Aroha and Zhiyi were left momentarily stunned by the blacksmith's reaction, as though his words had struck harder than any hammer he wielded. They had expected suspicion, maybe irritation, perhaps even refusal, but not that kind of open hostility. The venom in his voice carried years of resentment, not something born of a single inconvenience or a fleeting misunderstanding. It made Aroha wonder just how deeply the Renoffs had carved themselves into the wounds of the capital. How much damage had been done for an entire man to recoil at their presence as if they were a disease.
The realization settled uneasily in her chest. The blacksmith had known what they were without being told. It had been instinctive, almost reflexive. They carried the unmistakable marks of pre blood Renoffs in the way they held themselves, in their posture, in their eyes, and perhaps in something deeper that could not be disguised no matter how far they ran. If one common craftsman could identify them so easily, then surely the guards would have noticed as well. That thought twisted into something darker.
Maybe they were not being chased only for stealing horses. Maybe that had simply been the excuse, the spark needed to justify unleashing long held bitterness. Most of the guards had pulled away already, disinterested once the pursuit lost its thrill, but one had remained stubbornly close. Aroha could almost feel his presence breathing down their backs. Perhaps he was the one who hated Renoffs the most.
Zhiyi let out a quiet scoff as they ran, the sound sharp and humorless. She had caused far more trouble than she had intended. It had only been a horse. And they had returned it. Back in Juza, no one would have reacted this way. Everyone knew everyone there. Borrowing something without permission only became an issue if it was never returned, and even then the matter was usually resolved with a conversation and a laugh.
Their parents names alone carried enough goodwill to smooth over most disputes. And when that was not enough, people tended to forgive Zhiyi easily. She had that effect on others. Almost everyone adored her. Those who did not were dismissed as bitter and irrelevant. But here, in the capital, none of that mattered. There was no familiarity, no shared history, no protective warmth of community. There was only distance and judgment and consequences that did not care how gentle your intentions had been. This was where life showed its teeth.
"Come on, we need to go," Aroha said, her voice tight as she tugged Zhiyi forward. "He is not going to change his mind."
The blacksmith's scowl had only deepened the longer they lingered, his eyes following them with something close to contempt. To him, they were not frightened girls looking for help. They were symbols of everything that had gone wrong.
Zhiyi, however, had seen something else entirely. Beneath the anger, she had felt pain, old and heavy and unresolved. His words had been sharp, but they trembled with something deeper, something that suggested loss rather than mere annoyance. His hatred of Renoffs did not feel empty.
It felt earned, shaped by experiences that had scarred him in ways time had not healed. Whatever had happened, it had nothing to do with them, yet they carried the weight of it all the same. That realization saddened her more than the rejection itself. A clan of healers was meant to ease suffering, not multiply it. As they fled the shack, Zhiyi turned back just long enough to speak. "We are sorry," she said, the words quiet but sincere.
They struck the blacksmith like an unexpected blow. He froze, his hand still gripping the edge of his anvil, his breath caught somewhere between anger and disbelief. No one had apologized to him in a very long time. No one of importance ever had. And certainly not someone of noble blood. For a brief moment, something inside him wavered.
But it was not enough. Not yet. The frustration he carried had been building for too long to be undone by a single sentence. He watched them disappear into the streets and turned back to his work, convincing himself that whatever fate awaited them was well deserved. Whatever they were running from, they had brought it upon themselves.
Aroha did not look back. She was too busy dragging Zhiyi through narrow streets and unfamiliar turns, her mind racing faster than her feet. Despite everything, she felt a flicker of pride at Zhiyi's apology. It was typical of her. Zhiyi was always like that, endlessly kind even when kindness was not returned. If Aroha had not been there to shield her, half the world would have walked all over her and Zhiyi would have smiled as if it did not hurt. She was gentle to a fault.
The reckless side of her only ever surfaced around Aroha, and Aroha treasured that. It meant Zhiyi trusted her enough to be unguarded. It meant she could step outside the narrow expectations imposed on her and simply exist. Aroha knew she should feel guilty for dragging her into trouble, but she did not. Instead, she felt justified. Freedom came at a cost, and that cost was consequence. Regret was just another form of submission, and Aroha had no intention of bowing her head. Zhiyi might already be regretting their choices, but even regret was a lesson. You could not taste freedom without accepting what followed.
They were fast, but speed alone was not enough. The capital was a maze of stone and noise and unfamiliar paths. Aroha barely registered the corner they turned before something slammed into Zhiyi from the side. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs and sent her sprawling to the ground. Aroha skidded to a halt, heart lurching as she turned.
The guard stood over Zhiyi, triumphant, his grip iron tight as he hauled her upright. A smug grin curled his lips, but the crowd gathering around them wore expressions of anticipation rather than concern. Whispers rippled through the onlookers. Pure blood Renoffs. What was a guard thinking treating them like that. Yet no one stepped forward. If anything, there was a collective sense of relief.
The Renoffs had long been untouchable, arrogant beyond even the royal Crofts to whom they swore loyalty. The people owed them nothing. This was a rare moment where power seemed to tilt, if only slightly. A mob emboldened by numbers was far more dangerous than any single man. The girls had no way of knowing it, but the crowd had already decided this was their chance to strike back without consequence.
Aroha felt her jaw tighten as she watched the guard handle Zhiyi with unnecessary force. He had caught them. That much was clear. Zhiyi was not even resisting. But his hands lingered too long, gripped too tightly, strayed where they had no right to be. Aroha's vision narrowed. Even their father Gero, calm and patient as he was, would not tolerate this.
"Hey," Aroha snapped, stepping closer. "You caught us. Fine. But what is with that look on your face."
The guard's grin widened, something ugly gleaming in his eyes. He was enjoying this. The realization made Aroha's blood boil. Her fists clenched, energy coiling beneath her skin, dangerous and familiar. Zhiyi felt it too and fear spiked through her.
"Aroha, please," Zhiyi said softly. "It is alright. I am fine. Do not hurt him. This will be over soon."
She was trying to save his life. The guard certainly did not know that. Instead, her calm only enraged him further.
Why was she not afraid? Why did she not beg or threaten him like the others? Did she think her status made her untouchable?
The question festered until it exploded. He struck her across the face, the sound sharp and shocking. Zhiyi fell hard, the world spinning as pain flared.
"You think you are better than us," he spat. "This will teach you your place."
He did not have time to process what happened next. Aroha was already there, her presence suffocating, her intent lethal.
He raised his sword on instinct, swinging wildly, but she caught the blade with her bare hand. It shattered instantly, metal breaking apart as if it had never been real. The guard's eyes widened in terror.
Death palm.
The realization came too late. Aroha struck him once, a controlled blow fueled by fury. Pain and fear overwhelmed him and he collapsed, unconscious before he hit the ground. Zhiyi scrambled up just in time to grab Aroha, pulling her back before she could strike again. The guard's face was already scorched, skin burned as though kissed by fire. It was enough. It had to be enough.
But their ordeal was far from over. The sound of boots echoed through the streets as more guards arrived, emboldened by the roar of the crowd. Spears lowered. Faces hardened. They were no longer girls. They were threats.
Aroha squared her shoulders. "There are twelve of them," she said quietly. "We can take them."
Zhiyi hesitated, fear and resolve warring within her. Then Aroha shouted, her voice ringing through the square.
"Are you going to let them look down on you again!"
The words struck home. This was no longer about running. It was about standing.
They charged.
What followed was chaos. In moments, guards were disarmed, weapons shattered, bodies scattered. The crowd watched in stunned silence as power reasserted itself. But the bells rang, loud and unforgiving. Reinforcements poured in. This time, they were outnumbered.
They stood their ground anyway.
Then a voice cut through the tension, calm and commanding.
"At ease. Those girls are royalty."
Aroha and Zhiyi turned, dread settling in their stomachs as they recognized the speaker.
Of all people.
Why him.