The northern district’s marketplace thrummed with life under the warmth of early sun. Stalls lined the cobbled street like colors on a painter’s palette—vivid fruits stacked in wooden crates, meats hanging from iron hooks, fresh fish laid over crushed ice hauled in from the coast. The noise was cheerful, unbothered. Children chased each other between carts. Dogs barked, rolled, and begged for scraps. A mother cradled a sleeping baby on one hip while bartering for carrots. An old man carved a flute in front of his shop, whistling through the holes as he tested the notes. It was, by all means, a peaceful morning.

  “Oi! What’s the order, you two little pipsqueaks?” barked a middle-aged woman from behind a fruit stand. Her cheeks were red from sun and irritation. “Just so you know, I don’t fancy handling kids. Last week I caught one running off with three bananas and a pear. Try that stunt with me and you’ll be sitting in a cell before your voice even breaks!”

  Two kids, maybe eight years old, stood awkwardly at her stall—one boy, one girl. They clutched a few copper coins, faces pinched with indecision.

  “Uhmm… wait, lady,” the boy said cautiously. “We’re still deciding.”

  The girl leaned toward her brother and whispered, “I think I want two oranges. They look yummy.”

  “Wait,” he muttered back, eyes scanning the other crates. “I’m deciding too.”

  Beside the fruit stall, a stocky man at a meat stand called out with a hearty laugh. “Oi, you two! Don’t go upsetting the Fruit Queen, alright? She’ll eat ya whole! Doesn’t have a sliver of patience for anything that doesn’t grow on a tree!”

  “HEY!” the fruit vendor snapped, spinning toward him. “Mind your own damn pigs, butcher!”

  The man just chuckled, wiping his hands on his bloodstained apron. “Just sayin’ the truth.”

  On the other side, a younger woman at the fish stall leaned forward with a bright smile. She lifted a clay container sealed with a cloth and string. Inside, fish cuts lay fresh and cold. “How about some fish meat, little ones? Pulled from the river near the RiverBend village just yesterday! Nice and pink, no scales, and not a single bone sharp enough to poke your teeth.”

  The fruit woman’s eyes narrowed. “Oi, don’t go poaching my customers! Especially not the ones who still have baby teeth!”

  “Relax,” the butcher called. “They’ve got enough coins to split a sardine, let alone fund a war between you three.”

  “I’ve decided!” the boy announced, puffing his chest.

  The fruit woman straightened. “Good. You’re ready to buy some watermelon, yeah? Best sellers I’ve got. Big, juicy, and the most expensive for a reason!”

  “I’m buying fish meat,” the boy said cheerfully. “For me, my sister, and our parents!”

  The girl blinked. “But… brother, I wanted fruit…”

  He bent close to her and whispered dramatically, “Sis, look at her. Really look. Do you really want to order from someone who might eat kids for breakfast? What if those oranges are made from kids? Think about it.”

  The girl squinted suspiciously at the oranges. Her eyes widened. “Ahh! You’re right! I want fish meat instead!”

  The butcher let out a booming laugh. “HA! Best decision you’ve made all day!”

  “Pleasure doin’ business,” the fish vendor said as she packed the cuts carefully into a cloth pouch. “This here’s silver-scale river fish. The smooth kind, no bones to choke on. Sweet once cooked, even better if roasted with leaf-wrapped herbs. You’ll like this, trust me. Even picky grandmas can’t complain.”

  The fruit vendor stood there, lips twitching in defeat. “…Rotten little traitors,” she muttered under her breath, watching the kids walk off—happily swinging their bag of fish.

  The butcher wiped sweat from his brow and leaned on his counter, grinning wide. “Told you, Marna. You gotta stop scaring 'em off with all that 'go to jail' talk.”

  Marna, arms crossed, scowled. “I warn them because I care. Better they hear it from me than from some cranky patrol knight with a stick up his—”

  “Language,” the fish vendor chimed in playfully, packaging another order. “Kids still within hearing distance.”

  “They should hear it,” Marna shot back. “Toughen them up. The world ain’t just sunshine and candied peaches.”

  The butcher yawned loudly and stretched his arms over his head. “Could’ve fooled me today. Feels like a festival with how peaceful it is.”

  “Yeah, too peaceful,” Marna muttered, eyeing the patrols passing through the crowd with unusually stiff posture. “The last time I saw this many knights in one district was before the grain riots. You think something’s up?”

  The fish vendor shrugged, but her tone lowered. “Some of the soldiers looked like they weren’t even supposed to be on shift. Could be something brewing in the south again. That old temple district’s always causing headaches.”

  “You think it’s about the princess?” the butcher said in a hush, leaning in. “Heard she’s been sending groups out lately. Scouts, runners, even a few of those Fractureborn folks.”

  Marna waved it off. “Pfft. Gossip. You’re always getting jumpy whenever the guards sneeze.”

  The trio turned to see Alexia approaching, casually weaving through the crowd with her cloak draped over one arm, sword at her hip. Her dark armor caught the sunlight in thin streaks. Her hair was slightly windswept, and her expression unreadable.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Marna squinted as Alexia emerged from the crowd.

  “Well, well, well. That woman warrior again.”

  The butcher gave her a subtle elbow. “Shh. Don’t talk like that. They’ve probably already got it rough, being a Fractureborn. Most folks are already looking at them like they’re cursed.”

  “You can’t stop me,” Marna muttered, arms crossed. “Look at her. She walks like she could use that fracture for no good any time of the day.”

  A few stalls down, the young woman tending the fish stand muttered under her breath as she glanced up, catching the figure walking closer. “That woman, she almost looks like a knight. Alexia? Ahh, that Fractureborn.”

  Alexia’s sharp eyes flicked toward her stand. She changed her course.

  The butcher and Marna fell quiet, watching.

  Alexia stopped in front of the fish stall. Her voice was flat, but not unfriendly. “These tuna, fresh?”

  The young woman straightened a little. “Yes, just pulled from the river by Riverbend. Fresh as yesterday.”

  “How much?”

  “Five silver coins each,” the vendor said, a little more cautiously now.

  Alexia nodded slowly. “Alright. Hold on. Still deciding.”

  “Take your time,” the vendor said, trying to keep her voice neutral. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

  Too many people in every direction. If I used my fracture here, even for a second, I’d have ten swords at my head. Ugh… stupid stomach.

  The vendor hesitated before speaking again.

  “I heard you’re a Fractureborn. Alexia, right? You’re pretty well-known in this district.”

  Alexia’s body stiffened, her posture shifting just slightly, but the tension was obvious. She didn’t like this topic.

  “Yeah? What about it?”

  The vendor’s words tripped over themselves. “Uhh, nothing. Forget it. I, uhh, forgot what I was going to say.”

  She looked down, fiddling with the edge of a cloth. Alexia remained silent, still scanning the selection.

  Then—shouts.

  Boots thundered past as a group of knights ran down the main road, heading south. The crowd paused. Vendors looked up. Children stopped mid-play. Even the wind seemed to still for a moment.

  Alexia’s eyes tracked the movement, brows narrowing. She muttered, “I need to know what they’re up to. What Princess Ismene is pulling this time.”

  The fish vendor’s eyes followed the patrols, too. “You don’t know anything about that? They’ve been patrolling since morning. Twice already.”

  “No. Not at all,” Alexia said, voice distant but guarded.

  The vendor exhaled.

  “You know, I don’t think you’re like what people say about Fractureborn. Just a feeling. But it seems unfair. That you all have to carry everyone’s fear like that.”

  Alexia’s eyes shifted. That comment made something twist in her chest. She stared at the vendor for a long second.

  “So you think saying something kind will make me spare you my skepticism? Everyone loves to act warm until they think they can benefit from us.”

  “No,” the vendor said, voice calm. “Not exactly. But I’m not one of those who despise people without evidence.”

  The word echoed in Alexia’s head—evidence—and with it came the memory of slammed doors, tense stares, and whispered curses in alleys.

  But this… wasn’t that.

  Maybe today… it wouldn’t hurt to actually spend some of the coins I earned. Like a normal person.

  “Fine,” Alexia said at last. “I’ll take the tuna.”

  “Raw or cooked?”

  “Cooked. We’re adventurers. Most of us barely know how to boil water, let alone cook fish.”

  The vendor laughed, more genuine this time. “Ha! Okay, cooked it is. That’ll be five silver coins.”

  She handed over a neatly wrapped container. “Here.”

  Alexia shifted the cloak to her other arm and took the package. “Thanks. Uh, do you know where the laundry place is again? I forgot the name.”

  “You mean the washerhouse? It’s just a bit past the Cradle Tavern,” the vendor smiled. “You’ll see a line of bedsheets flapping like banners.”

  Alexia gave a small nod. “Right. Thanks again.”

  As she turned to walk away, cloak swinging at her side, her eyes followed the path the knights had taken toward the southern district.

  Behind her, the butcher leaned over to Marna.

  “Hey. That Fractureborn, she’s kind of, kind, ain’t she?”

  Marna scoffed, folding her arms tighter. “Pfft. That’ll fool you just like all those gossip rags. You always fall for that soft-hearted nonsense.”

  The young woman overheard them, eyes lingering on Alexia’s back as she disappeared into the crowd.

  Quietly, she murmured to herself.

  “I hope you Fractureborns find the treatment you deserve. Someday.”

  The marketplace sounds thinned behind her as Alexia stepped into the side road leading to The Cradle, the district's oldest tavern. The scent of stewed onions and old ale started to mix with the cool morning air.

  Then—A voice. Loud, overly familiar, and unmistakably him.

  “Coming through! Coming through! Just a handsome man walking past through!”

  Alexia paused mid-step.

  She turned her head—and there he was.

  Lysandros, in all his clumsy glory, came bounding down the path in a new white tunic, practically glowing against the dust of the street. A shovel was strapped across his back like it was a greatsword. He waved as if he hadn’t already drawn half the street’s attention.

  “OH! Alexia! WAIT!”

  He skidded to a stop beside her, panting, hands on his knees.

  “Phew, thank the stars. Good thing you haven’t bought me a tunic and shovel yet—because! Get this—I found this amazing seller just across the street from the laundry line, and he was like ‘This is the last one, I swear!’ so I bought it, right then and there! Spent most of my spare gold, but it was worth it. Look, no holes, and the shovel doesn’t even squeak when I swing it! Well, unless I swing it too hard!”

  Alexia blinked. Flatly, “It’s your first day in this kingdom and you already got scammed.”

  Lysandros froze mid-gesture. “Wait, what? Tunics and shovels don’t cost that much here?”

  “No,” she said, completely deadpan. “Not even close.”

  He slumped, defeated. “…Well. At least… at least I worked hard and still have some coins in my purse.”

  He patted it. It jingled with the sound of exactly one coin.

  Alexia’s eyes flicked to his neck. “Probably that tattoo of yours. Outsider ink like that’s rare here. They saw you coming from a mile away.”

  Lysandros scratched his neck. “Dang. Should’ve worn a scarf of mystery.”

  They began walking side-by-side, the kind of mismatched duo that made heads turn but somehow felt natural.

  “Wait,” Lysandros said, eyes squinting in thought, “where were we going again? T-tuh… tuh-tackle? Table? T—Tartle?”

  “Tavern,” Alexia said. “The Cradle. But first, washerhouse.”

  “Oh yeah! Why even clean that though?” Lysandros motioned at the cloak she held. “You’re an adventurer-warrior-mystery-lady. You’ll just roll around in dirt and gore again. You probably smell great by now. Like roasted wolf.”

  She shot him a look.

  “And also I remember you’re not even paying for the inn,” he added cheerfully. “Even though you clearly have coins from all your heroic quests.”

  “Shut it,” she muttered.

  Lysandros peered at the container in her hand. “Hey, what’s that? Is that fish? Oh—wait—is that TUNA?!”

  Alexia didn’t respond, just scanned the street ahead until her eyes landed on a line of white sheets fluttering like flags.

  “There,” she pointed. “The washerhouse.”

  Without a word, she handed him the cloak, along with a few silver coins.

  “Clean this. Use those coins for the labor.”

  Lysandros took it like a soldier accepting a holy quest. “No questions asked! Mission: Clean the Stinky Cloak—accepted!”

  He started running toward the washerhouse, calling over his shoulder.

  “Save me a bite of that tuna! I swear I’ll die without it!”

  Alexia let out a small laugh through her nose. “Gosh. So noisy.”

  But as she turned and faced the tavern door, the humor faded. The Cradle loomed quiet but alert. Just ahead, a knight passed by briskly, heading southward.

  Alexia’s grip tightened on the fish package.

  That man… the one in the cloak… I wonder if he's connected to the missing Fractureborns this year…

  She stepped forward.

  “Time to gather information. If Princess Ismene’s involved, I need to know why.”