Chapter 42: This one is mine

  Firelight cracked and hissed.

  Two sides faced one another in the shallow clearing, shadows stretched long by the flames.

  On one side, five grown men.

  Sticks. Stones. A broken board with nails half-pulled free.

  Not soldiers.

  Not warriors.

  But practiced enough at cruelty.

  On the other, two.

  A boy on the edge of manhood, coat worn but cared for, sword plain and unadorned.

  And a girl small, not yet ten oversize boots planted firm, a wooden stick in her hands.

  The imbalance was obscene.

  One of the men stepped forward, lips curling.

  “Brat. This isn’t your business.”

  Another laughed, voice oily.

  “Drop the girl and walk away. Clean.

  Or help us take her—there’s enough profit to share.”

  Ray’s eyes narrowed.

  So, they’d decided.

  No retreat.

  No bargaining.

  This time, they meant to finish it.

  He stepped forward.

  “What kind of ‘brave’ abandons a child standing right in front of him?”

  His voice was calm. Steady.

  “If I can’t protect something this small then the world can keep its titles.”

  Steel whispered free of its sheath.

  No glow.

  No ornament.

  Just a broad, honest blade of simple steel.

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  Yet the air changed.

  The men felt it, pressure, intent, certainty.

  Even Ivaline, standing behind him, felt the weight settle like gravity.

  Ray leveled the sword.

  “You’ll face justice,” he said.

  “Here.”

  “No.”

  The word cut through the night.

  Small.

  Clear.

  Ivaline stepped past him.

  Her stick lifted, not shaking, not rushed and pointed straight at one man.

  The one who had stepped on her chest that morning.

  “This one is mine,” she said.

  “I have a score to settle.”

  Silence fell.

  Ray stared at her, stunned.

  Chronicle observed.

  And said nothing.

  If this was her choice,

  He would honor it.

  “…Are you certain?” Ray asked quietly.

  “Yes.”

  He exhaled.

  “…Alright.”

  Ray turned, blade lifting as he stepped between her and the others.

  “These four are mine,” he said without looking back.

  “Shout if you need me.”

  “Umu,” she replied.

  “I will.”

  He moved.

  The thugs cursed and spread, forced to follow him—forced away.

  Leaving her alone with him.

  The man.

  Ivaline set her stance.

  Feet grounded.

  Grip firm.

  Eyes locked.

  “…Why?” the man asked, voice cracking with something ugly.

  She didn’t answer.

  The Man’s Thoughts

  Why?

  The question clawed at him.

  He knew her.

  Same streets.

  Same hunger.

  Same nights searching for scraps under the same cold stars.

  He had seen adults steal from her.

  Seen her endure.

  They were the same kind of person.

  Or so he thought.

  Then she vanished from his world.

  Not dead.

  Not broken.

  Working.

  Hunting.

  Standing straighter each day.

  Her life improved.

  And his didn’t.

  So he robbed her.

  Showed her where she belonged.

  The first time, he won.

  The second time, she fought back.

  And beat him.

  He armed himself.

  Lost again.

  Confusion turned to rage.

  He tried honesty.

  No shop would take him.

  No one trusted him.

  So, he returned to what he knew.

  Robbery.

  Scams.

  Survival by force.

  Then he heard about her.

  A lone girl driving off three men to protect a baker.

  Why her?

  Why only her?

  Why did she get to walk the right path while he rotted?

  So, he planned.

  So, he crushed her beneath his boot.

  And yet,

  She didn’t scream.

  Didn’t beg.

  Her eyes didn’t break.

  They looked back at him.

  Clear.

  Unyielding.

  And now.

  Here she stood again.

  Facing him.

  Still unbroken.

  The man snarled, lifting his weapon.

  “I’ll destroy those eyes of yours.”

  The fire popped.

  Ivaline tightened her grip.

  Behind her, Chronicle watched.

  And waited.

  If she asked.

  He would answer.

  Until then.

  History would move forward on her legs alone.