The gust breaks past the tree line.
A hush holds the morning.
Wind brushes through the new gates, past the freshly painted watchtower. Over the rising market stalls. Past the new schoolhouse where children laughed behind thin walls. A small bridge arched over a shallow stream, its reflection trembling as the gust passed.
A new Ward is living, building, thriving.
Not loud, not busy — but alive.
The wind climbed the hill into a wide and open training ground
where it found him before running back into the trees.
—dirt swept smooth except where it’s been marked by motion. Footprints. Scuffs. Drag lines. A few bodies lie in the dust, groaning, catching breath — not unconscious, but clearly bested.
At the center stands a boy.
Mid-teens. Tall for his age. Still. His right arm raised in perfect form — not rigid, not tense, just precise. He holds a fireman’s axe. Not like a tool. Like a blade. The posture is clean. Balanced. Too refined for something so raw.
He hasn’t moved in seconds.
Eyes locked forward.
Focused.
Present.
Around him, wind snakes through the air — rustling the edges of old flags, sweeping over the groaning trainees around him. None dare rise yet.
From off in the distance a voice calls:
“Gautti! It’s time for a break — come eat!”
A pause.
Then Gautti exhales, slow and measured. His form softens — just slightly — but he doesn’t lower the axe yet.
Movement flickers in the corner of his eye.
In one smooth motion, he bends his arm and crumples inward, tucking the axe beneath his arm like a book, then extends his other arm — catching something midair.
A juice bag.
He blinks. “A juice bag? Really?”
Standing a few paces away is a girl around his age, her hair bound in copper-tied braids, tattooed thread lines snaking down her arms. Lyka, from the Inscriber clan. Smirking.
“If I didn’t do that, you’d never leave the training ground.”
From behind him, a few older soldiers groan and sit up. One calls out with a grin, “Oooh, Gautti’s got a girlfriend now?”
“She’s just a friend,” Gautti mutters.
“Yeah right — I might as well be your mother at this point,” Lyka huffs. “Now let’s go already!”
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Gautti glances back at the trainees still catching their breath.
He says, mostly to himself, “I should give them a break anyway.”
Then louder: “Alright, everyone — we’re done for the day. Come back tomorrow. New formation drill.”
“Sir, yes sir,” they call out mockingly, raising two fingers to their brows in lazy salute.
Gautti and Lyka leave the training ground, descending a wide stone path made of separated steps — each tier planted with thin, wispy trees. A long fountain winds down the center like a vein of silver, water trickling between mossy stones. The sound is calm. Clean. Almost too peaceful for what lies at the top.
Lyka looks back, scrunching her nose.
“I hate that this much beauty leads straight to a training ground.”
“You’re not a soldier. Makes sense you wouldn’t like it.”
She stops and squints at him. “Hey — what’s that supposed to mean? I know beauty!”
“Not my point.”
“Mm-hm.”
He gives a faint smirk, but keeps walking. “We’re going to the market, right?”
“Obviously. I need ink -and you owe me lunch.”
“Do I?”
“You’re carrying the juice bag, aren’t you?”
“…Fine.”
They reach the edge of the Ward's market. It’s packed — like a Sunday swap meet — but quiet. Too quiet. Voices drift in whispers, boots pad lightly over stone. Even the vendors speak in hushed tones.
It should be loud.
Instead, the silence hums beneath the surface — like the Ward itself is holding its breath.
Lyka squints. “Big surprise... still creepy. Anyway — let’s get ice cream first!”
Gautti raises an eyebrow. “We haven’t eaten anything real yet. That’s not a proper diet.”
“Boooring. Just live a little, would you?”
She’s already tugging him toward the stand. He follows without much protest.
As they eat, Lyka rambles between bites. “So the Inscribers are working on a new emblem series for high houses — oh! That reminds me. Aren’t you almost old enough for your inscription?”
She lights up. “Let me do it for you. I’ll make it subtle — classy, mysterious. You’d barely have to look at it.”
Gautti pauses mid-step.
“Hey,” she nudges, “are you even listening?”
A soft breeze carries a merchant’s voice nearby:
“Hope Major brings something back this time. I’m running dry — can’t even fix the legs on this stand.”
“He always comes through,” another replies. “He has to.”
"He already has enough to carry. Wouldn't it be easier if we had our own trade lines? Traveling merchants?"
Gautti’s thoughts catch — again — on the question of priority.
She nudges him. “Hey — are you even listening?”
“I hear everything,” he says calmly. “Yeah, that’s fine. But... I’ve never really liked inscriptions.”
They stop at a juice vendor to refill the bag she tossed him earlier.
“You don’t like inscriptions?” she snorts. “You really are lame, huh? Didn’t your dad bring the Inscribers into the Ward to begin with?”
“Yes. But I’ve got good memory. Not sure I need them.”
Lyka squints at him. “Wait — you skipped a question. So you are boring.”
She laughs loud — too loud for this whispering market — and it cuts the silence like a splash of color.
Gautti lets the joke sit. He doesn’t defend himself. He doesn’t laugh.
He gave her that one.
Lyka leans on the stall. “It’s not always about memory, dude. What about something you haven’t reached yet?”
They keep walking, heading toward the far end of the market where the food stalls crowd together beneath awnings.
“Jeez,” Lyka mutters, “why am I the only one enjoying myself out here? Even with you around, Gautti — you’re so stale. Just like the Ward.”
“I’m focused,” he replies. “And the Ward’s full of life. You just have to look a little deeper than the surface. You might see a new side of it.”
She snorts. “What are you, a monk now?”
Before he can answer, a few soldiers pass through the street. The Serpent crest shines from their gear — the old insignia of the Wild Serpent Syndicate.
“Hey, the Syndicate’s back. Maybe Major’s here too.”
“He’s usually not the first one home.”
“Whatever. Just go check. Your mom’s probably worried about you too.”
“True. I’ll walk you home first.”
They pass over the small bridge with the shallow river, then past a stone courtyard where kids play half-hearted games of tag and stickball.
Lyka speaks again, playful now. “So if you don’t like inscriptions... would you still let me come up with yours?”
Gautti shrugs. “Sure. But I’m not reaching for anything.”
“Too late. You already said yes. It’s mine now.”
He smirks — just a little. She catches it instantly.
“Look at you, hiding that little smile. If you keep bottling everything up, I might lose you to the ways of the Ward yet.”
They continue walking until they reach Lyka's home.
He sees her inside. Then, instead of heading home himself, Gautti climbs to the top of the Ward’s front gate — overlooking the forest, the path beyond.
He scans the tree line briefly, searching for any sign of movement. No shadows. No sign of Major.
Not yet.
His eyes drift back over the Ward — rooftops glowing in the last of the orange light. People cleaning, laughing softly, closing shop.
He stays there until the last orange light slips behind the Ward’s rooftops. The noise fades — shutters close, the lanterns flicker out one by one.
Then the night sky is born again.
Stars in every direction — faint, scattered, alive. He lets his eyes wander between them, tracing the shapes like old paths. Until one star catches his eye and stares back.
There you are again.
It blinked once, almost as if greeting Gautti into the night.
“Lost to the ways of the Ward, huh…” His voice is quiet, almost respectful. He exhales, eyes still tracing the blinking star, and even quieter this time — as if waiting for the star to answer him.
“Is there any other way?”
The wind moves through the empty streets below, carrying nothing but silence and the faint echo of laughter already gone. Gautti stays there, motionless, the only one looking up while everyone else sleeps.
