The heavy iron door of the City Watch holding cells slammed shut with a sound like a coffin lid closing.
Leo and Maya stumbled out into the blinding morning light, shielding their eyes. They smelled of damp straw and regret.
Standing before them, looking like a statue carved from judgment itself, was Gareth.
He wasn't alone. Flanking him were Old Man Miller, his flour-dusted apron looking starkly out of place against the gray city stones, and Jon the Blacksmith, clutching his hammer as if he expected a fight. A small group of Oakhaven villagers stood behind them, looking exhausted and terrified of the bustling capital.
Gareth didn't yell. He didn't wave his walking stick. He just stood there, holding a small, empty leather pouch in his hand. It was the pouch he had kept hidden under the floorboards of his cottage for twenty years—his life savings. Every copper earned from a good harvest, every silver coin from a carved toy sold at the market.
Gone. Handed over to a bored desk sergeant to pay the "Nuisance Tax" for two runaways.
"Uncle Gareth," Leo started, his voice cracking. "We... we can explain."
Gareth ignored him. He stepped forward, his eyes scanning the street behind them, then the rooftops, then the shadows of the alleyway.
"Where is he?" Gareth asked. His voice was quiet, terrifyingly so.
Maya bit her lip, looking at her boots. "We got separated at the market. The guards... they cornered us. Arthur ran. He drew them away so we wouldn't get in trouble."
"He ran," Gareth repeated. The color drained from his face, leaving it gray and old. "Alone? In this city?"
"He's fast," Leo offered weakly. "And strong. He probably found a barn to sleep in. He's fine, Uncle. Arthur can take care of himself."
"You possess the wisdom of a turnip," Gareth snapped, turning his gaze on Leo. "Arthur is not just a boy lost in a market. If the wrong people see him... if they see what he is..."
He stopped himself, realizing he had said too much in front of the Miller and the Blacksmith.
"What he is?" Jon the Blacksmith frowned, resting his hammer on his shoulder. "What do you mean, Gareth? The lad's strong, sure, but he's just Arthur."
Gareth gripped his walking stick until his knuckles turned white. "He is a boy with no coin, no sense, and a habit of swinging axes at things he doesn't understand. Now move. We are finding him before the sun sets."
The search was a grueling march through a city that felt less like a capital and more like a labyrinth.
The villagers stuck close together, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of Aethelgard. To them, a crowd of fifty was a festival; here, a crowd of fifty was just a line for bread.
For Leo and Maya, despite the fear, the city was still a wonder. As they walked through the Artisan District, Leo couldn't help but gawk at the smiths hammering glowing blue steel. Maya stopped to stare at a library that was three stories tall, her fingers twitching with the urge to touch the books.
"Look at that!" Leo pointed to a group of knights riding past on horses clad in silver barding. "Royal Guards! Look at those capes!"
"Keep your head down," Gareth hissed, grabbing Leo's collar and yanking him away from the road. "Don't look them in the eye."
"Why?" Leo grumbled, dusting himself off. "They're the good guys."
If you knew what those swords have done, Gareth thought bitterly, you would run.
Gareth saw a different city than the children did. He didn't see marvels; he saw threats. He saw the way the city watchmen watched the crowds with suspicion. He saw the black banners of the upcoming festival masking the crumbling mortar of the walls.
Every time a tall, broad-shouldered youth walked by, Gareth's heart leaped, only to crash when he saw a stranger's face.
"We should split up," the Miller suggested, wiping sweat from his brow. "Jon and I can check the stables near the South Gate."
"No," Gareth said sharply. "We stay together. This city eats strays."
I failed him, Gareth thought, the guilt gnawing at his stomach like a rat. I promised. 'Keep him safe. Keep him hidden. Let him be a farmer, not a fighter.'
He remembered the day he took Arthur in. The bundle was so small, wrapped in a cloak stained with soot. The boy had his father's eyes. The eyes of a warrior.
Gareth had spent eighteen years trying to dull that shine. He had forbidden swordplay. He had discouraged adventure. He had tried to make the boy boring.
And now, the boy was loose in the very pit of vipers Gareth had fled from.
"Uncle Gareth," Maya's voice broke his spiral. "We've checked the market, the lower district, and the stables. He's not here."
"Then we check the upper district," Gareth said, wiping sweat from his brow.
"The Upper District?" Jon the Blacksmith laughed nervously. "Gareth, look at us. We smell of manure and hay. That's where the nobles live. They have gates. And guards with pikes. They won't let a bunch of peasants in just to look for a boy."
Gareth looked up toward the towering white walls of the inner circle, where the castle spires pierced the sky. He felt a cold weight in his pocket—not the empty coin pouch, but something else. Something he had stitched into the lining of his tunic years ago, praying he would never have to use it.
"We will find a way," Gareth said, his voice hard as iron.
"But how?" the Miller asked, wringing his hands. "We don't have any money left for bribes."
Gareth looked at the villagers and the children. They were tired, scared, and looking to him for answers. He couldn't be just a farmer today. He had to be what he used to be.
"We don't need money," Gareth said, adjusting his grip on his staff. He stood up straighter, the stoop in his back vanishing. He looked toward the castle gates with a familiarity that unsettled Jon.
"We just need to remind them who built their walls."
"What?" Leo blinked.
"Nothing," Gareth turned away. "Come. I know a soldier at the North Gate. If anyone has seen a boy running from the law, it will be the gatekeepers."
They followed him, confused by the sudden change in the old man. As they walked, Gareth kept one hand on his chest, pressing against the hidden badge beneath the fabric.
Forgive me, Alaric, Gareth prayed silently. I swore I would never enter this capital again. But for him just today... I will burn my oath to ash.