Chapter 4
The clang of hammers rang faintly through Ethille's narrow streets, mingling with the call of vendors and the clip of horseshoes on cobblestone. Though the city still bore scars of fire and blade, life pressed stubbornly onward. Masons patched broken walls, scaffolds creaking with each lift. Shopkeepers repainted charred signs, their brushes leaving streaks of vibrant color over blackened wood. The scent of fresh bread drifted from bakeries that had reopened at dawn, mingling with the aroma of roasting meats and sweet spices, promising normalcy even in the shadow of recent violence. The city was healing, slowly but surely, its spirit unbroken.
The Purge Knights walked among it all, their armor gleaming even beneath soot stained skies, symbols of hope and vigilance. Each step echoed against the narrow streets, a rhythmic reminder that Ethille's guardians had not abandoned her. They were a reassuring presence, their very existence a promise of safety and protection.
Azre and Nilda trailed behind the main company as Eldhar and the others dispersed to their duties. Neither knight was eager for idleness. For Azre, rest only brought memories of the dungeon's screams, the echoes of suffering that no sunlight could cleanse. She needed action, a purpose to drown out the haunting memories. For Nilda, stillness made her thoughts too sharp, too heavy, each calculation of potential danger spinning through her mind like a razor. She thrived on order and efficiency, finding solace in the structured chaos of the city.
"Markets will tell you more of a city than its palaces," Nilda murmured, adjusting her glasses with a precise motion that caught the sunlight, reflecting a small glint onto her rapier's hilt. "What people eat, what they haggle for, what luxuries they still cling to. It reveals everything." She spoke with a quiet authority, her eyes scanning the streets, analyzing the flow of people and goods.
Azre gave a faint smirk. "I thought you preferred libraries." She teased her friend gently, knowing that Nilda's love for books was rivaled only by her dedication to duty.
"I do. But a market is a library of people." Nilda countered, her lips curving into a rare smile. She saw the market as a living, breathing entity, a microcosm of society itself.
They turned a corner, and the marketplace of Ethille unfurled before them like a tapestry of sound, color, and motion. The air vibrated with the energy of commerce, the pulse of life itself.
Canvas awnings stretched overhead in a patchwork of crimson, teal, and gold. The air was dense with heat from too many bodies pressed close; shoulders brushed, carts rattled, and the mingling scents of sweat, spice, and livestock thickened with each breath. Stalls bristled with goods both humble and rare: baskets of orange tinged sunleaf herbs said to ease fevers, cages of tiny white birds whose feathers shimmered faintly when touched by sunlight, and bolts of dyed linen patterned with motifs of the river that wound around Ethille's walls. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze, flickering shadows across the cobbles where merchants haggled loudly and children darted between their legs. The scene was a vibrant kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and smells, a feast for the senses.
Most striking of all were the heaps of solvaris, golden fruits unique to this region. The fruit's skin gleamed like polished amber, its scent sweet with notes of honey and citrus. Every Ethillian knew solvaris as more than food; it was a symbol of resilience. Families offered them at shrines for loved ones or gifted them at weddings as blessings of endurance. To trample one was more than insult. It was sacrilege. It was a violation of their heritage, a desecration of their values.
Children wove between the stalls, chasing each other with carved wooden toys that rattled and clacked, their laughter ringing clear above the market noise. Women bartered in sharp tones, exchanging copper for baskets of roots, each word tinged with determination. They haggled fiercely, their voices rising and falling in a practiced rhythm. Old men argued over the quality of spice shipments, hands waving in animated gestures, their voices rising and falling in measured cadence. For a moment, Azre felt almost as if the shadows of cultists and marauders had never touched this city. The market seemed to pulse with life, its energy infectious, its spirit indomitable.
Almost. But the memory of Garin's death lingered, a shadow that no amount of sunlight could dispel.
Then fate shifted. The illusion of peace shattered, replaced by the harsh reality of Ethille's struggles.
A small body slammed into Azre's armored frame. She stiffened, looking down to find a boy no older than eight. His cheeks were streaked with dirt and tears, his tiny fists clinging to her gauntlet as though it were an anchor in a storm. He trembled uncontrollably, his eyes wide with fear.
"Please… help my father!" His voice cracked, breaking into sobs that carried across the nearby stalls. His plea was a desperate cry for help, a sound that cut through the noise of the market.
Azre immediately dropped to one knee, meeting his trembling gaze. "Where is he?" She spoke with a gentle authority, her eyes filled with concern.
The boy could only point with shaking hands toward the heart of the market. Nilda's sharp eyes followed the gesture, narrowing as her mind processed the scene before them. She assessed the situation with a practiced efficiency, her eyes scanning the crowd, identifying potential threats. Without hesitation, Azre rose.
"Nilda, take him. Run." She spoke with a quiet urgency, her eyes conveying the gravity of the situation.
Though her lips pressed tight with reluctance, Nilda gathered the boy gently into her arms, adjusting her glasses with one hand so they did not slip, the other resting lightly on her rapier hilt. "Hold on. We'll find him." Her stride quickened, boots pounding against the cobbles, metal clinking softly with each step. She moved with a purposeful grace, her eyes scanning the crowd, searching for the boy's father. Azre followed close, her jaw set like steel, muscles coiled for action. She was a force to be reckoned with, her every movement radiating strength and determination.
The square opened before them, and the boy's anguish was made flesh. The scene that unfolded was a stark contrast to the vibrant energy of the market, a brutal reminder of the darkness that lurked beneath the surface.
A fruit stall lay shattered, baskets overturned, golden solvaris rolling like suns dashed upon the stone. Two thugs towered over the scene: one with curling tattoos carved along his jawline, the other with a dark cloth knotted over his head and brow, a bandanna shadowing his scarred eyes. They were hulking figures, their faces hardened by years of violence and cruelty.
The merchant, the boy's father, knelt with bruised ribs, blood staining his tunic. He shielded his child with a trembling arm. He was a small, frail man, his body battered and bruised, but his spirit unbroken.
"You call this all you have?" Tattoo sneered, kicking a basket aside. "Pathetic. We said double." He spat on the ground, his eyes burning with contempt.
The father pushed forward his coin pouch, voice ragged. "Please… take it. Just spare my boy." He pleaded with them, his voice filled with desperation.
But the scarred man with the bandanna only laughed, brandishing a dagger. "Then we'll take the brat instead." He lunged forward, his eyes fixed on the boy.
The father shoved his son back, shouting hoarsely, "Run! Get help!" He sacrificed himself to protect his son, his love a shield against the thugs' brutality.
The boy stumbled straight into Nilda's arms. He clung to her tightly, his body trembling with fear.
Azre's eyes swept the wreckage. Her blood roared. She felt a surge of anger, a burning desire to protect the innocent and punish the wicked.
The bandits turned, mocking grins curling. "Well, well. Knights. Guess the city's dogs finally barked." They sneered at them, their eyes filled with contempt and arrogance.
Tattoo crushed a solvaris beneath his heel, golden pulp staining the stones. He ground his heel into the fruit, defiling a symbol of Ethille's resilience.
Azre's fury surged hot, but Nilda acted first. She recognized the danger, the potential for escalation, and moved to defuse the situation with a calculated precision.
She lowered the boy gently, her rapier whispering free of its sheath. The crystalline blade caught the sunlight, scattering fractured light across the scene. Her voice rang out, calm, elegant, and precise, yet edged with authority. She spoke with a quiet confidence, her words carrying the weight of her position and her skill.
"You dare trample a Fenriz heirloom fruit?" She adjusted her glasses with a small, practiced flick. "For that alone, you will answer to me." She issued a challenge, her eyes fixed on the thugs, her body poised for action.
Unease flickered in the thugs' eyes at the name Fenriz. They recognized the name, the power and influence it represented.
Tattoo lunged, blade flashing. Nilda sidestepped with liquid grace, skirts whispering as she pivoted. Her boot slammed into his gut, hurling him backward. He hit the cobbles wheezing, Nilda's rapier hovering at his throat. Her movements were fluid and deadly, her every action precise and calculated. "Checkmate," she murmured, her heel pinning him down. She held him captive, her rapier a silent threat.
The bandanna wearing brute snarled, eyes darting to the boy. "Fine, then I will take him!" He lunged forward, his eyes burning with malice.
Azre's wrath ignited. She caught his wrist mid thrust. Bone cracked audibly beneath her iron grip. The thug screamed as his dagger fell. Azre leaned in, her voice molten steel. "You dare lay hands on him?" She spoke with a quiet fury, her eyes blazing with righteous anger.
The townsfolk, who had cowered moments before, erupted into cheers. Shouts rang across the square, courage rekindled by the knights' defiance. They were inspired by the knights' bravery, their hope rekindled by their presence.
Then came the thunder of boots. The ground trembled as reinforcements arrived.
Captain Eldhar stormed in with Aven and Viera at his side, militia flooding the square. "Stand down, filth!" Eldhar roared, his voice like a warhorn. He commanded the scene, his presence a symbol of authority and order.
The thugs faltered. Those still standing fled, only to be seized by militia. The square erupted with jubilation, citizens praising the Purge Knights, voices carrying hope through streets that had known only fear. They cheered their saviors, their voices filled with gratitude and relief.
When the clamor softened, Azre and Nilda remained with the boy and his father. Together, they gathered the ruined baskets, salvaging what solvaris they could. They worked side by side, their actions a symbol of unity and compassion. The merchant bowed low, voice choked. "You saved not only me, but my son. My life belongs to you." He offered them his gratitude, his heart filled with relief and appreciation.
The boy stepped forward shyly, two small solvaris cradled in his hands. His eyes shone as he held them out. "Please… take these. So you will remember us." He offered them a gift, a token of his gratitude.
Nilda accepted hers with composed grace, slipping it into her satchel as though filing away a rare jewel. Her lips pressed thin, her glasses catching the light. "Thank you. It will be kept safe." She accepted the gift with a quiet dignity, her eyes conveying her appreciation.
Azre crouched to meet his gaze. She ruffled his hair, her smile unguarded, warm as sunlight. "I'll treasure it. And you, be strong. Take care of your father." She offered him words of encouragement, her heart filled with compassion.
The boy beamed, clinging to his father as they turned to leave with what little remained of their wares. They walked away hand in hand, their spirits lifted by the knights' kindness.
Eldhar approached, his voice carrying pride. "You showed Ethille the true meaning of knighthood. Protecting those who cannot protect themselves, that is our oath made flesh." He looked at them with admiration, his eyes reflecting his respect and gratitude.
Even Viera, sharp eyed and stern, offered a rare smile. "The people will not forget this. Nor will I." She acknowledged their bravery, her eyes conveying her appreciation.
Azre and Nilda exchanged a glance. Different as night and day, yet in this moment bound by the same fire. They shared a bond, a commitment to justice and compassion that transcended their differences.
As cheers rolled through the market, the golden fruit gleamed in the fading sun, a symbol of resilience unbroken. Beyond Ethille's walls, shadows still stirred, and the Black Fang's mark awaited. The threat of violence still lingered, a reminder that their work was far from over.
The true war had only just begun. The battle for Ethille's soul was far from won.