Vernh walked away calmly, the sound of his footsteps the only noise in the silent alley. He raised the bottle, tilting it for the last swig of cheap beer, a small and fleeting comfort. The liquid barely had time to touch his throat. A sudden, violent impact struck him in the back. The air was knocked from his lungs in a surprised grunt, and he was thrown forward, landing awkwardly on the dirty stones. The bottle shattered, the sharp sound of breaking glass echoing like a gunshot.
With a growl, he turned, fury sparking in his red eyes. Behind him, Tom was landing with feline agility, regaining his balance after delivering a flying kick with both legs.
"Hey! What's your problem, brat?!" Vernh shouted, genuine anger in his voice—not from the fall, but from the tragic loss of his drink.
"I should be asking what your problem is!" Tom exploded, all his composure shattering into a torrent of raw emotion. "You show up out of nowhere! You humiliate me in every way possible! You keep telling me what I am and what I'm not! Who are you to judge others like that?!" He screamed, an accusing finger trembling in Vernh's direction, his face red and his eyes shining with tears of pure frustration.
Vernh watched him for a moment, his own fury dissipating as he witnessed the boy's collapse. "Hey… where'd that whole 'I'm a man' attitude from before go?" he commented, his voice devoid of reaction as he watched the boy descend into hysterics. He slowly got to his feet. "My bad, my bad… I know I went too far…" he said, but the tone was so indifferent it sounded more like an insult than an apology.
"An apology isn't enough!" Tom proclaimed, his voice choked.
"Right, right…" Vernh sighed, dusting off his already grimy clothes. "It's just that I felt it from you… that appearance of yours, and you don't seem happy with it either—"
His words were cut short.
"Wait. You said 'felt'?" Tom interrupted, the rage in his eyes suddenly replaced by a curious and intense confusion.
Vernh froze. His eyes darted to the side for a split second. "Oops, said too much…" he muttered, trying to adopt an expression that said, 'I didn't say anything.' "I think I'd better be going…"
"Wait!" Tom exclaimed. In a blur of motion, he appeared in front of Vernh, blocking his path with open arms. The speed caught the older man by surprise. "You are one, aren't you?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about…" Vernh replied, his voice now serious and cold, trying to move past the boy.
"You're a Sage, too." Tom didn't ask. He stated it, turning to face the man's back, who had stopped abruptly upon hearing the word.
Vernh let out a humorless laugh. "Look, I am wise, I'm old, after all."
"THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT!" Tom shouted, exasperated.
"It's an insult to real Sages to call me one," Vernh muttered, more to himself than to Tom.
Ignoring the comment, Tom approached, stopping a few feet away. He lifted his face, and the childish frustration had vanished, replaced by an expression of unshakeable seriousness and determination.
"I want you to come with me," he declared.
Vernh stood quietly, observing the boy's face, genuinely confused. "What?"
"I came from Faraam, searching for the Crown of Celes—" Tom's words were drowned out by a peal of laughter. It wasn't a mocking chuckle; it was a grotesque, loud explosion of pure scorn. Vernh doubled over, clutching his stomach as he guffawed, the sound echoing brutally in the alley.
"What? Crown of… Celeste?" he managed to get out between gasps of laughter.
Tom's face turned scarlet again, his determination melting into shame. "It exists! I know it exists!"
"Hold on! Let me breathe…" Vernh begged, taking a gulp of air and composing himself with effort. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. "Are you telling me you came from Faraam… searching for an artifact from children's bedtime stories?"
"When you put it like that…" Tom looked away, embarrassed. "But I know it exists! I've seen it!"
"How did you see it, exactly?" Vernh asked, his curiosity seeming genuine for an instant.
"You believe me?" Tom's eyes shone with hope.
"No. But I thought I should ask," he replied, his voice returning to its monotonous, empty state. He turned again to leave.
"You're a mercenary, aren't you?" Tom yelled, desperate. "I can pay! I'll pay for your services!"
"And I deny your job…" Vernh answered without turning back. He stopped, took a deep breath, and looked at Tom over his shoulder. "But why would you want me to join you? To search for a mythological artifact?"
"It wasn't just that…" Tom admitted, his gaze guilty. "I also need strong people to help me with the Sentinels' case in this city."
The atmosphere changed instantly. Vernh turned completely, his body rigid. "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Hold on!" he said, holding up both hands as if to stop a physical attack. "You're with the Sentinels of the Forces?"
"Yes, what about it? Don't I look worthy of being a Sentinel?" Tom retorted, frustration returning to his voice.
"That's not it," the mockery had completely vanished from Vernh's face. His expression was as hard as stone. "Before, I was going to deny your job. Now, I am denying your job. See you." He turned with a finality that wasn't there before.
"Huh? Why?!" Tom protested, confused by the violent reaction.
"I don't get involved with the Sentinels, girl," his voice was a warning.
Tom ran once more, stopping in front of him. "This 'girl' thing again…"
"Why? Why aren't you interested? You're strong! You're a Sage! Why do you refuse so strongly?" Tom's voice was a mixture of confusion and pleading. He just couldn't understand.
Vernh sighed, a heavy, weary sound, and ran a hand over his face. "Look, not everyone wants their deeds noticed," he said, his voice laden with an ancient exhaustion. "And I don't feel like playing babysitter, either…"
"I can take care of myself!" Tom protested.
"I know you can… That's not what I meant…" Vernh stared at him, and his eyes fixed on Tom's expression: the childish pout, the angry eyes, the cheeks puffed with a restrained groan of frustration. Suddenly, he stopped being a boy who looks like a girl and became a girl with masculine features… Vernh thought.
"I see you don't care about keeping up your disguise anymore," he commented aloud.
"Would it change anything?" Tom retorted, exasperated. "You've been calling me a girl this whole time. Not to mention you said you 'felt' it!"
"Actually, I felt it because you don't like the appearance you have. Anyone would feel that."
The statement hit Tom like a punch to the gut. "What do you mean?" she whispered, her voice suddenly fragile.
Vernh looked at her, and for the first time, there was no mockery or boredom in his eyes, only a cruel, honest calm. "If you want to disguise yourself as a man, you first need to see yourself as one."
It was the final blow. The strength seemed to drain from Tom's legs. She crumpled, falling to her knees on the cold stones, and covered her face with her hands. Her voice came out trembling, broken by a deep agony, a sense of guilt for her own foolishness. The farce she hated so much wasn't just the appearance she wore, but the doubt she carried within.
The sound of Tom's muffled sobs was a sharp blade in the alley's silence. Vernh stood frozen, the cynicism that was his usual armor crumbling to dust. The victory in his little game of provocations now tasted bitter, like ash in his mouth. He no longer saw a stubborn brat, but a broken child, drowning in a pain that he himself had deepened.
I think I went too far… he thought, regret—a strange and unwelcome sensation—settling in his chest. "Sorry, girl…" he said, his voice hoarse, the words coming out with a difficulty that surprised him.
"Shut up!" her voice came from behind her hands, muffled and choked. "I've tried everything! I'm always trying to change it!" she cried, each word a sob of agony.
As she spoke, something began to draw Vernh's attention. A disturbance in the air, subtle as heat haze rising from pavement. Despite having always known the truth about the kid, physically, he still saw a slender boy. But now, that was no longer the case.
It started with the hair. The scarlet strands, cut in a military style, began to lengthen. It wasn't a rapid growth, but a slow, unnatural flow, inches unfurling as if time were accelerating just for them. Simultaneously, the roots of her hair lost their color, bleaching into a pure snow that spread from her scalp, a sign of magical stress so intense it manifested physically.
The change spread across her body. The lean, wiry silhouette began to redefine itself. Her shoulders seemed to narrow subtly, and a softness emerged at her hips, framing small, feminine curves beneath the coarse fabric of her clothes. The farce wasn't just falling apart; it was being unmade by an inner power her anguish had unleashed.
"Hey… You…" Vernh murmured, his eyes wide. His brain, accustomed to bar brawls and blade threats, couldn't process the scene. This was magic, an unstable and dangerous transmutation. He raised a hand—an instinctive, confused gesture, a genuine attempt to help, to stabilize whatever was happening.
His hand never reached her.
A purple blur cut through the air, appearing between them with a displacement of air that kicked up dust from the ground. In a single blink, the weeping girl was no longer on her knees.
"Hey! Let me go!" she protested, her voice still tearful, now in the arms of a man wrapped in a purple overcoat with intricate gold details. A loose hood shadowed his face, revealing only short, black hair and a pair of sharp eyes with vertical, feline pupils. A forced smile, far too polite for this place, was plastered on his face.
"Gunder!" the girl screamed, pounding on his chest to no effect.
"Forgive me for the disconcerting acts my adorable charge has caused," Gunder said, his voice calm and polished. He gave Vernh a deep bow, a gesture of respect that was completely out of place. "Now, if you'll excuse us!"
"What?" was all Vernh could manage, his mind still racing to catch up to the speed of events.
With impossible agility, Gunder, still holding the struggling girl, dropped a small, heavy pouch of coins into Vernh's outstretched hand. Before Vernh's fingers could even close, Gunder was already turning, running, and vanishing into the gray darkness of the lower city, the screams and slaps of his "charge" echoing and then fading into the metal labyrinth.
Vernh was left perplexed, standing in the middle of the alley. The warmth and weight of the coins in his hand were the only proof that the encounter hadn't been an alcohol-induced hallucination. He looked at the leather pouch, then into the darkness where the strange pair had disappeared.
But he remembered. In that split second, in the instant the man in purple had appeared, their eyes had met. There was no time for words, but the exchange was complete, a mutual and instinctive assessment that transcended the need for speech.
In that moment, both Vernh and Gunder realized the same thing. Their eyes narrowed in a silent, absolute understanding.
That man… he's dangerous.