Birmingham never looked brighter than on the day of the Harvest Feast.
By midmorning, the square was already alive with color and noise. Banners dyed in reds and golds flapped above the stalls, each embroidered with symbols of the harvest—sheaves of wheat, curling vines heavy with grapes, and the crescent moon that the villagers believed watched over their crops. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meats and sweet pies cooling on windowsills.
Darrel wove his way through the crowd, his wooden sword now strapped across his back more as an ornament than a weapon. Children ran laughing between the booths, faces sticky with honey. Fiddlers played on raised platforms, their lively tunes echoing off the stone walls of the square. For a moment, it felt as if every hardship of the year—the storms, the drought, the endless toil—was forgotten.
He should have been happy.
Yet Darrel felt a stone lodged in his chest. The memory of the blindfolded duel lingered like a shadow, the sound of Marcus's voice threading through his mind even now. Move left. Raise your arm. He had obeyed without thought, as though the words had dug hooks into his very bones.
"Darrel!"
He turned to see his younger sister, Amanda, darting through the throng. Her dark braids bounced as she ran, her small hands clutching a half-eaten pastry.
"Mother says you're to help with the tables," she announced, eyes shining. Then, with a mischievous grin, she added, "Though I don't know why. You'll only trip and spill everything like last year."
Darrel scowled, but before he could answer, laughter erupted behind Amanda. Their older brother, Jonah, strode forward, carrying a barrel of ale on one shoulder.
"Don't waste your breath, Amanda. Darrel's only good for daydreaming and chasing after Marcus." Jonah's smirk was wide, cruel. "Better hope your 'brother-in-arms' keeps cleaning up your messes."
Heat flared in Darrel's cheeks. He clenched his fists but said nothing. He was used to Jonah's mockery, used to being the weaker one, the boy who didn't quite belong in his own family. Still, the words stung sharper today, cutting into the uneasy thoughts already gnawing at him.
"Leave him," Marcus's voice cut in, smooth as silk. He stepped from the crowd, slipping easily into the circle of Darrel's family. His presence seemed to draw every eye, his grin disarming, his posture relaxed as though nothing in the world could trouble him. "Darrel's worth more than all the ale barrels in Birmingham . Isn't that right, Darrel?"
Darrel opened his mouth, but no words came. Under Marcus's gaze, his anger softened, replaced with something that felt dangerously close to relief. He nodded mutely.
Jonah rolled his eyes and carried the barrel away, muttering something under his breath. Amanda scampered after him, leaving Darrel alone with Marcus.
"You shouldn't let them talk to you like that," Marcus said quietly, his smile fading. "They don't see what I see."
Darrel swallowed. "And what's that?"
"A fighter," Marcus said without hesitation. "A brother. Someone who'll rise above all of this." He gestured broadly to the bustling square, as if dismissing the entire village with a flick of his hand. "Trust me, Darrel. They'll laugh now, but one day, they'll choke on their own words."
The conviction in his tone made Darrel's chest tighten. For years, Marcus had been his shield, the one person who believed in him. Yet beneath the comfort, unease stirred again. Trust. Marcus always asked for trust.
By afternoon, the festival was at its height. Tables groaned under platters of roasted pheasant, spiced lamb, and loaves of bread still warm from the ovens. Jugs of mead passed from hand to hand as music swelled and dancers spun in dizzying circles.
Darrel sat near the edge of the square, watching the revelry. He tried to let the joy soak into him, but laughter always seemed to twist against his ears, echoing the cruel jeers he had endured the day before. He felt apart, like a shadow pressed against the edge of the light.
Marcus found him there.
"You sit alone while the world celebrates?" Marcus asked, lowering himself onto the bench. "That isn't the Darrel I know."
Darrel shrugged. "Maybe you don't know me as well as you think."
Marcus chuckled softly. "I know you better than anyone. I know you crave respect. I know you want to prove them all wrong. And I know"—he leaned closer, voice dropping to a murmur—"that you trust me to show you how."
Darrel's skin prickled. The words curled into his ears, warm and commanding. He wanted to pull away, yet his body leaned closer of its own accord. Marcus's gray eyes held him fast, their depth swallowing his doubts.
"Close your eyes," Marcus whispered.
Darrel hesitated. Around them, the festival roared on, oblivious. Music, laughter, the clink of mugs—all faded into the background as Marcus's words pressed heavier.
"Close them," Marcus repeated.
Darrel obeyed.
"Breathe. Hear only me." Marcus's voice was low, steady, each syllable threading deeper. "You are not weak. You are not their fool. You are strength unshaped, waiting for the hammer's strike. And I—your brother—will be the hammer."
Darrel's chest rose and fell slowly. The tension in his limbs drained. Images flickered in his mind: himself standing tall, sword raised, the villagers cheering—not mocking. And beside him, always, Marcus.
"Yes," Marcus murmured, satisfaction curling in his tone. "That's it. Trust me, Darrel. With me, you will never be the fool again."
Darrel opened his eyes. The world snapped back, the sounds of the festival crashing in like a wave. His heart raced, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple.
Marcus smiled, casual once more, as though nothing had happened. "Come. There's a fire-breather at the south end of the square. You'll like it."
Darrel followed numbly, unsure whether he had just dreamed or if Marcus had truly wrapped invisible chains around his mind.
Night fell, and torches lit the square in flickering orange. Villagers gathered in a wide circle to watch the performers. Jugglers tossed flaming torches, dancers spun with ribbons of fire, and at last, a man in a crimson cloak stepped forward. He drew in a deep breath, then exhaled a plume of flame that roared into the sky. Cheers shook the square.
Darrel clapped along, though his mind was elsewhere. Marcus stood beside him, smiling faintly, yet his eyes remained fixed on Darrel rather than the fire.
As the flames died and the crowd dispersed, Marcus leaned close once more.
"Do you feel it?" he asked softly.
Darrel blinked. "Feel what?"
"The bond. Stronger now than ever." Marcus's voice was velvet, but beneath it pulsed steel. "We are brothers, Darrel. Not by blood, but by something greater. And soon, everyone will know it."
Darrel nodded slowly, though unease coiled tighter in his chest. He wanted to believe, needed to believe—but a whisper inside him asked whether this bond was forged in trust… or in chains he could not yet see.