Thorns in the Market Snow

 

Thorns in the Market Snow

Snow fell the way it did in Deepwinter: not in fat, cheerful clumps, but in thin, patient flakes that sifted down and found every seam in a cloak. Cobblecrest’s market square should have been loud with Midwinter preparations, with vendors shouting over one another and children daring each other to lick ice off the frozen well stones. Instead, the square breathed like someone trying not to wake a sleeping beast.

Brazier fires glowed like small, stubborn suns. Their heat didn’t travel far, but it was enough to thaw the air into the smell of smoke and roasting nuts, enough to turn breath into ghosts that drifted away between canvas-roofed stalls. A cart of turnips sat half-buried in snow. A fishmonger had his hands tucked into his armpits, staring at his own stall as if it belonged to someone else.

Kemi Olatunji moved through it all like she belonged to the cracks and corners of the village. Her patched clothes, dyed bright indigo and orange, were the only color that didn’t look muted by winter. Her braids, twisted into two buns like bear ears, bobbed as she threaded between crates and wagons. She kept her head down, but her clever eyes didn’t miss anything. Not the way the market master’s assistants had stepped back from the center of the square. Not the way a handful of villagers stood in a loose arc and pretended to be interested in a basket of onions.

Not the way Samuel Greenbriar’s shoulders were held stiff, as if he’d decided that no one would ever see him bend.

Samuel stood at the open mouth of his shop, Greenbriar’s Goods, with the cold trying to climb into his clothes. He wore a deep red kurta embroidered in gold thread under a leather vest that looked worn but carefully kept. A silk scarf was wrapped at his neck, the kind of touch that made even simple cloth look like it had a history. Kemi had always thought he smelled faintly of sandalwood and cinnamon, like a spice drawer that had been opened and closed a thousand times.

Right now he smelled like fear trying to pretend it was anger.

A large man in a heavy coat loomed over him, blocking the shop’s doorway the way a boulder blocks a path. The man’s cheeks were raw from cold and cheap drink. A jagged club hung at his belt like an afterthought. He spoke low, not because he was kind, but because he knew the whole square was listening anyway.

“I’m not here to argue, Sammy,” the man said. “I’m here to collect.”

Samuel’s jaw worked once. “My name is Samuel. And I have paid what I owe. Every copper. You’ve no right—”

The man leaned in, and Kemi saw it then: the black thorn tattoo on the side of his neck, half-hidden under his collar. It looked like it had been inked in a hurry and healed ugly, as if the skin itself resented carrying it.

“You don’t owe what you owe,” the man murmured. “You owe what’s safe.”

Samuel’s hands clenched around the edge of his apron. His voice was steady, but thin. “I barely make enough to feed my kin, let alone pay your ‘tithes.’”

“Then you should pray harder,” the man said, and smiled like a cracked plate. “Deepwinter dries pockets. Fires happen. Accidents. A tipped lamp. A spark in a storeroom full of oiled cloth. Shame, that would be.”

Kemi felt something hot and sharp in her chest, like she’d swallowed one of Nella Greenbriar’s cinnamon sticks without chewing. Samuel had once given her a warm blanket when she’d been shivering behind a stall at night. He’d pretended not to see her, just left it folded by a crate and gone back inside. That was how people who wanted to be kind in Cobblecrest did it: quietly, so no one could accuse them of weakness.

Kemi slid behind a stack of barrels and ducked low. Beside her, Mateo Rivera hovered as if he wasn’t sure where his feet belonged. His robe sleeves were too long, and he kept pushing his glasses up his nose with ink-stained fingers. He’d tucked his satchel close, protecting his spellbook the way other kids protected a favorite toy.

“This is… extortion,” Matty whispered, as if the word itself might summon trouble if spoken too loudly. “There’s a definition. I read—”

“Shh,” Kemi breathed, and pressed a finger to her lips. “Don’t say big words like you’re throwing rocks.”

Elara Fernwhisper stood behind them, tall and still as a tree. Her copper skin looked almost gray in the cold daylight, her mossy eyes scanning the square without panic. A fat squirrel perched on her shoulder, its tail wrapped like a scarf. Nutmeg’s tiny paws kneaded Elara’s collar, and its eyes tracked the big man at the shop with pure, righteous suspicion.

“Elara,” Kemi whispered, “if I run, can you cover me?”

Elara blinked slowly. “Cover you from what?”

Kemi nodded toward the big man’s club.

Elara’s mouth tightened. “That.”

Valerius Scalebright strode into view from the far side of the market with the unshakable confidence of someone who’d been told the world was a place where good deeds worked. His chain mail clinked softly under a tabard stitched with a platinum dragon head, the symbol of Dragon’s Peak Sanctuary. A shield hung on his arm, its front painted with a face that shifted like a mask. Right now the face wore a broad, friendly smile, as if it hadn’t noticed that the square was holding its breath.

Valerius stopped beside Kemi’s barrels and tilted his head. “Why is the market quiet?” he asked, genuinely puzzled, as if the concept of people being afraid was a riddle he hadn’t yet studied.

Kemi hooked a thumb toward Greenbriar’s Goods. “Because that man is making it quiet.”

Valerius followed her gesture. The smile on his shield wavered, then settled into something determined, brows angled down.

“You children are cold,” Valerius said, and then corrected himself with solemn precision. “We are all cold. But fear should not be part of the weather.”

Matty made a sound that was half agreement and half nausea. “We should… perhaps speak to a town guard?”

Elara’s gaze drifted to the edges of the square, to where the town guard ought to have been. Two guards stood near the frozen well, hands on their belts, watching like men observing a storm they hoped would pass without touching them.

“They won’t,” Elara said softly. “They hear everything and do nothing. The crows told me they’re tired.”

“The crows tell you things,” Matty said, as if he still couldn’t decide whether that was remarkable or alarming.

“They do.”

Kemi exhaled through her teeth. She could hear Samuel’s voice now, quieter, but still firm. “No more,” he said. “Leave.”

The big man’s shoulders rolled, like a bull deciding whether to charge. “Wrong answer.”

Kemi didn’t think. She moved.

She popped up from behind the barrels and strode into the open with all the confidence she could borrow from her own daring. Her cloak, a dark thing with a high collar, flared dramatically behind her, billowing even though the wind had died to a whisper. It made her feel taller. It made her feel like a story.

“Hey!” she called, voice cutting across the hush. “You’re blocking the door. People are trying to shop.”

Every head turned. The big man’s eyes snapped to her, and for a moment the threat in them was almost comical, like a grown dog baring teeth at a kitten.

“Ain’t this sweet,” he said. “Little mouse thinks she’s a wolf.”

Kemi put her hands on her hips. “I know wolves. They don’t need to threaten bakers to eat.”

Valerius stepped out beside her, boots crunching snow. His shield-face shifted, smile gone now, replaced by a stern frown.

“Good citizen,” Valerius said, in the tone of someone reciting a lesson. “You are causing distress. Cease.”

The big man stared up at him. “What are you supposed to be? A walking soup pot?”

Valerius blinked. “I am a paladin.”

“Sounds expensive,” the man said. “Walk away, runts.”

Matty slid out behind them, clutching his staff like it might be a friend. Elara emerged too, her longbow in hand but not drawn, her posture saying she didn’t want violence but wouldn’t flinch from it. Nutmeg’s tail puffed up like a bristling brush.

The big man’s gaze flicked over them. He saw chain mail. He saw a bow. He saw a child with a cloak that moved like it had its own opinions. He saw a boy with spectacles that made his eyes look larger than they were. He laughed, but it was a laugh with an edge.

“You really want to play hero?” he asked. “Fine. Play.”

Two figures peeled out of the alleys as if they’d been leaning there all along. One had a crossbow slung low. The other rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles, breath steaming.

Samuel’s voice came again, hoarse. “Please,” he said, and Kemi hated the way that word sounded on him. “Not here. Not—”

The big man reached out and shoved him hard enough that Samuel staggered back into his own doorway, knocking into a barrel of salted fish. The barrel rocked, sloshing brine.

Something inside Kemi snapped from hot to cold.

Valerius moved without hesitation. He stepped between Samuel and the big man like a wall deciding it had legs. His shield-face shifted again, now set in a fierce, protective glare.

“You will not strike him again,” Valerius said.

The big man drew his club. The sound was small, but in the quiet square it rang like a bell.

“Walk away,” he said again, softer. “Last chance.”

Kemi glanced at Matty. His face was pale. His lips moved as if he was silently reciting something he’d read, searching for the part where heroes always knew what to do next.

Elara’s fingers tightened on her bow. Nutmeg hissed.

Kemi raised her chin. “No.”

The first blow came fast. The big man swung low, aiming for Valerius’s legs, but Valerius shifted his stance the way the Sanctuary trainers had drilled into him. The club thudded against the edge of the shield instead, jarring Valerius’s arm. Snow shook from the canvas roofs of nearby stalls.

The two alley thugs rushed in. One darted toward Matty, scimitar flashing. The other circled wide, eyes on Kemi, grinning as if he’d already decided she’d be easy.

Kemi moved like she always did in the market, slipping between obstacles, using the world as cover. She ducked behind a wooden cart piled with crates of produce and put her shoulder into it.

“Cart!” she shouted.

Valerius understood instantly. He grabbed the other side, muscles in his arms bunching under chain. Together, they heaved. The cart tipped with a groan, spilling turnips into the snow and slamming down to form a makeshift barrier. The thud startled a few onlookers into gasps.

Behind the cart, Matty squeaked and stumbled backward. The thug with the scimitar lunged.

Matty thrust out his hand, fingers splayed, and a translucent shimmer snapped into place around him like invisible armor. The scimitar glanced off it with a sound like metal striking glass, leaving the thug blinking in surprise.

Matty’s voice shook, but his words came anyway. “Please stop,” he said, and then as if the spell of politeness broke, he added, “Or I will… I will compel you to sleep. Against your will.”

The thug barked a laugh and swung again.

Elara finally drew. Her arrow flew clean, burying itself in the thug’s sleeve and pinning it to the cart’s edge. Not deep enough to kill, but enough to make him yelp and yank back hard, tearing cloth and skin.

“I don’t like hurting people,” Elara said, voice flat. “But you hurt the water folk when you hurt the fishery. You hurt everyone when you hurt the market.”

The big man snarled and drove forward, trying to push around the cart. Valerius met him, shield up, and the impact sent a jolt through both of them. The shield’s face grimaced as if feeling the hit.

The other thug darted toward Kemi. Kemi saw his eyes drop to her belt pouch. He thought she was all quick hands and no bite.

He reached for her, and she let him. At the last moment she twisted, grabbed his wrist, and raked her small boot down his shin as hard as she could. He cried out. She followed with the hilt of her dagger against his ribs, sharp and controlled.

“Don’t touch my pockets,” she hissed. “I’ve had enough people try.”

He swore and swung at her face. Kemi ducked, but his elbow clipped her cheekbone, sparks of pain flaring. Her eyes watered in the cold.

The big man saw her stagger. His grin widened. He shifted his weight and snapped a kick out, not at Valerius, but around the shield, aimed low and dirty.

His boot caught Kemi’s knee.

She went down hard in the snow. For a heartbeat, her world narrowed to pain and cold. She heard laughter, then heard Valerius’s shout, the way it turned from polite to furious.

“No!”

Valerius surged forward, pushing the cart’s edge with his shield, forcing space. He drew his longsword and, instead of swinging it with the intention to kill, he slammed it flat against the big man’s wrist. Bone jolted. The club clattered to the cobblestones.

The big man’s eyes widened in surprise. He hadn’t expected a “runty” paladin to fight with restraint and still hit like a hammer.

Matty’s voice rose behind them. He spoke a quick string of words, and three darts of pure force streaked from his outstretched hand. They slammed into the scimitar thug’s chest in rapid succession, knocking the air out of him. He collapsed into the snow, coughing.

Elara nocked another arrow but hesitated. The big man was still standing, hand flexing where he’d lost his club. His eyes darted, measuring exits.

Kemi pushed herself up, anger lifting her faster than strength. She wiped at her cheek and tasted blood. It made her grin.

“Not so big now,” she said.

The big man’s gaze flicked to her, then to Valerius, then to Matty and Elara. He weighed his pride against the odds and chose pragmatism with a sneer.

“This ain’t over,” he spat. He jerked his chin toward his fallen allies. “Up. Move.”

One thug was still pinned and swearing. The other groaned on the ground. The big man grabbed his club, then grabbed Samuel’s scarf as if he meant to yank Samuel forward again.

Valerius’s blade tip touched the big man’s sleeve. Not piercing, just warning.

“Let him go.”

The big man froze. He looked at the sword, then at the paladin’s eyes. Valerius’s expression was gentle, but it held something immovable.

For a moment, the square was silent enough that Kemi could hear the brazier coals hiss.

The big man released the scarf with a jerk. “Fine,” he said. “Enjoy your little win.”

He backed away, hauling his pinned thug free with a rough tug. The scimitar thug scrambled up, clutching his ribs. They retreated into the alleys, melting into the maze of stalls and snow.

Villagers let out breaths they hadn’t realized they were holding. A few murmured. A child peeked from behind his mother’s skirt.

Samuel leaned against his doorframe, shaking, but his eyes were sharp. He looked at Kemi first, then Valerius, Matty, Elara.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said softly.

Kemi lifted her chin. “Yes, we should.”

Samuel’s mouth tightened, and for a heartbeat Kemi thought he might scold her. Instead, he exhaled, long and weary.

“You don’t understand what they do to people who interfere,” he said. His gaze flicked to the market’s edges, to the watching guards, to the rooftops where a lookout might linger. “They don’t just hit you in the market. They come at night. They come when you’re asleep.”

Elara stepped closer, her voice gentler than usual. “Then you’ve been asleep too long.”

Samuel’s gaze softened, pained. “I have a sister,” he said, and Kemi knew he meant Nella, with her honey-rose scones and her laugh that made winter feel less sharp. “I have workers. I have… a name. They can take all of it in a night.”

Valerius lowered his sword. “Then we will help you keep it,” he said, as if that were a simple promise you could make and the world would obey.

Samuel stared at him. “You are very brave,” he said, and there was no mockery in it, only a sorrowful admiration. “Or very young.”

Kemi bristled. “We’re not stupid.”

“No,” Samuel agreed. “You are not.” He swallowed, and his hands shook as he reached into his vest and pulled out a small ledger, the edges softened from handling. “They call themselves Blackthorn. They come to my shop, to the millers, to the fishery. They ask for ‘protection.’ If you pay, they take it. If you don’t…”

His eyes drifted to the brazier by the stall across the square, its coals glowing. “Fires happen.”

Matty swallowed hard. “That’s… organized crime,” he whispered, as if naming it might make it smaller.

Samuel leaned in, lowering his voice. “They operate out of an old cellar near the Misty Pond,” he said. “There’s a place they use. They call it the Old Mill, but it’s not the mill. It’s… nearby. I don’t know how to find it. I just know where people go when they think no one’s watching.”

Kemi’s mind snapped to the southern edge of town, to the smell of fish and river mud, to Bart Johnson’s huts and drying racks near Misty Pond and the Winding River. She’d run there sometimes when she needed space, because the sound of water made it easier to breathe.

Elara’s eyes narrowed. “Near the fishery,” she said, and there was quiet fury in her tone. “They’re close to the water.”

Valerius’s shield-face shifted to a look of disgust. “Then we will remove them.”

Samuel’s gaze sharpened. “If you go,” he said, “you go quickly. They count coin. They move it. They’ll be gone by sundown, and then you’ll have only angry ghosts to chase.”

Kemi felt her knee throb where the kick had landed. It was swelling under her trousers. She ignored it. “Then we go now,” she said.

Samuel hesitated, and then he did something that made Kemi’s throat tighten. He reached into his apron pocket and pulled out a small scrap of cloth, clean and folded. He pressed it into her hand.

“For your cheek,” he murmured.

Kemi blinked fast and shoved the cloth into her pocket so no one would see her eyes sting. “Thanks,” she mumbled, as if it were nothing.

Matty glanced at the alleys where the thugs had vanished. “They’ll warn the others,” he said.

“Let them,” Kemi said, and grinned like a knife.

They didn’t have far to go. Cobblecrest was a village, not a city. You could cross it in less time than it took to bake a small loaf, if you knew where you were going.

Kemi did.

She led them out of the market, past the Golden Roll Bakery where warm air breathed through the doorway, carrying the scent of cinnamon and sweet pastries. Nella Greenbriar stood behind the counter, hands dusted with flour, eyes wide as she watched them hurry by. She lifted a hand as if to call out, then stopped herself, lips pressed tight. Worry, like Samuel’s, held her still.

They cut down a narrow lane where snow had been trampled into slick mud. Matty slipped once and yelped. Valerius caught his elbow without comment. Elara moved easily, boots barely making sound. Nutmeg clung to her shoulder, blinking against flurries.

As they neared Misty Pond, the air changed. The market smelled of people and smoke. The pond smelled of wet reeds, fish oil, and cold water that had been sitting in shadow.

Misty Pond Fisheries wasn’t one building so much as a cluster of life built around the water: small huts with pitched roofs, nets hanging stiff with ice, racks where fish smoked in thin streams of gray. The Winding River cut nearby, its surface dark and moving under a crust of frost.

Bart Johnson was there, of course. Bart was always there, like the pond itself had grown a man out of mud and stubbornness.

He stood in patched waders and a battered wide-brimmed hat decorated with fishing lures that clinked when he moved. His bushy gray beard had a piece of river weed tangled in it, as if the water had reached up and tried to claim him. He was hauling a basket of smoked fish toward the market path when he spotted them.

“Well now,” Bart called, voice loud enough to startle a gull. “If it ain’t four little storms walking on legs. What wind blew you down here?”

Elara’s eyes softened at the sight of him. “Bart,” she said. “There are men using your shoreline.”

Bart’s grin faded. He set the basket down with a thunk. “Ain’t my shoreline,” he said, but his eyes went sharp. “It’s hers.” He jerked his chin toward the pond, as if speaking of it like a person. “But yes. I’ve seen boots where boots shouldn’t be. I’ve heard metal clink where only water ought to talk.”

Kemi stepped closer. “We’re looking for a cellar,” she said. “Old Mill, but not the mill. Blackthorn.”

Bart’s face twisted, as if he’d bitten into a bad fish. “Blackthorn,” he spat. “Thorns don’t belong in water. They snag nets. They tear flesh. I told ’em that.”

“You told them?” Matty echoed, alarmed.

Bart shrugged. “I tell everyone everything. That’s my curse.” He leaned in, lowering his voice for the first time since they’d met him. “They ain’t using the mill. They’re using the drainage.”

Kemi’s brows lifted. “Drainage grate?”

Bart nodded toward a low slope near the pond’s edge where reeds grew thick. “There’s an old grate there. Sits under snow and muck. Used to keep the pond from flooding the lower sheds, back when the Millers built the channels. Folk forget about it because folk forget anything that doesn’t have a door and a sign.”

Valerius stepped forward. “Thank you,” he said solemnly. “Your vigilance honors the Platinum Dragon.”

Bart stared at him for a long moment. Then he grinned again, quick and mischievous. “You’re shiny,” he observed. “You ever fish?”

Valerius blinked. “I have not.”

Bart clapped his hands. “Then when you’re done with your thorns, you come back. I’ll teach you. The trick is patience. Which you seem to have in your face.” He squinted. “But not in your feet.”

Kemi was already moving toward the reeds. Elara followed, eyes scanning ground. Matty trailed, hugging his satchel close.

They found the footprints first. Deep impressions where boots had packed snow into mud. They led past the huts, careful to avoid open paths, toward a patch of ground covered by an old tarp half-buried in snow.

Kemi crouched and tugged at the tarp’s edge. It came free with a soft hiss, revealing rough boards laid over a rectangle in the ground.

“A trapdoor,” Matty whispered, both fascinated and terrified. “Of course. Criminals love trapdoors.”

Kemi smirked. “Everybody loves trapdoors. That’s why they work.”

Elara’s gaze flicked to a line of tin cans hanging on a string along the nearby rack, half-hidden. They swayed slightly, though there was no wind.

“A noise trap,” Elara murmured.

Matty’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

Valerius stepped forward, reached down, and very carefully lifted the string away from the door’s edge. He held it like it might bite. His expression was so earnest it made Kemi’s mouth twitch.

“You see?” Kemi whispered to Matty. “He’s not dumb. He’s just… built different.”

Matty nodded faintly. “Like a… like a shield with legs.”

Valerius looked back. “I heard that.”

Kemi grinned.

Before they could open the trapdoor, a groan sounded from the path behind them.

One of the market thugs staggered into view. His scimitar was gone. His sleeve was torn where Elara’s arrow had pinned him. He clutched his ribs with one hand and held up the other in a weak, placating gesture.

“Wait,” he rasped. His breath smoked. “Wait. Don’t go down there.”

Kemi straightened slowly. Her hand drifted to her dagger, but she didn’t draw it. “Why not?” she asked. “Because your boss will be mad?”

The thug swallowed hard, eyes darting. “Because… because he’ll kill me if he knows I told you anything. And he’ll kill you if you go in.”

Matty swallowed. “You’re… warning us?”

The thug’s laugh was bitter. “I’m saving my own skin. Same as anyone.”

Elara’s bow was half-raised, not aimed to kill, but enough to make the thug freeze. “Then help,” she said. “Tell us what we need.”

The thug’s gaze flicked to Valerius, to the paladin’s sword and unyielding eyes. “You lot really are kids,” he muttered.

Valerius took one step closer. “I will not harm you if you speak truth,” he said. “But if you lie to protect those who prey on this village, then you are choosing harm.”

The thug’s shoulders sagged. “Password,” he whispered. “If you go through the inner door. It’s… ‘Silver-tongue.’” He winced as he spoke, as if the word itself tasted like betrayal.

Kemi’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s a stupid password.”

“It’s not for you to judge,” the thug snapped, then immediately flinched, as if expecting a blow.

Matty, surprisingly, pulled something from his robe pocket: a small piece of bread, slightly stale. He held it out with trembling fingers.

“If you’re hurt,” Matty said quietly, “you should eat something. And then you should… leave. Go somewhere warm.”

The thug stared at him as if Matty had offered him a jewel. Then, slowly, he took the bread. He didn’t say thank you. He just shoved it into his mouth and chewed like it was the first kind thing he’d been given in months.

“Don’t get yourself killed,” he muttered around the bread. Then he turned and limped away, melting back into the snow and reeds.

Kemi watched him go, unsettled in a way she didn’t like. “Why’d he do that?” she asked.

Elara’s gaze stayed on the path. “Because even rats will bite the hand that kicks them too hard,” she said.

Matty shivered. “That’s… not comforting.”

“Reality rarely is,” Elara replied.

Kemi squatted again at the trapdoor. The boards were old, damp, and half-rotten at the edges. She slid her fingers along the seam, finding the latch.

“This is my part,” she murmured, and her nerves settled into focus. Her hands knew locks the way Matty’s mind knew words.

She popped the latch with a soft click.

The trapdoor creaked as it lifted. Cold air from above met a darker, wetter breath from below. The smell rolled up: mold, straw, rot, and something animal.

Matty raised his hand, whispered, and a globe of pale light bloomed over his palm. It floated upward, casting the stairwell in a soft glow.

“I can’t,” Matty confessed, voice tight. “I can’t do dark.”

Valerius’s shield-face softened into a sympathetic smile. “Then we will bring light,” Valerius said simply.

They descended.

The stairs were narrow, wood slick with damp. Kemi went first because she always did, but she kept her dagger ready, not because she expected monsters, but because she expected men. Men were often worse.

At the bottom, the cellar opened into a storage room with stone floors and walls that wept moisture. Straw lay scattered, soaked through and molding. Rotten shelves leaned against one wall, heavy with empty jars and broken crates. In the corners, dark shapes shifted.

Eyes caught the light. Red pinpricks.

Matty’s breath hitched. “Rats,” he whispered, as if saying it would summon them closer.

They weren’t normal rats. They were as big as small dogs, their fur patchy and slick with grime. Their teeth flashed yellow. They moved with purpose, not the frantic skitter of wild animals but the coordinated rush of something trained to attack intruders.

Elara’s mouth tightened. “These are not pond rats,” she murmured. “These have been fed.”

Nutmeg hissed sharply and buried itself in Elara’s collar.

The rats surged.

Kemi dodged sideways, boots slipping slightly on damp stone. One rat snapped at her ankle. She kicked it away, but another lunged from the side.

Valerius stepped between her and the snapping jaws, shield down low. The rat’s teeth scraped against metal and the sound made Kemi’s skin crawl.

Matty’s light flared brighter as he jerked back. He lifted his staff, words tumbling out too fast, and a thin beam of cold shot toward the nearest rat. Frost blossomed across its fur. It squealed and stumbled, slowed.

Elara’s arrow flew, striking a rat in the shoulder. It yelped and spun, not dead but wounded, fur darkening with blood.

Kemi darted toward the rotten shelves. An idea flickered. She could hear Samuel’s voice in her memory, weary and frightened, and it made her reckless.

“Valerius!” she shouted. “Help me tip these!”

Valerius didn’t question. He lunged to the shelves with her, braced his shoulder against the rotting wood, and shoved.

The shelves toppled with a wet crack, collapsing onto two rats that had been racing toward Matty. Crates and jars exploded, moldy grain spilling. The rats shrieked, pinned under the weight.

Matty’s eyes went wide. “That was… effective,” he said, voice half awed and half horrified.

“Don’t stand there,” Kemi snapped. “Do something with your big brain!”

Matty flinched, then clenched his jaw. He thrust his free hand out, spoke again, and this time his words were smoother, steadier. A soft, invisible wave rolled across the floor, and one of the rats mid-lunge faltered, its eyes blinking slow. It collapsed into the straw, suddenly asleep, chest rising and falling.

Elara’s gaze flicked to Matty. “Good,” she said, a single word, but it carried approval that warmed him more than the light.

The remaining rats hesitated. Their noses twitched. Their eyes darted to the pinned ones, to the sleeping one, to the paladin’s gleaming armor.

Three of them turned as one and bolted, squealing, disappearing into a crack in the far wall where stone had shifted. Their claws scrabbled against rock. In moments, they were gone.

Silence returned, but it was different now. Not fearful hush, but the kind that followed violence: heavy, full of breathing and the smell of blood.

Kemi’s knee throbbed again. Her cheek stung. And then a sharp pain lanced through her calf.

She looked down.

One rat, not pinned, had been hiding behind the fallen shelf. It lunged now, jaws clamped around her leg. Its teeth sank through cloth and into flesh.

Kemi screamed, more angry than afraid. She stabbed down with her dagger, careful but fierce. The blade sank into the rat’s neck. It squealed, released her, and staggered back, dying in the straw.

Kemi swayed, breath coming hard. Blood seeped into her trousers.

Valerius was at her side instantly. “You are injured,” he said, as if stating the obvious was a way to fight panic. His shield-face looked alarmed, eyes wide.

“I know,” Kemi snapped, teeth clenched. “I can feel it.”

Matty’s face went green. “Rats carry diseases,” he blurted. “I read—”

“Not now,” Elara said sharply.

Valerius knelt. He placed a scaled hand over the bite. His voice dropped, gentle, and he murmured a quiet prayer that didn’t sound like a sermon so much as a promise spoken into the dark.

Warmth flowed from his palm. It wasn’t fire. It was something steadier. The pain eased. The torn flesh knit. The bleeding slowed to a stop. Kemi gasped, surprised by how sudden relief could feel like dizziness.

Valerius’s shoulders sagged slightly, as if he’d handed over a piece of himself.

Kemi stared at him. “You didn’t have to,” she said, quieter now.

Valerius lifted his gaze. “Yes,” he said, very serious. “I did.”

Matty swallowed hard, looking at Valerius’s hand as if it were the most astonishing thing he’d ever seen. “That was… divine,” he whispered.

Valerius blinked. “It was healing.”

Elara stepped closer, gaze sweeping the room. “The rats were the front door,” she murmured. “The men are behind it.”

Kemi wiped her face with Samuel’s cloth, smearing blood and snow together. The bite no longer bled, but her leg still felt sore, the memory of teeth lingering.

“Inner door,” she said. “Where’s the stash?”

They found it in the back of the cellar: a narrow passage where crates had been stacked haphazardly, each marked with a crude black thorn symbol. Beyond the crates was a door reinforced with iron bands. A sliver of lamplight leaked beneath it.

Matty’s light orb hovered near his shoulder, making the air feel less suffocating. “Password,” he whispered, as if reminding himself. “‘Silver-tongue.’”

Kemi leaned in toward the door and spoke quietly. “Silver-tongue.”

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then a bolt slid back from the other side with a metallic scrape.

Kemi’s stomach tightened. “Too easy,” she muttered.

Valerius adjusted his grip on his sword. “Caution is wise,” he said, solemn as ever.

Kemi put her hand on the latch and looked back at the others. Elara’s eyes were steady. Matty’s hands trembled, but his jaw was set. Valerius stood like a fortress.

Kemi grinned, fierce and small. “Let’s shakedown the shakedown,” she whispered.

She kicked the door open.

It slammed inward, and warm lantern light spilled out, turning the damp air gold. The room beyond was small, an office or living quarters, with a desk littered with coins and ledgers. A cot sat against one wall, blanket rumpled. A locked chest gleamed in the corner. A lantern hung from a hook above the desk, its flame steady.

A figure in dark leather armor sprang up from behind the desk, quick as a cat. He was lean, hood pulled low, eyes darting constantly as if searching for exits even while standing still. A shortsword appeared in his hand as if it had always been there.

“You children are meddling in grown-up business,” he sneered, voice smooth, almost amused.

Kemi felt anger flare again. “Funny,” she said. “You were just bullying a shopkeeper in the snow.”

The man’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s business.”

His hand flicked toward the desk, and Kemi saw what he was reaching for: a small metal whistle.

“No,” Matty breathed.

Valerius surged forward, but the lookout was already moving. He brought the whistle to his lips.

Kemi’s body moved before her mind did. She lunged, throwing her dagger.

The dagger flew true, but the lookout twisted at the last instant. It struck the desk instead, burying itself in wood.

The lookout’s eyes flashed. He blew.

The sound was sharp and piercing, slicing through the cramped room and racing into the cellar beyond. It echoed off stone, a signal meant to wake everyone who belonged to Blackthorn.

Matty made a strangled sound of despair. “Reinforcements,” he whispered.

The lookout grinned, triumph flickering. “Too late.”

Elara’s arrow hissed through the air, striking the lookout’s shoulder. He hissed and stumbled back, but he didn’t fall. He moved like someone who’d learned to keep going through pain.

Valerius reached him, sword flashing, but the lookout ducked behind the desk, using it as cover, his movements fast and practiced. He popped up long enough to loose a shot from a shortbow that had been leaning against the wall. The arrow streaked toward Matty.

Matty flinched, but his shimmering ward caught it. The arrow bounced away, clattering on stone.

Matty’s eyes went wide, then narrowed. He lifted his hand again, and this time there was no hesitation. Another trio of force-darts slammed into the lookout’s cover, splintering wood. Coins scattered, skittering across the floor like frightened beetles.

The lookout swore and rolled, using the chaos to vanish behind the cot. For a heartbeat, Kemi couldn’t see him.

“He’s hiding,” Valerius growled, as if the concept offended him.

Elara’s gaze flicked. “Listen,” she whispered. “Breath. Cloth.”

Kemi held still, forcing herself to ignore the pounding in her knee and the ache in her calf. In the lantern light, she saw it: a slight shift in shadow near the cot, the faintest movement of air.

“There,” she hissed, and darted forward.

She vaulted the cot, landing hard, and drove her fist into the lookout’s jaw. Pain shot up her wrist, but his head snapped back. He staggered, and Elara’s bow was already up. She didn’t shoot him. She shot the whistle cord looped around his neck.

The arrow sliced the cord clean. The whistle fell, clinking on stone.

Valerius stepped in and slammed his shield into the lookout’s chest, pinning him against the wall. The shield’s face looked furious, teeth bared.

“Yield,” Valerius demanded.

The lookout spat blood, eyes bright with hate. “Cobblecrest belongs to the Blackthorn now,” he rasped. “You’re just passing through.”

Kemi’s breath came ragged. “We live here,” she snapped. “We’re not passing anywhere.”

The lookout’s gaze flicked to the lantern above the desk. His mouth twitched.

He kicked the desk leg hard.

The desk lurched. The lantern swung violently on its hook. The flame flared. For a moment it held.

Then the hook snapped.

The lantern crashed onto the desk, glass shattering. Oil splashed. Flame kissed parchment.

Fire bloomed.

It crawled fast across the desk’s surface, licking up ledgers, devouring paper that held names and numbers. Heat surged, sudden and bright in the damp cellar air. Smoke rolled upward, thick and oily.

Matty coughed, eyes watering. “Oh no,” he choked. “Books! Ledgers!”

Valerius swore under his breath, a rare crack in his solemnity. He shoved the lookout down, not gently, and stomped toward the flames, trying to smother them with his cloak.

Elara grabbed a nearby bucket, but it was empty. She swore softly in Elvish.

Kemi’s mind raced. The fire wasn’t just a hazard. It was a choice. Save the evidence and risk letting the lookout escape, or stop the lookout and let Blackthorn’s records burn.

The lookout, half-conscious, smiled through blood and smoke. “You can’t have both,” he rasped.

Kemi’s anger sharpened into clarity. She dove for the desk, ignoring heat, and grabbed at the burning ledgers with her bare hands. Pain seared her palms. She hissed and yanked them free, throwing them onto the stone floor where the dampness helped smother flame.

Matty darted forward, eyes streaming. He spoke a quick word, and a gust of cold swept across the desk. Frost cracked over the oil-slick surface, slowing the fire’s spread. The flame sputtered, furious, then dimmed.

Elara grabbed a blanket from the cot, slapped it over the remaining flames, and stomped down hard. Smoke rose, but the fire weakened.

Valerius, coughing, turned back toward the lookout.

The lookout was gone.

For a heartbeat, Kemi couldn’t understand. Then she saw it: a narrow gap behind a stack of crates, a hidden crawlspace leading deeper into darkness. The lookout’s boot prints vanished into it.

“He’s escaping!” Matty cried, panic sharp.

Valerius surged toward the gap, but Elara grabbed his arm. “Listen,” she hissed. “Footsteps.”

From the cellar beyond, above them, came the sound of boots on wood stairs. Fast. Heavy. Men responding to the whistle.

Reinforcements.

Kemi’s chest tightened. They had the loot room. They had stopped the fire from consuming everything, but not before smoke had filled the space and the lookout had slipped away. They had seconds before more thugs poured in.

Valerius’s shield-face shifted into grim determination. “We hold,” he said.

Elara’s eyes flicked to the burning desk, to the half-scorched ledgers Kemi had saved, to the locked chest. “We take,” she corrected.

Kemi was already at the chest. Her fingers, despite burned palms, moved fast. The lock was crude, meant to keep honest hands honest, not to stop someone who knew every shortcut and mouse hole in Cobblecrest.

Click.

The chest opened.

Inside was coin, a small pile of mixed silver and copper, and a stoppered vial filled with red liquid that caught Matty’s light like a ruby. Beneath the coin was a silver locket, delicate and out of place among the rough criminal stash.

Kemi’s throat tightened as she lifted it. It was cold, heavy in her hand. The clasp bore an engraved crescent and wheat sheaf, the kind of simple symbol you’d see at the Shrine of the Harvest Moon.

“This is stolen,” Elara murmured, eyes narrowing.

Matty coughed, waving smoke away. “Everything here is stolen,” he wheezed.

“No,” Elara said, voice low. “This one is personal.”

Boots thudded closer on the stairs. Voices rose, rough and angry.

“Down there!”

“Boss?”

Kemi shoved the locket into her pocket, grabbed a handful of coins, and stuffed them into the chest’s own pouch. She snatched the red vial and thrust it at Matty. “Hold that,” she snapped.

Matty fumbled, then clutched it like it was fragile life itself.

Valerius kicked sand from a small bucket near the door and threw it over the last of the smoldering desk. Smoke still curled, but the flames were dying. Good. Fire could spread upward, to the fishery. Bart’s drying racks. The pond itself wouldn’t burn, but everything around it would.

They didn’t have time to chase the lookout through the crawlspace. They didn’t have time to fight reinforcements in narrow stairs with smoke in their lungs.

They had to leave.

Kemi led them back through the outer door just as two men appeared at the bottom of the stairs, faces hard, weapons drawn. Their eyes widened as they saw the scattered coins, the smoldering desk, the open chest.

“What—” one began.

Valerius stepped forward like a wall. His voice was calm, but it carried the kind of authority that made even criminals hesitate.

“Leave,” he commanded.

One thug laughed, sharp and humorless. “You think you can—”

Valerius inhaled.

Cold poured from his mouth in a sudden cone, a blast of winter so intense it made even Deepwinter seem mild. Frost exploded across the cellar floor. The thugs yelped, stumbling back as ice crawled over their boots, numbing ankles, biting skin.

Kemi didn’t stop to admire it. She grabbed Matty’s sleeve, yanked him past the frozen men, and sprinted for the trapdoor stairs. Elara followed, bow ready. Nutmeg clung to her, eyes wide. Valerius brought up the rear, shield raised, sword ready, breath smoking after the icy exhale.

They slammed the trapdoor shut behind them and dragged the tarp back over it just as shouts rose from below, muffled by wood and earth.

“After them!”

“Find the door!”

Kemi’s heart pounded so hard it hurt. Her palms burned. Her leg ached. But she was moving, and movement was victory.

They bolted through the reeds, boots slipping in snow-mud, heading for the market because it was crowded and crowds were shields.

Bart Johnson saw them emerge, eyes narrowing at their soot-smudged faces. “Well,” he said, voice grim. “You found your thorns.”

“They’re angry,” Matty rasped between coughs.

Bart snorted. “Thorns are always angry. That’s why they’re thorns.” His gaze flicked to the tarp-covered patch. “You light a fire down there?”

Kemi winced. “Not on purpose.”

Bart’s eyes went sharp, but then he saw her burned hands and the way she limped slightly. His expression softened in spite of himself. “Next time,” he muttered, “try not to cook my fishery from the inside out.”

Valerius bowed his head, solemn. “I apologize. We acted to protect the village.”

Bart stared at him, then sighed. “Just… keep it away from the smokehouse.”

They moved fast back into town. Behind them, the pond’s reeds swayed gently, indifferent to human trouble. Snow continued to fall, quiet and relentless.

By the time they reached the market square, the hush had broken. People buzzed with rumors now, voices low but urgent, eyes darting. Word of the brawl had traveled like fire in dry straw.

Samuel Greenbriar stood at his shop doorway again, scarf now pulled tight. Nella had joined him, flour still on her hands, eyes fierce. When she saw Kemi, she stepped forward, gaze flicking to Kemi’s cheek, to her hands, to her limp.

“Oh, Kemi,” Nella breathed, and the way she said it made Kemi feel suddenly very young.

Kemi lifted her chin anyway. “We found it,” she said. “We found their cellar.”

Samuel’s eyes widened, hope and fear wrestling. “And?”

Valerius stepped forward and set the coin pouch gently into Samuel’s hands. “We recovered what they stole,” he said. “Not all of it. Some… was lost. But we took enough to return.”

Samuel’s fingers trembled as he untied the pouch. Coins gleamed dully in winter light.

Matty held up the red vial. “And this,” he said. “It’s a healing draught. I think.”

Samuel stared at it as if it were both blessing and curse. “Where did you get that?”

“From Blackthorn,” Kemi said. “In a chest. With this.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the silver locket.

Samuel’s breath caught. Nella’s hand flew to her mouth.

“That’s from the shrine,” Nella whispered. “Sister Eliza wears one like it when she blesses the bread at Greengrass.”

Elara’s eyes narrowed. “So they steal from everyone,” she said. “Merchants. Fishers. The shrine.”

Samuel’s face hardened in a way Kemi had never seen. “They’ve gone too far,” he said softly.

“And the lookout?” Matty asked, voice small. “The leader?”

Kemi’s chest tightened. Smoke, boots, the grin through blood. “He got away,” she admitted. “He set fire to his own records and ran.”

Samuel’s shoulders sagged, and for a moment the weight of it pressed on them all. They’d won, but not cleanly. They’d hit the hand, not the arm.

Valerius’s shield-face looked apologetic, lips downturned. “We could not pursue without endangering the fishery,” Valerius said. “And the reinforcements arrived.”

Samuel nodded slowly. “Then he will tell his superiors,” he said. “He will tell them Cobblecrest has… teeth.”

Kemi felt a twist of pride and dread. “Good,” she said, but her voice wasn’t as steady as she wanted.

Nella stepped forward and, without asking, took Kemi’s hands. She examined the burns with a baker’s practical eye, the kind that knew exactly how much heat skin could take before it blistered. Her own hands were warm, flour-dusted.

“You foolish brave thing,” Nella murmured. “Come inside. I have salve.”

Kemi tried to pull back, embarrassed. “I’m fine.”

Nella’s eyebrows lifted. “If you tell me you’re fine while bleeding on my brother’s doorstep, I will personally make you eat three honey-rose scones in one sitting. And you will be sick.”

Kemi’s eyes widened. That was a terrifying threat.

Matty, still pale, whispered, “Three? That’s… excessive.”

Elara almost smiled.

Samuel looked at Valerius, at Matty, at Elara, then at Kemi. His eyes were wet, though his voice was steady again. “You have done something brave,” he said. “And dangerous.” He glanced at the watching villagers, at the guards near the well who now looked distinctly uncomfortable. “You have drawn attention.”

Valerius lifted his chin. “Attention can be borne,” he said, as if it were another kind of weather.

Samuel’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “You speak like a priest,” he said.

Valerius looked pleased. “I trained with priests.”

Samuel’s gaze shifted to the locket in Kemi’s hand. “That must be returned,” he said. “To the shrine. Quietly.”

Kemi nodded, but as she moved to tuck it away again, the locket’s clasp snagged on her pocket seam. The front popped open.

Inside, instead of a portrait, there was a folded scrap of parchment, tucked so tightly it could have been missed. Kemi’s stomach dropped.

She pulled it free carefully. The paper was thin, the writing cramped. It wasn’t a love note. It was numbers. Names. Small entries like a ledger. A list of “dues,” paid and unpaid.

Matty leaned in, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “That’s… accounting,” he whispered, and there was something both fascinated and sickened in his tone.

Elara’s gaze sharpened. “Whose names?”

Kemi scanned the ink, lips moving silently. She recognized some: small merchants, a mill worker, someone from the stables. Then her eyes snagged on a name that made her breath catch.

Greenfield.

Not first name. Just the surname, written with a line beneath it, like emphasis.

Samuel’s face went pale. “Mayor Greenfield?” he whispered.

The market suddenly felt colder, as if the brazier fires had all dimmed at once.

Matty swallowed hard. “It could be… someone else with the same name.”

Elara’s voice was quiet. “Or it could be the rumor everyone is afraid to say out loud.”

Valerius’s shield-face shifted, brow furrowing, as if even it didn’t want to believe.

Kemi folded the paper back into the locket with hands that suddenly felt clumsy. She snapped it shut. The silver clicked like a lock closing on a secret.

Samuel’s voice was low, urgent. “You cannot show that here,” he said. His eyes darted around the square. “Not in the open. Not with ears everywhere.”

Kemi felt the crowd’s gaze like pressure. She had wanted to be a hero in the market. Now she realized heroes didn’t just fight. They carried things that could ruin people.

Nella’s hand tightened on Kemi’s fingers. “Inside,” she said firmly.

They went.

Greenbriar’s Goods smelled of oilcloth and spices and paper, comforting in a way that made Kemi’s throat ache. Samuel barred the door and pulled the curtains tight. The market noise became muffled, distant.

Nella bustled to the back and returned with a tin of salve that smelled like herbs and beeswax. She sat Kemi at the counter and began tending her hands without ceremony, as if this were just another injury from running too hard in winter.

Matty perched on a stool, still clutching his satchel, eyes darting as he listened to the muffled world outside.

Elara stood near the door, gaze distant, as if her ears were still tuned to the pond and the woods.

Valerius remained upright, as if sitting would be an admission of fatigue.

Samuel took the locket from Kemi with care, as if it might bite. He turned it over in his hands, eyes scanning its engraved crescent and wheat.

“This is trouble,” he whispered.

Kemi swallowed. “We stopped them,” she said, stubborn. “We got your money back.”

Samuel looked at her, and his expression softened. “Yes,” he said. “You did.” He hesitated, then added, “And I am grateful. More than I can say.”

Kemi felt heat rise in her cheeks that had nothing to do with braziers.

Samuel’s gaze dropped to her burned palms. “But you paid for it,” he said softly.

Kemi flexed her fingers. They hurt. Her knee throbbed. Her calf ached where teeth had bitten. But she was alive. Samuel’s shop still stood. The village still breathed.

“It’s fine,” she said, though her voice wavered.

Nella dabbed salve onto a blister and clicked her tongue. “It is not fine,” she said briskly. “But it will be.”

Matty cleared his throat. “We should… perhaps take this information to someone trustworthy,” he suggested, voice tight. “A priest. Or… a guard captain. Sergeant Stoneheart, maybe.”

Samuel’s eyes flicked to him. “Trustworthy is a rare thing when coin is involved,” he murmured.

Elara’s gaze shifted. “Sister Eliza,” she said. “The shrine. She blesses the fields. People listen to her.”

Valerius nodded. “The faithful of Bahamut value truth,” he said. “If the mayor is compromised, it must be confronted.”

Samuel flinched slightly at the word confronted. He looked tired suddenly, older than his years. “If you confront the mayor without proof, you will make enemies in high places,” he said. “If you confront Blackthorn with proof, you will make enemies in low places. Either way, you will have enemies.”

Kemi swallowed. The idea made her stomach twist, but it also made something inside her stand straighter. She’d had enemies before. Hunger. Cold. Lonely nights. At least these enemies had faces.

“So what do we do?” Matty asked, voice small.

Samuel looked at the locket again, then at Kemi. “You return this to Sister Eliza,” he said. “You do it quietly. You tell her where you found it. You show her the paper. And then you listen.”

Elara nodded once. “And we watch the pond,” she said. “If Blackthorn comes back here, they won’t like what they find.”

Valerius’s shield-face shifted into a resolute smile. “We stand between Cobblecrest and harm,” Valerius declared. “That is what heroes do.”

Matty swallowed, then, surprising himself, nodded. “And I… will write it down,” he murmured. “Not for gossip. For truth. So it can’t be changed.”

Kemi looked at her burned hands, at the salve shining on her skin. She remembered the lookout’s grin, the way he’d chosen fire over capture. He would tell Blackthorn that the market wasn’t silent anymore.

She took a slow breath and let it out.

Outside, snow continued to fall. Midwinter crept closer, day by day, carrying lanterns and solemn hearth tales.

Inside Greenbriar’s Goods, four young heroes sat in the warm light of a shop that still stood, holding a locket that wasn’t just silver.

It was a hook sunk deep into something bigger.

Kemi flexed her fingers again, feeling pain and promise together. “Okay,” she said, voice steady now. “Then we do it. Quietly.”

Nella set a honey-rose scone in front of her anyway, warm and fragrant, as if to remind her that the village was still worth fighting for.

Kemi picked it up, took a bite, and tasted sweetness under smoke.

Somewhere beneath Cobblecrest, in tunnels and cellars and forgotten drainage, someone else was moving, carrying word of meddling children and a paladin’s icy breath.

And somewhere above, in a mayor’s office warmed by a hearth, a name on a secret list waited to be spoken aloud.