The land beneath Yig’s feet rose and fell in short hills, cramped by thick trees. It felt as if with every step, he passed along a new variety of slope. Bored, Yig plucked some berries from the bushes and began snacking on them, all the while doing his best to observe the nature around him while keeping his balance on the uneven terrain.

  He heard the sound of someone grunting but couldn’t tell which direction it was coming from. Every few steps, he paused, careful that the crunching leaves wouldn’t muffle the sounds.

  Eventually, he found himself staring at a large oval of open land in the forest, with few trees filling the space and no leaves above to block the light. In the center lay the large trunk of a long-dead tree, resting on its side. On top, wielding a stick as a weapon and acting as an amateur soldier, was the scrawny Spartan.

  The child looked around, suddenly alert, until he spotted Yig in the corner of his eye. Then he turned, pointed his stick outward, and grinned fondly.

  “Begone, villain! The forces of justice have bested you! Return to your land of darkness or face my wrath!”

  “I’m impressed,” Yig replied. “Those were some pretty large words. But it’s over—I’m taking you back to—”

  Knock!

  “Ow. Spartan?!” Yig looked down at the stick that had just been thrown at him and rubbed his forehead.

  He jumped up onto the log and chased after the surprisingly violent child. In their similar minds, Yig and Spartan felt they were quite the match. Yig was near merciless with his techniques, though to his surprise, Spartan held his own.

  After a few seconds, Yig grew impatient and with a powerful swing shattered his opponent’s twig, then grasped him and pinned him to the ground, dirtying his bandage with muck.

  “Give up. You’re coming back with me!”

  “Never!”

  Bushes rustled behind them. “Excuse me,” a polite voice spoke.

  The sudden voice was shocking, but within a second Yig had a stick pointed at the men behind him. They were not from Chestnut. Each wore a strong shade of blue uniform, with blades at their hilts and matching caps.

  Spartan stepped back, hiding behind a stunned Yig. “Who…?”

  “I’m sorry. I had no intention of startling you. We simply need help finding directions.”

  Yig’s grip on the stick tightened. “Sorry, I can’t help with that. You’ve crossed a protected border. You can’t stay here!”

  The man Yig spoke to remained calm, his friendly smile somehow off-putting.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Oh, we have? Then would I be mistaken if I assumed this is Chestnut Town? The one we shouldn’t be wandering into?”

  Yig stayed silent, but that silence was an answer in itself.

  “Oh, so it is? I’m glad to hear it.” The men drew their swords. “That’ll make this much simpler.”

  Yig lunged forward as Spartan sprinted away. He grasped the wrist of an armed hand and punched the forearm, causing the weapon to fall, but before he could grab it, the man kicked him away. After regaining his footing, Yig stubbornly ran again, swinging his stick to smack the intruder, but quickly, his opponent’s sword cut it down to a short twig. The man thrust forward, barely pricking Yig’s cheek. With his bandaged arm, Yig grabbed the blade near his face, piercing his skin until it bled, and began pulling it away—but the man kicked his shins, sliding Yig to the ground, his face smashing into the wet mud. The man pressed a foot to Yig’s ear. With dirt on his lips, Yig grunted, trying to push upward but failed to stand.

  The intruder’s laughter abruptly turned to a pained gasp as he was knocked down amid the clash of steel, freeing Yig. Mona drew a second sword and quickly joined the scuffle, cutting the enemy’s weapon free and tossing it to Yig with practiced precision. The blade pierced the mud, standing beside Yig. He grasped the hilt and pulled it free, standing alongside his partner as they took battle stances.

  “What’d you do?” Mona barked.

  “Hey! Don’t try to pin this on me. I had nothing to do with it… this time.”

  They glared at the intruders, their stances stiffening with anticipation, waiting for the enemy to make their move.

  The other man helped his companion to his feet and gestured for him to stay back.

  “Mona, can you let me fight this guy?”

  She rolled her eyes and sheathed her shining swords. “Try not to kill yourself.”

  “Damn you, runt. Stand down!” an intruder yelled—the one Mona had struck.

  Yig tightened his bandage, making sure it wouldn’t fall. Then he crouched and charged forward, knocking the enemy’s sword away from beneath him, giving Yig a chance to punch the man in the stomach. As the target fell back, out of breath, Yig swung his weapon downward and cut through an eye. Then, with a twirl, he kicked the man’s stomach.

  The intruder fell on his back, gasping for air. “You… such poor swordsmanship,” he wheezed.

  “Maybe so. But I won, didn’t I?”

  The men stood up, one holding his blood-gushing face.

  “Captain was wrong,” one whispered. “Even their young are downright inhuman. We’ll change the direction of our objective to another town.”

  As the two limped away, Mona and Yig chuckled to themselves, walking over to comfort Spartan.

  “Heavens, lad,” Mona exclaimed, “all this fuss to avoid picking a few apples.”

  “But I hate it!” Spartan wailed as they dragged him back out of the forest.

  Mona knocked politely at the door while Yig waited behind her, obviously uneasy. The building was three floors high, built from planks of sturdy, bright wood. The pattern of the inner tree was still visible on the outer walls. A balcony hung over the front door, where potted plants grew, and the roof was the color of rich copper.

  “Do I really need to be here?” Yig asked.

  “Yes, you’ll back me up,” Mona replied, concerned her friend would even ask. “Why? You scared?”

  “No… you’re right,” Yig mumbled. “I’ll join you.”

  “Hehe,” she giggled, “you never have a choice.”

  The door swung open and revealed the always tidy Ms. Sceptre, staring with the same dismay so many showed to the youth. Her hair was black and cut like a bowl, she wore ropes of authority—black—with an apron-front sporting the pattern of Chestnut’s old texts.

  “Can my father see me?” Mona asked, using her unnatural ‘polite voice.’

  “Your father is a busy man,” Ms. Sceptre replied, her words tedious and flat. “You do not get special privileges, young lady.”

  “I don’t come as his daughter; I come as a resident in fear for the town’s safety.”

  The woman raised a brow. “…explain.”