The sun hung low over Branthollow, painting the square in dull orange light. Merchants packed away their goods. The clatter of crates, the squeak of wagon wheels, and the tired chatter of villagers filled the air. The day's business was ending, but the scribes were still busy.
Three of them worked beneath their canopies, the glow of ink pots turning their tables eerie in the fading light. The cries of beasts had not stopped all day. Even now, another goat was dragged forward, bleating desperately. Two men held it down while a scribe pressed his iron needle into its chest. The smell of burning fur and skin drifted across the square.
Most villagers ignored it. To them, it was routine.
Draven walked past, hood drawn, his expression unreadable. He had seen enough contracts to last a lifetime. He was heading for the edge of the square when the sound of sobbing reached him.
He turned. Near the old stone well, a girl knelt over a goat. The animal was frail, its fur patchy, its legs trembling. Its eyes were half-closed, its breathing shallow. On its chest glowed a faint tattoo — weak, unstable, almost fading.
"Come on, Luma," the girl whispered, shaking it gently. "Please, get up. You'll be better soon."
A man stood behind her, arms crossed. His face was tired, hard. "Enough, Mira. It's done. Let it go."
"No!" the girl cried. "She just needs food! She can still live!"
The man raised a stick, his patience gone. "A weak beast is no beast. It wastes a slot."
The stick came down.
Draven's hand caught it before it struck.
The man jerked back in surprise. "What are you doing?"
Draven's voice was steady. "She's alive. That's enough."
The square quieted. Heads turned. Whispers spread.
"It's him again.""The fool.""Always getting in the way."
The man pulled at the stick, but Draven didn't release it. Finally, he let go with a curse. "Fine. If you want the damned thing, take it. One less mouth in my house." He turned and stalked away.
The girl wiped her tears and hugged the goat.
Draven crouched beside them. "What's her name?"
"Luma," the girl whispered.
Draven placed his hand on the goat's side. Its breathing was weak, but steady. He reached into his satchel, pulled out bread, and broke it into pieces. The goat chewed slowly, each bite easing the faint pulse of its tattoo.
The girl's face brightened. "See? She just needed food. She's strong."
Draven managed a small smile. "Strength isn't always loud. Sometimes it's quiet, waiting."
Behind him, laughter broke out. A group of young men leaned against a cart, watching.
"Kindness won't save that thing," one called. "Better to use your slot on something real."
"Like what?" another asked.
The first grinned. "A Noble. My uncle bound a hawk last spring. Talons sharp as blades. It cuts men down from the sky."
Another smirked. "I've seen a Noble hound. Flames right out of its jaws. Burned a bandit in half."
One more leaned in. "There are Nobles that heal wounds faster than they're made. Some call storms. Some command other beasts just by standing near them."
The group's eyes shone with excitement. "That's power. Not goats and pigs."
Draven turned slowly. "And what happens when that power refuses you?"
Silence. Then laughter.
"Refuses? Fool. A beast doesn't refuse. Not with the mark.""He thinks they're equals.""Maybe he'll marry one next."
The laughter spread. Even a scribe smirked at his table.
Draven looked at them all, then back at the goat. His hand lingered on its back. He spoke quietly, but the words carried.
"Fire, claws, storms, healing… those aren't power. Power is choice. One day, you'll see the difference."
The villagers shook their heads. To them, he was hopeless. To them, he was just the fool of Branthollow.
But to the girl beside him, clinging to her goat, Solen Draven was the only one who cared.