hidden arrow.
Up in a clean, high house overlooking the square, a youth in silver armor watched through a window, lips curled in amusement. His bright garments only sharpened the gulf between him and the hungry crowd.
"She's hiding an arrow," he drawled. "All arrow-stock is counted, even defects. Interesting that she kept one. She might actually use it."
"If she does, she'll fare poorly," murmured an Zaric in his mind.
"True. If she doesn't, she starves," the youth said lightly. "Who is she?"
The elder bowed. "Answering, Young Master—her name is Lyra Terran, a lower-caste girl in our Flintclaw clan's holding. She and her brother were not born here—refugees taken in years ago. Their caretaker died, leaving them orphans. Everyone expected them to perish, but the girl kept them alive."
The elder knew everyone among the thousand souls under Flintclaw's banner. Large clans didn't take refugees; small ones did, and refugees always ranked below natives.
"So she's from elsewhere," the youth mused, smirk widening. Lyra's bearing wasn't quite that of a beaten peasant, and her features were striking—a rarity in such hard places. Beauty, defiance, and mystery—enough to kindle Ren Flintclaw's interest.
"Young Master, has she caught your eye?" the elder ventured. Ren Flintclaw—seventeen, famed among the tribe—held towering prestige. Among true experts, their holding had three: the yellow-robed Patriarch, the training camp's coach Yao Yuan, and Ren himself, the Patriarch's grandnephew and brightest hope to become a Blood Vein Warrior. At his age, the path ahead looked limitless.
"So what if I'm interested?" Ren's tone was mild; his words were cold. "Soon this petty hold won't bind me. I'll range the wilds. Will you bind me with clan rules?"
The elder blanched and waved his hands. "A joke, Young Master. This old one spoke out of turn."
Clan rules here were iron. In the wilderness, strength was law; in tribes, warriors were the law. Ren Flintclaw had the power of life and death, and little patience for fools.
"She's young," Ren said at last. "A maid. Perhaps a concubine. No rule broken."
"Y-yes. Thank you for your mercy."
"One more thing," Ren said lazily. "Why a different surname from her brother?"
"When she was in dire straits, she was taken in by the boy's mother," the elder said. "Out of gratitude, she treats Zaric as blood."
Ren grunted and rose.
Down in the square, the deacon stepped forward, hand raised for a slap.
Lyra braced, the arrow sliding in her sleeve—
A hand pressed her wrist. Zaric leaned close and whispered, "Don't be rash."
He slid in front of her, palms up. "Hold."
The deacon sneered. "What are you?" He shifted his weight, ready to send the boy flying.
Zaric's jaw tightened. He wanted to drive his heel into the man's groin—but a wise man didn't brawl when outmatched. He drew a breath, lifted his voice just enough for the ring of onlookers to hear.
"A real man doesn't strike women," he said, clear and quick. "And you—warrior camp, yes? Strong, no doubt. Lay a hand on a young lady in front of the tribe and be the joke of the square?"
The deacon hesitated. A twelve-year-old wasn't supposed to talk like that. If he beat them both bloody, word would spread. The warrior camp already sat on a powder keg of resentment.
His raised hand stalled in midair, the moment hanging, ridiculous and heavy.
"Tch." He dropped his arm and glared. "At least you know how to beg for sense. I'm in a good mood. Get out of my sight."
"Zac!" Lyra tugged his hand. She knew there was nothing to gain by fighting—but leaving meant they starved.
"Sister Lyra… don't worry," Zaric murmured, giving her fingers a small squeeze. Then he faced the deacon again, forcing calm into his voice. "We'll go. But before we do—there's a small matter I'd like to consult you on…"
He smiled—thin, harmless. The square leaned in despite itself.