The Street of Steel rang with the music of a thousand hammers.
It was the only part of the capital that smelled entirely of coal dust and hot iron. Here, the buildings were soot-stained brick, and the heat radiating from the open forges was enough to curl hair.
Arthur walked through the chaos, eyes wide. Beside him walked Sergeant Kael, a relaxed, chewing-tobacco-spitting veteran of the City Watch whom Commander Richard had assigned as Arthur's "guide" (read: babysitter).
"Close your mouth, lad," Kael chuckled, spitting a wad of black leaf into a gutter. "You'll swallow a fly. Or a spark."
"It's just..." Arthur ran his hand over a rack of polished halberds outside a shop. "There's so much of it. In Oakhaven, we have one blacksmith, and he mostly fixes plows."
"War requires steel," Kael shrugged. "And Aethelgard has been quiet for too long. Iron gets rusty when it isn't used. Come on. The Commander said you needed a practice sword that wouldn't shatter when you looked at it."
They stopped at a stall run by a dwarf with a beard braided into three distinct knots. On the table lay rows of swords—longswords, broadswords, rapiers thin as needles.
Arthur reached out. The hum in his blood woke up, buzzing against his fingertips.
He picked up a sturdy infantry sword. It felt... dead. A lump of metal. He put it down and picked up a heavy mace. Too clumsy.
"Picky, aren't you?" the dwarf grunted.
"It's not that," Arthur muttered. "They just feel... empty."
"Empty?" Kael raised an eyebrow. "It's a sword, kid. Not a philosophy book. Just pick one that's sharp."
Arthur sighed, gripping a simple bastard sword. It wasn't perfect—it didn't sing like the black sword in his dreams, or hum like the air around Conrad—but it was balanced. He gave it a test swing, the blade slicing the air with a satisfying woosh.
"Arthur!"
The shout was faint, drowned out by the clang of a nearby anvil.
Arthur paused mid-swing. He frowned, looking over his shoulder at the crushing throng of people moving through the market square.
"Did you hear that?" Arthur asked.
Kael looked around, hand resting lazily on his pommel. "Hear what? The screaming merchant? The braying donkey? The other screaming merchant?"
Arthur scanned the crowd. For a second, he thought he saw a flash of familiar brown hair—Leo's messy mop—bobbing between two ox carts.
"I thought I heard my name," Arthur said, his heart skipping a beat. "Leo? Maya?"
"Probably just the wind," Kael clapped a heavy hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Come on. If we're late for the afternoon drill, Richard will have me running laps. And I don't run."
Arthur hesitated. He looked back one last time. The crowd shifted, revealing nothing but strangers. He shook his head, guilt pricking at him again.
"Right," Arthur said, buying the sword with the coin Erika had given him. "Let's go."
Fifty yards away, Gareth was fighting a war against the tide of humanity.
"I saw him!" Leo shouted, jumping up to see over the heads of the crowd. "He was right there! By the dwarf's stall!"
"Arthur!" Maya screamed, but her voice was swallowed by the noise of a passing carriage loaded with barrels of ale.
Gareth shoved past a man selling carpets, ignoring the angry curse hurled his way. His eyes were wild. He had seen him. Just for a second.
Arthur. Holding a sword.
The image terrified him more than any monster. Arthur holding a plow was safe. Arthur holding a sword was a beacon. It was a declaration of war against the destiny Gareth had tried so hard to bury.
"He's moving toward the inner gate," Jon the Blacksmith pointed with his hammer. "He's with a soldier."
"A soldier?" The Miller paled. "Has he been arrested?"
"He wasn't in chains," Gareth growled, pushing forward. "He was walking freely. We have to catch him before he enters the Castle District. Peasants aren't allowed past the Second Wall."
They ran. Or, they tried to. But moving five people through the capital's busiest market during festival prep was like trying to swim through molasses.
By the time they broke through the crowd and reached the massive archway of the Second Wall—the barrier that separated the common city from the Royal Grounds—the heavy portcullis was already lowering.
They saw two figures, one young and broad-shouldered, the other in the uniform of the Watch, disappearing around the bend of the road leading up to the castle.
"Arthur!" Gareth yelled, his voice raw.
The portcullis slammed shut with a deafening thud.
Gareth slammed his hands against the iron bars. "No! Open it! Open this gate!"
"Back away, old man!"
Two guards standing on the other side of the gate leveled their spears. They wore the silver-and-blue tabards of the Royal Guard, far more disciplined and dangerous than the city watch.
"This is the Royal District," the guard sneered. "No entry without a writ of invitation or noble blood. Go back to your pigsty."
"My nephew is in there," Gareth gripped the bars, his face flushed. "The boy who just walked in! Let me pass!"
"The guest of the Queen?" The guard laughed. "Yeah, right. And I'm the Duchess of Glacis. Move along before we arrest you for disturbing the peace."
Behind Gareth, the villagers huddled together.
"Gareth," Jon whispered, pulling at his arm. "Let's go. We can't fight the Royal Guard. We'll wait here until he comes out."
"He won't come out," Gareth said, his voice trembling. "Not if he starts down that path. I have to stop him."
"We can't get in, Uncle," Maya said, tears in her eyes. "We're nobody."
Gareth looked at the guards. He looked at the closed gate. He looked at the castle looming high above, the place where his best friends had died.
He took a deep breath. The air tasted of ash and memory.
He reached into his tunic. His fingers brushed the rough stitching he had made eighteen years ago. He ripped the lining open.
He pulled out a small, circular object. It was heavy, made of tarnished silver. It wasn't shiny anymore, scratched and dented from a great battle, but the design was unmistakable.
A shield crossed with a sword, wrapped in a crown of thorns.
The Sigil of the King's Personal Guard. The Elite of the Elite. A badge that hadn't been issued since the death of King Alaric.
Gareth shoved his hand through the bars, holding the badge inches from the guard's face.
"Look at it!" Gareth commanded. His voice changed. The rasp of the farmer was gone, replaced by the bark of a veteran officer.
The guard blinked, annoyed. "What is this trash—"
He stopped. His eyes focused on the sigil. The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse.
The spear in his hand wavered.
"That..." the guard stammered. He looked at the badge, then at the old man in the dirty tunic. He saw the scars on Gareth's hands—not just from farming, but old, white lines from blades. He saw the way Gareth stood, feet planted, ready to kill.
"Where... where did you get this?" the guard whispered, his arrogance replaced by pure fear. "This is a Kingsguard badge. This belongs to the Fallen."
"Open the gate," Gareth said. It wasn't a request.
The guard looked at his partner. The other guard was staring at the badge with wide eyes, already reaching for the winch mechanism. They didn't know who this old man was, but they knew that possessing that badge meant one of two things: he was a hero of the old war, or he was someone who served directly to king Aleric.
Either way, you didn't say no to him.
"Open it!" the guard yelled to the tower.
The gears groaned. The portcullis began to rise.
Behind Gareth, Leo and Maya stood with their mouths open. Jon the Blacksmith dropped his hammer on his toe and didn't even notice.
"Gareth?" the Miller whispered, staring at his neighbor as if he had grown a second head. "What is that?"
Gareth didn't answer. He tucked the badge back into his pocket, his hand shaking slightly. He gripped his walking stick, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
"We're going to the castle," Gareth said grimly.
He walked through the gate, the Royal Guards stepping aside and saluting him with terrified precision. The villagers followed, crossing the threshold into a world they didn't belong in, led by a man they thought they knew.