Fianna sat motionless, her eyes fixed on the dimly lit room that seemed suspended in a melancholy silence. In the corner of her vision lay her mother’s lifeless body, still, serene, and devastatingly final. The quiet was thick, suspended in a hush that felt sacred.

  Andrew had gone to gather firewood, leaving Fianna alone with the solemn duty of keeping vigil beside Nimerah. At first, she had braced herself for the task, convincing her heart to stay strong. But as the minutes crawled by, time began to warp, stretching thin like the brittle silence around her.

  Grief settled over her like a heavy cloak, pressing into her bones. The ache in her chest grew sharper, hollowing her out with each passing moment. This silence wasn’t just the absence of sound, it was the presence of loss, of finality, of a mother’s voice that would never fill the room again.

  Her mind wrestled with the memories of her final moments with Nimerah, the fear in her mother’s eyes, the confusion etched deep into her fading expression, and the cruel moment when recognition failed her. That pain cut sharper than any blade.

  Fianna longed to escape the room, to break free from the weight of death and the echo of that last look. Her heart pounded with the urge to flee, to breathe, to feel something other than sorrow. But still, she remained rooted, her hands clenched tightly in her lap as if her stillness could somehow hold the world together.

  She fought the rising tide of emotion. The thought of fresh air, of wind brushing her skin, of light beyond the dim room, beckoned to her. Outside, there might be solace. Maybe even a sliver of peace.

  A quiet determination bloomed in her chest. As soon as her father returned, she would go, to the market, to the village, anywhere beyond these walls where grief had made a home.

  Yet even as her mind clung to thoughts of escape, a somber question tugged at her conscience: What would become of her mother’s body? The thought twisted in her chest, anchoring her with a fresh wave of dread.

  But then, faint, fragile, a flicker of hope stirred.

  Her thoughts turned to the Phleshii creatures.

  She wondered if selling them could ease their financial burden, even briefly. She didn’t know their true worth, but surely someone in the village would pay something for them. If she could fetch a fair price, it might be enough to sustain her and the family for a few days. A week, maybe two.

  It was a thin thread to hold onto, but it was something.

  As Andrew stepped through the doorway, arms cradling firewood, a flicker of resolve ignited in Fianna’s chest. Without a word, she reached for the brown bag holding the Phleshii creatures. Moving swiftly toward the front door, she slipped her feet into her worn leather boots, each motion fueled by a quiet urgency.

  “Where are you off to?” Andrew’s voice, low and uncertain.

  “I can’t bear to stay here a moment longer,” Fianna replied, adjusting the strap on her boot without looking up.

  Andrew set the firewood down beside the hearth, his shoulders slumped as he turned to face her. Grief clouded his features, softening into something like understanding. “Fianna…”

  “Dad, please,” she said quickly, rising as she pulled on the second boot. Her voice didn’t tremble, but her eyes shimmered with held-back tears. “I know. I know she deserves more. But I can’t, I can’t look at her face for another second.”

  Silence wrapped around Fianna as she slipped into the large jacket hanging by the door. Its weight offered a fragile comfort, a barrier against the perpetual chill of Pangia. The worn fabric draped over her dull purple dress, and would shield her, at least a little, from the dampness that seemed to cling to every corner of their world.

  “I’m heading to the market,” she said, voice steady. “I’m sure the Phleshii will fetch a decent price.”

  Andrew looked at her with quiet concern.

  “I’ll be okay,” Fianna added quickly.

  He nodded, reluctantly. “Alright. Just… be careful. The market can be unforgiving.”

  Fianna tightened her grip on the bag. “I will.”

  With that, she stepped outside, the cold air biting at her cheeks as the door clicked shut behind her. Even while wearing boots, Fianna felt the moist ground beneath her feet, chilled by recent rainfall. Above, the sky mirrored her somber mood with a canvas of dark, gray clouds, the air heavy with moisture.

  Fianna’s boots splashed through shallow puddles as she made her way toward the market. The usual sounds of the waking village, murmured conversations, the creak of stubborn doors, felt distant, as though muffled by the damp air and her own preoccupied mind.

  She clutched the bag tightly to her chest.

  She walked with purpose, her footsteps sure, even as the cobbled streets twisted and narrowed. Flickering lanterns dotted the path, their dim light casting long, restless shadows that danced across the stone.

  She passed familiar faces along the winding street, some turning away with thinly veiled disgust, others sneering as they muttered under their breath.

  “Demona,” one voice hissed.

  Fianna kept walking, jaw tight, eyes forward. She was used to the stares.

  Her eyes had always drawn attention in the village. To some, it was a mark of intrigue, even beauty. But to many, it was something else entirely. Wrong. Unnatural.

  The name Demona had clung to her for years, a cruel fusion of “demon” and “Fianna,” whispered by those too superstitious or small-minded to see past their fear. It wasn’t just a nickname. It was an accusation.

  A name that had clung to her like damp clothes.

  And in Pangia, everything clung.

  Rain was a constant companion, drizzling, pouring, seeping into walls, clothes, and bones. The skies rarely cleared, shrouded in thick clouds that turned the realm into a place where even hope struggled to breathe.

  Flooding had reshaped the land, drowning low-lying regions and transforming roads into slick, impassable mud. Fields became battlegrounds for survival, where only the hardiest crops could grow. Landslides ravaged the hillsides, and the soil, stripped of nutrients, left much of the land barren.

  Homes stood on raised platforms, but mold and damp still crept in, bringing illness and discomfort. Respiratory issues were common, as were waterborne diseases, and with the sun a rare visitor, even joy seemed to wilt beneath the weight of gray.

  The people of Pangia endured. But the land demanded everything in return.

  And yet, despite its harshness, rain held deep spiritual meaning. Water was both curse and sacrament.

  Pangian society had slowly divided into three distinct mindsets.

  The first, by far the majority, gathered weekly in communal spaces like the semi-covered Dampshire Market to pray for dry spells. These makeshift sanctuaries offered brief reprieve and a place to plead with the skies. Others chose the quiet intimacy of their homes, huddling with family as they whispered desperate prayers for the rain to cease.

  The second group, known simply as the Believers, held a different faith entirely. They preached of a world beyond Pangia’s edge, a land free of perpetual rain, rich in warmth and abundance. Their voices rang out daily in the squares and alleys, urging others to believe, to seek, to hope. Most scoffed at them. Some listened.

  The third group believed in nothing but survival. For them, there were no gods to plead with, no myths to follow. Life was a matter of getting through the day, one wet, hungry hour at a time.

  Fianna and her family fell somewhere between the last two. They didn’t pray. But they believed. Or at least… they wanted to.

  As Fianna continued down the damp streets toward the market, the familiar sights unfolded around her. Clusters of townsfolk gathered beneath awnings, their heads bowed, voices rising in unison, prayers for dryness, for warmth, for mercy. Their chants mingled with the patter of rain, as if trying to drown it out.

  Nearby, the Believers stood, preaching with soaked sleeves and fire in their eyes. They spoke to small crowds huddled in alleyways and market corners, painting vivid images of a land beyond Pangia, dry, golden, untouched by sorrow. Their voices rang with conviction, rising above the drizzle, undeterred by scoffs or sidelong glances.

  Fianna said nothing, but she watched.

  Her mother would’ve stopped. Her mother might’ve joined them.

  Fianna pulled her jacket tighter and kept walking.

  The Dampshire Market, bustling, chaotic, and perfectly named, came into view as Fianna rounded the corner. It was the beating heart of the village, where trade and survival collided beneath sagging tarps and dripping canvas. But just outside its fringes, something unusual gave her pause.

  A group of Believers paced beneath a sagging canopy, clutching weathered signs fashioned from warped wood. Their messages were bold, painted in red and black:

  “Pangia is no more.”

  “Freedom from pain and suffering.”

  “Over the edge we must go.”

  “Salvation lies beyond.”

  Their voices rose in unison, “Salvation, salvation”, echoing through the air in an eerie, rhythmic harmony.

  There were ten, maybe fifteen of them, faces etched with hardship, bodies bent by the weight of a life. Their clothes were damp and musty. Fingers were pruned from water exposure; lips cracked and sore. The women’s hair hung in thinning strands, clinging to pale, gaunt faces.

  But one figure stood out.

  A young man, maybe in his early twenties, appeared oddly distinct from the rest. His clothes, though secondhand and ill-fitting, were dry. He wore a brown jacket with faded white stripes, brown trousers, and a pair of black shoes, one toe split open with wear. His beard was thick and wild, clearly unshaven for weeks, and greasy black hair fell in tangled locks around his face.

  Yet despite the grime, there was something magnetic about him.

  His bright blown eyes held a startling warmth, gentle, steady, alive. There was a rugged charm in the contrast: high cheekbones shadowed by dirt, full lips chapped but expressive. His bronzed skin, though weathered, looked strong. And beneath it all, there was something unmistakable in his expression, a quiet nobility.

  As Fianna moved to slip past the group, the young man suddenly stepped forward, raising his voice above the rest.

  “Salvation! Salvation!”

  His gaze locked onto hers, piercing, unyielding, and for a moment, she couldn’t look away. There was something in his eyes that held her in place. Urgency. Conviction. Recognition, perhaps.

  “Salvation lies over the edge!” he cried, his voice sharp with passion, edged with something darker, desperation, maybe even anger.

  Fianna stiffened, the bag clutched tighter against her chest. Her instinct screamed to keep walking, but his intensity made her falter.

  For a heartbeat, it felt like he wasn’t just shouting into the crowd.

  He was speaking to her.

  She stumbled back, breaking eye contact, her breath caught in her throat. Without a word, Fianna slipped away.

  The market swallowed her.

  Familiar with every twist and turn, Fianna navigated the winding streets of the Dampshire Market with practiced ease. Her worn leather boots tapped softly against the slick, well-trodden cobblestones, weaving between stalls and clusters of village folk.

  The market unfolded before her in a vibrant mosaic of motion and noise. Steam rose from food carts, mingling with the scent of wet herbs, smoke, and damp wool. Traders shouted over one another, bartering for fish, fabric, or firewood, while children darted between stalls with muddy feet and eager hands.

  Each street seemed to harbor its own character, reflecting the diverse tapestry of personalities that shaped the village.

  On Elm Street, Fianna could always count on crossing paths with Mr. Hue Levy, the gossipy baker whose jovial laughter filled the street like the scent of his pastries. Beneath that warm exterior, however, was a sharp tongue and an uncanny knack for uncovering the town’s best-kept secrets.

  Turning onto Waver Street, she exchanged a familiar nod with Ms. Rosy Bundt, the sharp-eyed florist with a wit as quick as her pruning shears. Her shop spilled over with hardy blooms, delicate lilies, thick ferns, and moss in hues that seemed to glow against the gray. Fianna often lingered near the stall, not just for the flowers, but for the whispered insights Rosy offered, news, tips, and warnings, all tucked between stems and petals.

  Near the heart of the market, where the air grew thick with the scent of ripening fruit and muddy produce baskets, stood Mr. Earnest Kingsley’s fruit stand. Gruff to a fault, Mr. Kingsley rarely spoke more than a grunt or grumble. But his wares, apples, cucumbers, tomatoes, and pears that somehow managed to grow in soaked soil. Prices were high, but no one questioned the quality.

  And then there was Mrs. Telly Bell, the town's matriarch and, at the rumored age of 123, its oldest resident. Perched on her front porch overlooking the market square, Mrs. Bell was a silent observer. Her sharp eyes missed nothing, and her memory was a treasure trove of faces and tales spanning generations. Fianna often stole moments to visit Mrs. Bell, listening raptly as she recounted snippets of the town’s past, present and future.

  Fianna strode into the heart of the market, her steps brisk, her gaze resolute.

  Normally, she would pause, listening for scraps of gossip, catching whispers of town drama, letting the pulse of Dampshire wrap around her. But not today. Today, she had one goal.

  Sell the Phleshii.

  The market stretched before her like a patchwork quilt, stalls stitched together from worn canvas, and old planks. Rain drizzled steadily, pooling in the uneven cobblestones, but the vendors were undeterred. Their awnings sagged with water, yet their voices rose over the weather in calls to passing customers.

  Tables bore the weight of survival: baskets of root vegetables, potatoes, carrots, parsnips, freshly unearthed from sodden fields. Bundles of thyme, rosemary, and mossy herbs hung in small bunches, their fragrance resilient.

  Around her, vendors haggled animatedly with customers, voices rising over crates of plump tomatoes and bundles of hardy kale. Laughter and bargaining mixed with the steady patter of rain, punctuated by the occasional shout as deals were struck and goods exchanged hands.

  With each step, her determination solidified. Selling the Phleshii wouldn’t be easy, she knew that, but the urgency of her family’s situation pushed her forward. Her gaze flicked from stall to stall, scanning for any merchant who looked curious, flexible, or just desperate enough to be interested in what she carried.

  Still, the weight of watchful eyes followed her.

  She caught whispers, sharp as needles, soft as fog.

  “Demona,” someone muttered as she passed.

  Fianna’s jaw clenched. The word hit like a cold splash of water, but she didn’t slow. Not today.

  Today, she had one goal: turn the Phleshii into coin. For her father. For her brothers. For herself. For what was left.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Fianna switched gears when she spotted Mr. Levy’s bakery, its fogged windows glowing faintly in the gray morning light. She veered toward the store. A faint chime rang above her as she stepped inside, her footsteps soft on the worn wooden floorboards.

  The scent of fresh bread filled the space, rich and yeasty, tinged with herbs and a hint of honey. Rows of artisanal loaves lined the shelves: crusty rounds, braided rolls, and rustic flatbreads. Yet here and there, gaps yawned between the loaves, empty trays where bread should have been, reminders that even the most steadfast hands could only do so much against the hardship of Pangia.

  Fianna lingered at the threshold for a moment longer, letting the warmth seep in.

  Mr. Levy, with his flour-dusted apron and kind eyes, looked up from his workbench as Fianna entered. His face softened into a gentle smile. "Ah, Fianna my dear," he greeted warmly, setting aside his rolling pin. "What brings you here on this dreary day?"

  Fianna returned Mr. Levy's smile faintly, her eyes betraying the weight of her purpose. "Good day, Mr. Levy," she murmured softly. "I've come with something to sell, if you're willing to consider."

  "Speak up, dear," Mr. Levy responded from behind the counter, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. Without missing a beat, he continued, "We've got our famous sourdough coming out of the oven in about five minutes. Are you willing to wait?"

  Mr. Levy, an elderly gentleman with a plump stature and weathered features, stood before Fianna. His face, etched with lines that spoke of his late fifties, was framed by a full head of gray hair and a matching short beard. His small brown eyes twinkled within the embrace of bushy eyebrows, and his unmistakable white apron, stained with flour, was cinched around his waist.

  "Actually, I'm here for..." Fianna began, intending to explain her purpose, but her words were abruptly cut off by Mr. Levy's eager interruption.

  "Ohhhh! I know what you're here for," Mr. Levy exclaimed, leaning in closer. "The rumors are true," he whispered excitedly. "Mr. Oliver Penningham is having an affair with that blonde old hag just down the way..."

  Fianna couldn't help but stifle a sigh as Mr. Levy veered off into familiar gossip territory, a habit she had grown accustomed to over the years. She appreciated his warmth and openness, but today she needed his help with something more urgent.

  "I couldn't believe my ears when young James delivered the news this morning," Mr. Levy continued, his eyes widening with shock. "Apparently, he walked in on em’! If you're going to commit adultery, you best be locking your doors, if you ask me," he added, dispensing a nugget of his perceived wisdom.

  "Actually, Mr. Levy," Fianna interjected firmly, leaning closer to the counter, "I'm here to inquire about something else. I have these," she said, placing the brown bag containing the Phleshii creatures on the counter, "and I was wondering if you might know anyone interested in buying them."

  Mr. Levy's expression shifted from excitement to curiosity as he peered into the bag. His brows furrowed slightly as he examined the strange creatures nestled within.

  "Phleshii, eh?" Mr. Levy mused, scratching his beard thoughtfully. "Rare find around here. They're used in some potent potions and remedies, I hear. Might fetch a decent sum from the right buyer."

  Fianna nodded eagerly, relieved that Mr. Levy seemed interested. "Do you know who I should talk to? Anyone who deals in these sorts of things?"

  Mr. Levy stroked his chin, pondering. "I reckon Old Man Grimsby might be your best bet. He runs the apothecary down the lane. Deals in herbs, rare plants, and the like. Might know someone looking for Phleshii."

  Fianna nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Mr. Levy."

  "Just be careful, dear," Mr. Levy cautioned, his eyes twinkling with concern. "And don't let anyone shortchange you.”

  As she turned to leave, Mr. Levy's voice called out, halting her steps. "Er, hold on just a second!" he exclaimed. "You know what, Ms. Rosy Bundt came in for a scone yesterday and informed me that Mr. Kingsley... well, he had a worker removed," he said, his tone laced with disdain. "He could use the extra hands if it's money you're looking for."

  "Thank you for the tip, Mr. Levy," Fianna responded, forcing a smile as she acknowledged Mr. Levy's suggestion.

  Fianna was thankful for the tip at first. Once she sold the Phleshii, a stable income seemed like a good idea, and jobs were hard to come by in Dampshire. Fianna knew she had to at least inquire with Mr. Kingsley about the opening. However, as she departed from the bakery, anxiety coursed through her veins. She had truly hoped to avoid any involvement with Mr. Kingsley, and now it seemed inevitable.

  Memories of past encounters with Mr. Kingsley flooded her mind, each one marked by clashes of will. Unlike many in town, Fianna found it impossible to hold her tongue in the face of Mr. Kingsley's rudeness, deceit, and occasional dishonesty. He possessed an uncanny ability to provoke her, pushing her buttons without fail.

  As she made her way through the bustling market, Fianna knew her first stop would be Mr. Kingsley’s stall before heading to Old Man Grimsby’s apothecary store. The market, with its cacophony of voices and activity, seemed to close in around her. She navigated the maze of stalls, each one a potential obstacle. Vendors called out their wares, the scents of produce and other goods mingling with the ever-present dampness.

  Fianna's thoughts raced. Mr. Levy's cryptic mention of Mr. Kingsley "removing" a worker lingered in her mind, adding an extra layer of unease. Despite the swirling within her, Fianna resolved to set aside her apprehensions for the next few minutes. If Mr. Kingsley had potential employment opportunities, she was willing to endure his presence. Perhaps, in an unexpected turn, he might even display interest in purchasing the Phleshii creatures.

  As Fianna scanned the market, her eyes settled upon Mr. Kingsley, who stood tall and imposing as he meticulously packed cranberries, currants, and other fruit into one of his carts. His commanding presence and pallid complexion made him easily distinguishable amidst the crowd. Despite the signs of wear on his face, one could envision a time when Mr. Kingsley must have possessed a certain rugged handsomeness in his youth. Yet, the hardships he had endured had left their mark upon him, both inside and out.

  It was impossible to deny Mr. Kingsley's success in the market. His business thrived, evident in the array of four carts, each brimming with fruit and vegetables. These stations were strategically positioned, effectively cornering the market.

  Fianna’s steps eventually brought her to his nearest stall.

  Mr. Kingsley stood behind it, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk surveying its prey. His expression soured, even more than usual, as soon as he spotted her.

  Fianna’s heartbeat quickened. A low buzz of anxiety settled in her chest.

  She drew in a slow breath, willing herself to appear calm.

  Mr. Kingsley’s piercing gaze locked onto hers, narrowing with quiet scrutiny.

  Fianna straightened her spine, forcing her shoulders back. She mustered a smile, a brave one, even if it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “Good day, Mr. Kingsley,” she said.

  He didn’t respond immediately.

  Instead, with a slight tilt of his head, he signaled to one of his workers, a boy who looked to be no more than ten, with a dusky complexion, a dirt-streaked face, and clothes that hung too loose on his small frame. The child scurried past Fianna, hands already reaching for a crate of bruised apples, ignoring her completely as he got to work.

  Fianna caught what she thought was a muttered name - Mateo.

  Still, Mr. Kingsley said nothing to her.

  “Ahh, Demona,” Mr. Kingsley drawled, his suspicious eyes fixed squarely on Fianna. “Come to stir up trouble, have you?”

  His voice was low, bored, like someone swatting at a gnat more out of habit than concern.

  He flicked his chin toward Mateo in a dismissive nod. The boy moved wordlessly to another stack of crates nearby, continuing his work with focus.

  Fianna swallowed hard, her throat dry. Still, she met Mr. Kingsley’s gaze with as much calm as she could summon.

  “I heard you might be in need of extra hands,” she said carefully.

  A flicker of amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth, cold, calculating. He leaned slightly forward, savoring the shift in power.

  “I’m looking for work,” Fianna added, her tone steady, deliberate. “Temporary, if nothing else.”

  The silence between them stretched for a moment, thick with the weight of her unspoken desperation.

  A soft chuckle slipped from Mr. Kingsley’s lips, dry, amused, and touched with something harder to place.

  “So, you're looking for a job,” he said, eyes narrowing as he gave her a slow once-over. “My, how the tables have turned.”

  His tone darkened, carrying the weight of something old, an unspoken history, dusted off and held between them.

  Fianna met his gaze, her breath caught somewhere between pride and regret. In that brief exchange, she felt it, the undercurrent of resentment, heavy and familiar.

  I shouldn’t have come here, she thought bitterly. Not to him.

  “If the answer is no,” she said, voice steady but tight, “I'd appreciate a swift response.”

  Mr. Kingsley didn’t blink.

  “Perhaps,” he replied slowly, his tone laced with suspicion, “I need convincing that Fianna Indra Geesi would benefit my business.”

  As Mr. Kingsley’s eyes bore into her, sharp with suspicion and disdain, Fianna couldn’t help but reflect on their turbulent history.

  Of course he resented her.

  She had made no secret of her opinions, calling out the poor quality of his produce, questioning his inflated prices, and even stepping in during heated disputes with customers. She’d exposed his shady dealings more than once, and now here she was, asking for a job. The irony wasn’t lost on her.

  Fianna took a breath, steadying herself. A wry chuckle escaped her lips at the absurdity of it all—begging for a position from the man who loathed her most in the market.

  Mr. Kingsley’s expression twisted into something darker.

  “See,” he said, voice rising with restrained fury, “you’ve made it rather difficult for me to make a living. I’ve lost nearly twenty percent of my business because of you.”

  Fianna blinked. “Twenty?” she asked, the number hitting harder than she expected.

  He gave a curt nod. “Word of mouth,” he said, the words clipped and bitter. “And your mouth? It runs faster than most.”

  Fianna raised an eyebrow, her pride flaring again. Her voice, when it came, was calm but razor-sharp.

  “Well,” she said, lips curving into a defiant smirk, “at least you still have eighty.”

  But her attempt at defiance crumbled the moment Mr. Kingsley spoke again.

  “I ought to have your head, girl,” he growled, his voice low and venomous.

  Fianna froze. His eyes blazed. For a moment, the market noise faded around her, replaced by the thunder of her own heartbeat.

  She swallowed hard, a tremor racing down her spine.

  Summoning what little courage she had left, Fianna forced her lips to move. “Good day, Mr. Kingsley,” she said, the words unsteady, almost breaking.

  She turned on her heel and walked quickly away, her boots splashing through shallow puddles. The adrenaline surged through her veins, tightening her throat, pushing her faster with every step.

  She didn’t dare look back.

  Once she’d put a safe distance between herself and Mr. Kingsley’s stall, Fianna allowed herself a breath, but her intuition screamed for caution.

  She glanced back, eyes sweeping the crowd.

  Her heart dropped.

  Near the edge of the stall, Mr. Kingsley’s young stock boy, Mateo, was speaking with three market guards. His gestures were animated. Then, with a swift, unmistakable motion, he pointed straight at her.

  Panic surged through her like fire.

  Fianna’s hands dove into the pockets of her jacket, searching for something—anything. Her fingers brushed against a few small, smooth objects.

  Cranberries.

  Her breath caught.

  No. No. Not now.

  But she knew what they meant. What they could do.

  Shaking her head, she silenced the flood of doubt rising in her throat.

  And then, she ran.

  Boots slapping against wet cobblestones, jacket flying behind her, Fianna plunged into the crowd, heart pounding with more than just fear.

  “Excuse me! EXCUSE ME!” Fianna shouted, her voice slicing through the noise of the market, each word sharp with urgency.

  Heads turned. Curious eyes followed her, some concerned, others merely startled, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.

  There was no time to explain. No time to look back.

  She darted through the crowd, her boots slipping slightly. Her breath came in short gasps as she weaved between vendors and startled villagers, sidestepping crates of vegetables and then dodging tangled lines of laundry strung across narrow alleys.

  The world blurred around her, all of it drowned out by the pounding of her heart.

  She didn’t know how close the guards were.

  But she knew this: she had to get away.

  As Fianna wove her way through the throng of bodies, the crowd thinned, giving way to a narrow, secluded street tucked between crooked houses. Her lungs burned, and her legs threatened to give way, but the pursuit was far from over.

  Behind her, the rhythmic clatter of boots and the barked commands of the guards pushed her forward. Their dark navy-and-white uniforms flashed through the crowd, the gleam of their silver helmets unmistakable, even at a distance.

  Halt! one of them roared.

  Fianna didn’t dare look back.

  Desperation clawed at her throat as she scanned for a way out, any opening, any chance. Then she saw it: a narrow alleyway half-hidden between two leaning houses. She veered sharply, slipping into its shadowed mouth.

  The alley pressed in around her, walls of cracked, uneven brick rising high on either side, closing out the sky. Her boots thudded,, the path ahead narrowing as she pushed deeper.

  She glanced up.

  Beyond the rooftops, just past the last row of chimneys and tiles, the treetops of the woods beckoned, tall, dark, and familiar. If she could reach them, she might disappear entirely.

  But as she neared the end of the alley, her heart dropped.

  A rusted iron gate blocked her path, bent, old, and formidable. It loomed like a final warning. Fianna’s fingers wrapped around the cold, rusted bars. She shook them with frantic determination, her voice breaking into the silence.

  “No, no, no—please!”

  Her cry echoed down the narrow alley, swallowed quickly by the stone and rain.

  Exhaustion clung to her like a second skin, dragging at her limbs, slowing every breath. The woods, freedom, lay just beyond the gate, their dark arms reaching out to her. So close. Just beyond her grasp.

  For a fleeting moment, the thought crossed her mind: Could she climb it?

  Her gaze swept upward, following the jagged iron rungs and tangled vines that reached toward the sky.

  But the gate was too high.

  Too rusted. Too slick. Too much.

  A sharp surge of fear shot through her, raw, immediate, consuming. It filled her chest, rising faster than her breath could keep pace. She had never felt anything like it. Not like this.

  Not the kind of fear that said run.

  The kind that said you won’t make it.

  Fianna knew all too well what awaited her if she was caught.

  The guards were no ordinary peacekeepers; they were enforcers of fear, violence made flesh. Their presence alone sent shudders through the village, their reputations as merciless as their methods.

  They believed themselves untouchable, above the law, above reproach. Any challenge to their authority was met with swift, brutal punishment.

  A stolen loaf could cost you a hand. A raised voice? A shattered jaw.

  Their justice was cruel, public, and designed to break both body and spirit. Fianna had seen it before, had heard the screams behind closed doors and seen the vacant stares of those who'd survived.

  There could be no mercy. Not from them.

  The guards’ duty extended far beyond keeping the peace.

  They answered to one man, Barron, a self-appointed ruler cloaked in coin and cruelty. Not a king, not a nobleman, just a thug with a taste for power and enough muscle to take it. He paid the guards well to “protect” the village, but everyone knew what that meant: obedience through fear.

  Under Barron’s rule, Dampshire was split in two, those who served him, and the Lessers who did not.

  The Lessers were the laborers, the forgotten, the expendable. Fianna’s people.

  The guards prowled the streets in packs, extracting taxes and settling scores in Barron’s name. They stormed homes, shook down vendors, and punished even whispered defiance with brutal efficiency. Theft meant a broken hand. Protest meant shattered ribs. Those who crossed him publicly were made examples of, beaten in the square, humiliated, or worse.

  Barron didn’t need laws. He had fear. And the Lessers lived under it like a second skin.

  Just the thought of falling into the hands of his enforcers sent a chill through Fianna’s spine. Her pulse hammered against her ribs. Her lungs ached.

  This wasn’t just fear of pain.

  It was fear of being erased. Of becoming just another Lesser who’d spoken too loudly, run too far.

  Desperately, Fianna reached out and wedged her arm through a narrow space between two bent bars in the gate. Gasping for air and feeling utterly spent, she pushed her body forward, squeezing through the gap with great effort. A low, pained groan escaped her lips as she felt her skin scrape against the rough metal, drawing blood and leaving her with fresh wounds.

  Amidst the chaos behind her, a furious voice rang out, sharp and unrelenting:

  “YOU! STOP IMMEDIATELY OR BE HANGED!”

  Fianna didn’t look back.

  The guards had multiplied, more of them now, closing in fast. She could hear their boots pounding.

  She had seconds. Maybe less.

  Keep going. Just keep going.

  She gritted her teeth against the pain, felt the warm trickle of blood slide down her side, but she didn’t stop. With one final shove, she burst through the gate, collapsing onto the ground on the other side, gasping for breath.

  Behind her, the guards reached the alley’s mouth. Their movements were cold, mechanical, and practiced. She watched, horrified, as they drew silver guns from their holsters, each click a fresh stab of fear.

  Their weapons rose, aimed straight at her.

  And then -

  CRACK.

  A warning shot ripped through the air, echoing like thunder through the alley.

  Relief surged through Fianna like a wave as she realized she'd made it. She was through.

  But then her heart sank.

  The bag, the Phleshii, lay just beyond the gate, on the other side. Out of reach.

  For a breath, she hesitated. But she had no choice. Fumbling to her feet, Fianna turned and darted into the trees. Branches slapped against her arms as she ran, mud sucking at her boots, the woods swallowing her in its damp, shadowed embrace.

  Behind her, the guards cursed and shouted. One of them reached the gate too late and slammed his fist against the metal with a furious clang, bellowing after her.

  “GET BACK HERE!”

  “We can’t let her escape,” one of the guards hissed, his voice laced with fury. A manic chuckle escaped his clenched teeth.

  “She won’t make it far, Dessiah,” another replied coolly, voice disturbingly calm. “I know her. Maybe we pay her and her family a little visit... later. At home.”

  “I’d rather catch her alone,” Dessiah growled, eyes scanning the woods. “Out here. Where no one can hear.”

  The tension thickened.

  “In case you’ve forgotten,” a third guard cut in, voice firm and pragmatic, “we’re under new leadership now.” He gave them each a hard look, then turned and walked off.

  The others exchanged glances. Whatever rage burned in their blood cooled slightly beneath that reminder. They didn’t like it, but they understood.

  For now… they had to let her go.

  Fianna slumped against a sturdy tree, her chest heaving as she fought to regain her breath. The strain of her frenzied sprint had left her body throbbing, and the surge of adrenaline mixed with her diet had left her head spinning. Leaning there, she took a moment to size up her predicament. The woods enveloped her, a bewildering labyrinth of towering trees whose interwoven branches resembled an intricate puzzle. She understood that lingering in one spot would only heighten her risk of capture. With determined effort, Fianna pushed herself upright, using the tree to steady herself. She knew she couldn't afford to rest for long.

  Summoning every ounce of her will, she resumed her journey, her steps tentative and unsteady, each one taking her deeper into the heart of the woods. The minutes stretched out in agonizing fashion, her determination the sole force propelling her forward.

  And then, at last, her body gave out.

  Her knees buckled. The world tilted. Darkness swallowed the edges of her vision.

  Fianna collapsed to the ground, the forest floor rising up to meet her.

  And everything went still.

  desperately needs a nap and probably a snack.