----Chapter 4----
The clang of hammers rang faintly through Ethille's narrow streets, mingling with the calls of vendors and the clip of horseshoes on cobblestone. Though the city still bore scars of fire and blade, life pressed stubbornly onward.
Masons patched broken walls, scaffolds creaking with each lift. Shopkeepers repainted charred signs, their brushes leaving streaks of vibrant color over blackened wood.
The scent of fresh bread drifted from bakeries that had reopened at dawn, mingling with the aroma of roasting meats and sweet spices, promising normalcy even in the shadow of recent violence. The city was healing, slowly but surely, its spirit unbroken.
The Purge Knights walked among it all, their armor gleaming even beneath soot-stained skies, symbols of hope and vigilance. Each step echoed against the narrow streets, a rhythmic reminder that Ethille's guardians had not abandoned her.
Azre and Nilda trailed behind the main company as Eldhar and the others dispersed to their duties. Neither knight was eager for idleness.
For Azre, rest only brought memories of the dungeon's screams, the echoes of suffering that no sunlight could cleanse. She needed action, a purpose to drown out the haunting memories.
For Nilda, stillness made her thoughts too sharp, too heavy, each calculation of potential danger spinning through her mind like a razor. She thrived on order and efficiency, finding solace in the structured chaos of the city.
"Markets will tell you more of a city than its palaces," Nilda murmured, adjusting her glasses with a precise motion that caught the sunlight, reflecting a small glint onto her rapier's hilt. "What people eat, what they haggle for, what luxuries they still cling to. It reveals everything."
Azre gave a faint smirk. "I thought you preferred libraries."
"I do. But a market is a library of people." Nilda countered, her lips curving into a rare smile.
They turned a corner, and the marketplace of Ethille unfurled before them like a tapestry of sound, color, and motion. The air vibrated with the energy of commerce, the pulse of life itself.
Canvas awnings stretched overhead in a patchwork of crimson, teal, and gold. The air was dense with heat from too many bodies pressed close; shoulders brushed, carts rattled, and the mingling scents of sweat, spice, and livestock thickened with each breath.
Stalls bristled with goods both humble and rare: baskets of orange-tinged sunleaf herbs said to ease fevers, cages of tiny white birds whose feathers shimmered faintly when touched by sunlight, and bolts of dyed linen patterned with motifs of the river that wound around Ethille's walls.
Most striking of all were the heaps of solvaris, golden fruits unique to this region. The fruit's skin gleamed like polished amber, its scent sweet with notes of honey and citrus. Every Ethillian knew solvaris as more than food; it was a symbol of resilience.
Then, fate shifted. The illusion of peace shattered, replaced by the harsh reality of Ethille's struggles.
A small body slammed into Azre's armored frame. She stiffened, looking down to find a boy no older than eight. His cheeks were streaked with dirt and tears, his tiny fists clinging to her gauntlet as though it were an anchor in a storm.
"Please… help my father!" His voice cracked, breaking into sobs that carried across the nearby stalls.
Azre immediately dropped to one knee, meeting his trembling gaze. "Where is he?"
The boy could only point with shaking hands toward the heart of the market. Nilda's sharp eyes followed the gesture, narrowing as her mind processed the scene before them. Without hesitation, Azre rose.
"Nilda, take him. Run."
Though her lips pressed tight with reluctance, Nilda gathered the boy gently into her arms, adjusting her glasses with one hand, the other resting lightly on her rapier hilt. "Hold on. We'll find him."
The square opened before them, and the boy's anguish was made flesh. The scene that unfolded was a stark contrast to the vibrant energy of the market, a brutal reminder of the darkness that lurked beneath the surface.
A fruit stall lay shattered, baskets overturned, golden solvaris rolling like suns dashed upon the stone. Two thugs towered over the scene: one with curling tattoos carved along his jawline, the other with a dark cloth knotted over his head and brow, a bandanna shadowing his scarred eyes.
The merchant, the boy's father, knelt with bruised ribs, blood staining his tunic. He shielded his child with a trembling arm.
"You call this all you have?" Tattoo sneered, kicking a basket aside. "Pathetic. We said double."
The father pushed forward his coin pouch, voice ragged. "Please… take it. Just spare my boy."
But the scarred man with the bandanna only laughed, brandishing a dagger. "Then we'll take the brat instead." He lunged forward, his eyes fixed on the boy.
The father shoved his son back, shouting hoarsely, "Run! Get help!"
The boy stumbled straight into Nilda's arms. He clung to her tightly, his body trembling with fear.
Azre's eyes swept the wreckage. Her blood roared.
The bandits turned, mocking grins curling. "Well, well. Knights. Guess the city's dogs finally barked."
Tattoo crushed a solvaris beneath his heel, golden pulp staining the stones.
Azre's fury surged hot, but Nilda acted first. She recognized the danger, the potential for escalation, and moved to defuse the situation with a calculated precision.
She lowered the boy gently, her rapier whispering free of its sheath. The crystalline blade caught the sunlight, scattering fractured light across the scene. Her voice rang out, calm, elegant, and precise, yet edged with authority.
"You dare trample a Fenriz heirloom fruit?" She adjusted her glasses with a small, practiced flick. "For that alone, you will answer to me."
Unease flickered in the thugs' eyes at the name Fenriz.
Tattoo lunged, blade flashing. Nilda sidestepped with liquid grace, skirts whispering as she pivoted. Her boot slammed into his gut, hurling him backward. He hit the cobbles wheezing, Nilda's rapier hovering at his throat. "Checkmate," she murmured, her heel pinning him down.
The bandanna-wearing brute snarled, eyes darting to the boy. "Fine, then I will take him!" He lunged forward, his eyes burning with malice.
Azre's wrath ignited. She caught his wrist mid-thrust. Bone cracked audibly beneath her iron grip. The thug screamed as his dagger fell. Azre leaned in, her voice molten steel. "You dare lay hands on him?"
The townsfolk, who had cowered moments before, erupted into cheers.
Then came the thunder of boots. The ground trembled as reinforcements arrived.
Captain Eldhar stormed in with Aven and Viera at his side, militia flooding the square. "Stand down, filth!" Eldhar roared, his voice like a warhorn.
The thugs faltered. Those still standing fled, only to be seized by militia. The square erupted with jubilation, citizens praising the Purge Knights, voices carrying hope through streets that had known only fear.
When the clamor softened, Azre and Nilda remained with the boy and his father. Together, they gathered the ruined baskets, salvaging what solvaris they could.
The merchant bowed low, voice choked. "You saved not only me, but my son. My life belongs to you."
The boy stepped forward shyly, two small solvaris cradled in his hands. His eyes shone as he held them out. "Please… take these. So you will remember us."
Nilda accepted hers with composed grace, slipping it into her satchel as though filing away a rare jewel. "Thank you. It will be kept safe."
Azre crouched to meet his gaze. She ruffled his hair, her smile unguarded, warm as sunlight. "I'll treasure it. And you, be strong. Take care of your father."
The boy beamed, clinging to his father as they turned to leave with what little remained of their wares.
Eldhar approached, his voice carrying pride. "You showed Ethille the true meaning of knighthood. Protecting those who cannot protect themselves, that is our oath made flesh."
Even Viera, sharp-eyed and stern, offered a rare smile. "The people will not forget this. Nor will I."
Azre and Nilda exchanged a glance. Different as night and day, yet in this moment bound by the same fire.
As cheers rolled through the market, the golden fruit gleamed in the fading sun, a symbol of resilience unbroken. Beyond Ethille's walls, shadows still stirred, and the Black Fang's mark awaited.
The true war had only just begun.