The morning sun spilled across the rooftops of Birmingham , turning the thatched eaves to gold and washing the cobblestone streets with a warm glow. A thin mist still clung to the edges of the forest that ringed the village, curling like breath from an unseen giant. Merchants shouted in the square, hawking bread that steamed in the cool air, copper trinkets polished until they gleamed, and bolts of dyed cloth that fluttered like banners. Life in Birmingham was ordinary, predictable, almost timeless.
Darrel loved it for that very reason.
He jogged down the main street, dodging a woman balancing baskets of apples and leaping over a sleepy hound stretched across the stones. His dark hair clung to his forehead with sweat, though he had only just left home. In one hand he carried a wooden practice sword, the grip wrapped in a strip of faded blue cloth.
Waiting for him at the edge of the square was Marcus.
Marcus was taller by a head, with sandy-blond hair and a grin that seemed permanently stitched onto his face. Where Darrel's frame was lean and wiry from farm work, Marcus was broader, the kind of boy who never seemed to lose a wrestling match. Yet for all his strength, he carried himself lightly, as though the world was a stage and he its favored actor.
"You're late again," Marcus called, leaning against the fence post that marked the path toward the fields. He tossed a pebble in the air and caught it, his gray eyes sparkling.
Darrel skidded to a halt, breathing hard. "I'm not late. The sun hasn't even cleared the mill yet."
Marcus smirked. "By my reckoning, you're two heartbeats behind. If we were soldiers, you'd be dead before you'd drawn your blade."
Darrel rolled his eyes, raising the wooden sword. "Then perhaps you'd like to test that theory."
The grin widened. "Always."
They crossed into the meadow where the grass grew waist-high, the sound of insects buzzing between the stalks. Here, beyond the square and away from the eyes of elders, they trained as they had for years. Not because they had to—Birmingham was a quiet village, far from the border wars whispered about in the taverns—but because boys dreamed of battles, of glory, of becoming something more than their fathers.
Marcus lunged first, swinging his practice sword in a wide arc. Darrel ducked, the strike whistling over his head. He jabbed forward, catching Marcus on the ribs. The taller boy grunted, stumbling back, then laughed.
"Lucky strike."
"Skill," Darrel corrected, though a smile tugged at his lips.
The clash of wood filled the meadow as they sparred, quick feet crushing grass, blades smacking with hollow thuds. Darrel's arms burned with the effort, but exhilaration drove him forward. Here, with Marcus, the world narrowed to the rhythm of combat, the friendly rivalry that had always bound them.
When at last they collapsed in the grass, panting and laughing, the sun had climbed higher, burning away the mist. Darrel lay back, staring at the endless blue sky.
"One day," Marcus said between breaths, "we'll leave this place. We'll see the cities with towers that touch the clouds. We'll fight battles that songs will remember."
Darrel turned his head. "And if we never come back?"
"Then we'll have lived more than anyone here ever will." Marcus's voice held a certainty that stirred something deep within Darrel—a yearning he rarely admitted aloud.
They had made such promises before, childish oaths whispered under the stars or carved into the bark of trees. Still, each time Marcus spoke of their future, Darrel believed him a little more.
"Brothers," Marcus said, extending his hand.
Darrel clasped it without hesitation. "Brothers."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the rustle of grass and the distant call of a hawk. Darrel felt the weight of the word in his chest. He trusted Marcus more than anyone—more than his father who always found fault, more than his siblings who mocked his daydreams. Marcus was his anchor, his shield against the world's scorn.
But as the hawk wheeled overhead, Marcus's gaze lingered on Darrel with something unreadable—something that made the air shiver.
The day wore on with the bustle of the festival preparations. Birmingham 's Harvest Feast was the pride of the year, when every family brought forth their best grain, meat, and ale. Stalls lined the square, garlands of autumn leaves strung across wooden beams. Children darted between tables, stealing sweets until the mothers' scolding rang through the air.
Darrel followed Marcus through the crowd, the scent of roasted boar and spiced cider filling his senses. Laughter rippled everywhere, and for once, Darrel felt at ease.
"Look at them," Marcus muttered, nodding toward a group of older boys near the well. "Strutting like cockerels. They think they're men because they swing hammers for their fathers."
Darrel stiffened. He knew the boys—knew too well how their jests cut. He still remembered the sting of their taunts when he stumbled during training, the way his family laughed when stories of his clumsiness spread.
"Let them be," Darrel said quietly. "Today's meant for celebrating."
Marcus's grin returned, though sharper this time. "And what's a celebration without a little sport?"
Before Darrel could answer, Marcus raised his voice. "Ho there, Marcus! Care for a wager? I'll bet you five silvers my friend here can best you blindfolded."
Darrel's stomach dropped. "Marcus, what are you—"
"Trust me." Marcus's eyes gleamed with mischief.
The older boys jeered, but Marcus, broad-shouldered and brash, stepped forward. "Blindfolded, eh? I'll take that bet. But when I knock him flat, don't cry foul."
The crowd turned eager, forming a circle. Someone tied a cloth across Darrel's eyes despite his protests. The world vanished into blackness, sounds swelling around him—laughter, whispers, the shuffle of feet. His heart hammered.
"Relax," Marcus's voice whispered close to his ear. "Listen to me. Hear only me."
Something in his tone shifted, soft yet commanding. The words slid deeper than they should, weaving into Darrel's thoughts like threads pulling tight. His muscles slackened. His breathing slowed.
"Move left," Marcus murmured. Darrel obeyed before he realized it.
"Raise your arm." His hand lifted, wooden sword poised.
The crowd gasped as Marcus's swing missed by a breath. Darrel countered, guided by Marcus's steady whisper. The blade struck true, knocking Marcus stumbling back. Cheers erupted.
Yet Darrel barely heard them. His mind floated, detached, each motion not his own but tethered to Marcus's voice. The laughter of the crowd blurred, twisting, swelling until it no longer sounded like joy but mockery.
When at last the blindfold was ripped away, Darrel blinked against the light. Marcus lay on the ground, groaning, and the crowd roared approval. But as Darrel turned to Marcus, expecting that familiar grin of brotherhood, what he saw instead chilled him.
Marcus's eyes gleamed with something more than pride—something darker, satisfied, as though he had proven a secret only he knew.
Darrel's stomach knotted. For the first time, he wondered if "brotherhood" was truly what bound them… or if Marcus had just tightened the first thread of a snare.