Chapter 37: When a Name Is Spoken

  It did not take long.

  The guards had barely vanished down the street when footsteps hurried in from the other end.

  Two men.

  Breathing hard.

  Angry.

  Afraid.

  The dye shop owner arrived first, coat half-buttoned, eyes already searching.

  The bakery owner followed, flour still clinging to his sleeves.

  They saw her.

  On the ground.

  A boot on her chest.

  The dye shop owner’s face went white.

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing!?”

  The bakery owner took one step forward.

  “She works for me,” he said, voice shaking but loud.

  “She’s no thief.”

  The man standing over Ivaline sneered.

  “Oh? You’re her father?”

  Silence.

  “You’re not related by blood,” he continued smoothly.

  “So what is she to you, huh?”

  “A plaything?”

  “A mistress?”

  The word snapped something.

  The bakery owner lunged

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

  “YOU—!”

  Brannic moved instantly, grabbing his arm.

  “Stop,” Brannic hissed.

  “Not like this.”

  The dye shop owner clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe.

  “I’ll pay the fine,” he said sharply.

  “Whatever it is. I’ll cover it.”

  The man laughed.

  A con artist who shoves it in her hands and play a victim shout.

  “I don’t want a fine.”

  He wipes his fake tears while the other man press boot down harder.

  “I want justice.”

  Ivaline’s breath hitched, but she made no sound.

  Brannic’s mind raced.

  Petition.

  Witness statements.

  Delay the sentence.

  The dye shop owner was already calculating, names, favors, debts owed by men who could pull strings.

  The bakery owner thought of doors.

  Keys.

  Friends who would not ask questions.

  If they took her to the guard prison.

  He would break her out.

  Consequences be damned.

  Then.

  A voice cut through the alley.

  Clear.

  Commanding.

  “Release the girl.”

  At the far end of the alley stood a boy.

  Not a child.

  Not yet a man.

  Fifteen maybe eighteen at most.

  Blonde hair caught the light as it shifted in the wind.

  Blue eyes, clear, unwavering.

  An adventurer’s coat hung from his shoulders.

  Worn.

  Maintained.

  A sword rested at his back.

  Undrawn.

  But ready.

  His stance was correct.

  Not flawless.

  But honest.

  One of the men scoffed.

  “This isn’t your business, boy.”

  The boot pressed down again.

  Ivaline’s breath shuddered.

  “This is justice,” the man said.

  “Thievery.”

  The boy’s eyes flicked to the scattered coins.

  Then to her.

  She spoke.

  Barely above a whisper.

  “No.”

  The word carried.

  Simple.

  Unyielding.

  “Silence,” the man snapped.

  Pressure increased.

  Pain flared white behind her eyes.

  Still, no scream.

  She looked at the boy.

  Not begging.

  Not pleading.

  Asking to be seen.

  Chronicle felt it.

  That gaze had weight.

  The boy exhaled.

  Once.

  Then stepped forward.

  “In the name of Ray E. Shine, the Brave,” he declared, voice ringing,

  “proclaimed by the Holy Church.”

  Chronicle reacted instantly.

  A declared name.

  A public mantle.

  The alley shifted.

  The boy continued, louder now.

  “I demand you release the girl.”

  Murmurs rippled through the onlookers.

  Names mattered.

  Titles mattered more.

  “If she is guilty,” he said evenly,

  “let her face judgment before authority.”

  His hand hovered near the hilt.

  Still undrawn.

  But no longer ignorable.

  “Not under a boot.”

  Silence fell.

  And for the first time.

  The men hesitated.