For several long seconds, the boy could not move.
He lay curled in the strange garden, one hand dug into the rich black soil, the other pressed between his legs where the wild little girl had landed a brutally accurate kick. His face had gone pale. His breath came thin through clenched teeth.
Above him, chickens watched from the roof, the treehouse, and the branches like silent, judgmental spectators.
If his master ever heard of this, he would never hear the end of it.
The boy dragged in one breath.
Then another.
Slowly, pain became rage.
"Unbelievable," he muttered. "That little shit."
Somewhere near the lake, the girl's bare feet slapped against the path as she ran.
He forced himself upright, swaying once as the garden blurred with flowers, sunlight, and humiliation. He steadied himself, reached down, and pulled his sword from the soil. The dark blade slid free with a soft hiss, heavy and familiar in his hand.
Its weight calmed him.
He should have been furious.
He was furious.
A wild child had ambushed him, insulted him, kicked him between the legs, and fled like some ridiculous forest spirit. He wanted very badly to catch her and teach her that noble travelers were not to be attacked like common thieves.
Yet beneath the anger, curiosity stirred.
Who was she?
He had never seen anyone like her. Small, quick, savage, and strange, but not stupid. Her movements were too sharp for that. Her eyes had been too clear. Her face had struck him with a familiarity he did not want to believe in: pale hair, violet eyes, a delicate shape that reminded him of a woman he had known long ago.
But the temper was wrong.
That stubbornness, that ridiculous courage, that furious refusal to bow even when outmatched—that reminded him of someone else entirely.
The thought bothered him.
Those people were gone. Long gone. This girl was no ghost, no memory, no answer sent by heaven or hell. She was only a wild little brat in need of a lesson.
Probably.
The boy's mouth tightened.
Whatever she was, he would know.
He swung the sword over his shoulder and fastened it across his back beneath his cloak. Then he followed.
He moved quickly through the garden, stepping over smooth clay stones laid carefully into the soil. At the living gate, he vaulted rather than slowed. The woven branches groaned under his weight, thorns dragging at his cloak before he dropped down on the other side.
Then he stopped.
Beyond the main garden, the clearing opened wider than he had expected.
Flowers grew in thick patches of color. Wild berries climbed low frames of woven sticks. Tomato plants, herbs, beans, and curling vines filled the edges of the path. Farther out, young apple trees stood near the tree line, their branches heavy with glossy fruit. Bees moved in golden clouds. Birds watched from the branches. Rabbits hid in the tall grass. Squirrels clung to tree trunks with acorns held like tiny stones, as if debating whether to throw them. Farther back, half-hidden among the trees, deer stood silent and watchful.
The whole place felt wrong.
Not evil.
Not dangerous in any way he understood.
But aware.
As if the garden, the animals, the trees, and every small thing living there had turned toward him together and decided he did not belong.
The boy narrowed his eyes.
"What is this place?" he muttered.
No one answered.
Near the lakeshore stood more strange things: drying frames, stone tools, ropes, woven baskets, a crude press of wood and rock, clay ovens, and little constructions that looked like rubbish until he noticed how carefully they had been arranged. Beside them sprawled a miniature town of clay and sticks, complete with crooked walls, tiny houses, leaning towers, and figures standing in the streets. Mice peered from the windows, black-eyed and suspicious.
The boy stared.
A bandit camp, this was not.
Nor did it look like any hermit's shelter, shrine, or fairy mound he had ever heard described in old tales. It was something stranger. Something made by hands that were clever, lonely, and half-mad with imagination.
Then, as he followed the path curving behind the green-swallowed cabin, he saw her.
She stood near the lakeshore, beside a circular fish trap built from stones. Water glimmered to one side of her. The moss-covered cabin rose to the other. Forest waited beyond, dark and deep, while the grassy clearing lay between them like an arena.
The girl had retrieved her spear.
Wet pale hair clung to her shoulders and back in long ropes. Mud marked her feet and knees. Her rough handmade clothes were simple, practical things of hide and cloth, still damp from the lake. She was far smaller than he had first judged in the chaos of their struggle. Tiny, almost. Too small to be standing there so bravely with a weapon aimed at him.
And yet she did.
Her spear was crude: a sturdy shaft with a rusty knife lashed to the end by cord, bark strips, and vine fiber. The binding was uneven. The blade looked old enough to have died once already.
Her hands trembled around the shaft.
But the point stayed fixed on him.
The sight cooled the last sharp edge of his anger.
She was frightened.
Furious too, yes. Defiant. Ready to fight. But frightened all the same.
And more than anything now, he wanted to know who she was.
The boy walked into the clearing and stopped several paces away. He studied her: the fierce violet eyes, the tight grip, the stubborn set of her jaw, the way her whole small body seemed ready either to flee or attack.
Then he reached back for his sword.
The girl flinched and lifted the spear higher.
He drew the blade slowly, turned it point-down, and drove it into the soil between them. The dark steel sank deep and stood there, gleaming in the sun. Then he raised both empty hands.
"There," he said. "Unarmed. Calm yourself."
Her eyes flicked to the sword, then back to his face.
"I wish to know who you are," he continued, keeping his voice steady. "What this place is. Whether you made all of this."
His gaze moved briefly over the living wall, the strange tools, the clay town, and the silent animals watching from every side.
"And whether I have stumbled into a garden, a bandit den, or some spirit's nest."
Lily tightened her grip on the spear.
Her first meeting with a human in years was not supposed to be like this. She had spent so long imagining what she might say to people. She had practiced greetings, trade offers, explanations, polite questions, and at least three speeches about being a respectable independent citizen.
Now that someone was actually here, all of that vanished. Because he was a thief, a handsome, arrogant, lunch-stealing thief.
"My name none of your business," she snapped in broken Albion. "This place none of your concern. You surrender first."
The boy blinked. "Surrender?"
"And apologize."
"For what?"
"For stealing lunch. Eating berries. Invading border. Having attitude." Lily jabbed the spear toward him. "Get knees. Beg forgiveness, pig."
For a heartbeat, he looked too offended to speak.
Then he laughed, not kindly or loudly, just a short, disbelieving laugh that made Lily's face burn.
"I will not kneel to you."
Lily's eyes narrowed.
The boy's mouth curved faintly. "I am training to hunt monsters, not beg forgiveness from wild little girls waving sticks. I am a man. Men do not kneel before women."
The words struck like a slap.
For a second, all her old anxieties vanished. The fear of speaking badly. The worry that people would laugh at her. The shame of being strange and alone and poorly dressed in a body that kept betraying her.
All of it burned away, and in its place came fury. Because he was wrong. And worse, because some ugly little part of her feared he was right.
She might have been a small, wild girl, but she would not kneel. She would not submit, she would not let some arrogant boy walk into her republic, eat her breakfast, insult her borders, and call himself a man as if that settled anything.
"Fine," Lily said softly. "You choose doom."
The boy almost smiled at how serious she sounded. He tried to hold it back, but the smirk came anyway.
Then Lily attacked.
She crossed the distance in a burst of bare feet and fury, spear leveled at his middle because his face was too high and his chest was nearly out of reach. The rusty point snapped toward his stomach.
The boy stepped back.
Lily followed and thrust again.
He shifted left.
She pulled back and drove the spear forward once more.
He turned right, his cloak brushing the spearhead as it passed.
Again and again she struck, quick little jabs aimed at his stomach, ribs, and hands. Again and again he slipped away, not by much, only enough. He did not retreat in panic. He moved with calm, infuriating precision, letting the point miss by inches while his eyes stayed fixed on her shoulders and grip.
Worse, he was backing dangerously close to New Town.
Lily saw his heel come near the clay outer wall and immediately broke off, hopping back with a hiss.
No. Absolutely not. He was not ruining her castle town too.
The boy noticed her glance and stepped away from the little clay city, still smirking.
"You are quick," he said. "But too obvious."
"Shut up!"
Lily changed targets.
The spear dipped low and stabbed at his boots. He lifted one foot. She stabbed again, aiming for his ankle. He stepped back. She swept the shaft toward his shin, and he hopped over it lightly, almost lazily.
That made her angrier.
"Stand still!" she roared, sounding like an enraged squirrel with military authority.
Then she spun the spear over her head.
The shaft whistled in a wide circle. It looked impressive. It felt impressive. For one glorious heartbeat, Lily imagined herself as a legendary staff master from an old movie, unstoppable and mysterious beneath the blue sky.
She spun it faster, trying to dazzle him, then threw in a little hop, a twist, and a half-flip that made her wet hair flash around her face.
The boy's brows lifted.
Good, confusion achieved.
Lily lunged forward. She brought the spear down in a sweeping overhead strike, aiming to bonk the bad man properly on the head.
The boy took one calm step back.
The rusty blade cut through empty air and struck the grass instead, missing a small snail by so little that the creature wisely retreated into its shell.
Lily hissed, rolled backward to make distance, and sprang to her feet several paces away.
Her chest rose and fell quickly, while his breathing had barely changed, that was not fair.
The boy tilted his head, amused. "Finished?"
Lily's eyes narrowed as she panted.
"Never," she hissed. "I have trained stick technique for two years. Consistently. Whenever I feel like it before dinner."
The boy blinked, uncertain whether he should be impressed.
Then Lily charged again.
This time, just before she reached him, she dropped into a sideways roll. She came out of it low, scooped up a fistful of wet dirt, and flung it at his chest.
The clump burst across his cloak.
The boy stared down at it.
"What are you doing?"
Lily did not answer.
She rolled again and vanished into the long grass near the clay castle town.
The boy turned, tracking the rustle of grass with growing confusion. "Seriously, what are you doing?"
For one heartbeat, the grass went still.
Then Lily erupted from it.
"Sneak attack!"
She sprang forward with a wild shout, spear driving toward his side.
His hand snapped out and caught the shaft in mid-thrust.
The sudden stop yanked Lily forward. Her feet left the ground, her momentum betrayed her, and she crashed face-first into the dirt directly in front of his boots, still clinging stubbornly to the spear.
For one humiliating second, she lay there, looking up at him.
He looked down at her and smirked.
Then Lily twisted onto her back, planted both feet against his legs, and pulled at the spear with all her strength.
The boy held it easily in one hand.
"That," he admitted, "was almost clever."
Lily glared up at him.
"Give back spear!"
The boy tilted his head. "Why should I? Will you tell me your name if I do?"
Lily felt blackmailed.
Worse, she felt blackmailed while lying in the dirt beneath a lunch thief.
Unacceptable.
Still on her back, she grabbed the shaft with both hands and yanked as hard as she could. The spear did not come free.
But she did.
Her body lifted with the force of the pull. She kicked off the ground, swung upward, and brought both muddy feet straight into his face.
The boy's head snapped back.
Mud smeared across his cheek, nose, and mouth.
Lily dropped badly, scrambled upright, and grabbed the spear again with a gasp of triumph.
"I hit you! Now let go or I hit more!"
The boy went very still.
Slowly, his smile vanished.
He wiped mud from his face with the back of one hand. His blue eyes opened through the smear, colder now, irritation cutting through his amusement at last.
Lily tried once more to pull the spear free.
His grip tightened like iron.
"Playtime," he said, voice low, "is over."
He yanked.
The spear tore from her hands.
Lily stumbled forward, nearly slamming into his chest again, but she kicked off him before impact, throwing herself backward into a messy flip and roll. She landed several paces away, just in time to see him turn and hurl the weapon toward the cabin.
The spear spun through the air and landed on the mossy roof with a heavy thump, scattering hens and making Mister Terminator flap his wings in deep political outrage.
Lily stared in horror.
"You threw my precious spear!"
The boy took one step toward her.
"I do not care. I have had enough." His voice hardened. "Stop this now, or I will hit back."
The threat sent a cold crawl through Lily's stomach.
His hands were many times larger than hers. He was taller, stronger, trained, and now genuinely angry. Every sensible part of her screamed that this was the moment to run.
Then he smirked again, clearly pleased that he had frightened her.
That ruined everything.
The forest was watching. The chickens were watching. Mister Terminator was watching from the roof. She was president of this lake. She could not allow some arrogant boy to see her fear and think he had won.
So Lily chose tactical deception.
"Oh yeah?" she snapped. "I bet you hit like girl!"
The boy opened his mouth, perhaps to answer, but Lily was already moving.
She rolled backward, came up into a crude fist-fighting stance, and raised both hands. Black soil and torn grass were clenched in her fists.
The boy looked at her small hands and almost laughed.
"Really?"
Lily tried to make her face fierce.
To him, she only looked like a furious little wildcat pretending to be a boxer.
Then she charged, roaring, fists raised high as if she meant to punch him directly.
His guard lowered slightly.
Lily smirked.
Her fists opened.
"Dirt attack, go!"
She flung the first handful at his face.
He jerked aside, but not fast enough. Dirt burst across his cheek.
The second handful hit him square in the eyes.
The boy cursed and staggered back, one hand flying to his face.
"Blinding curse!" Lily shouted.
Then she rushed in.
She darted inside his reach and punched him in the stomach. Her knuckles struck hard muscle and instantly regretted every decision that had led them there.
She punched again anyway.
Then came an elbow to the ribs. A kick to his shin. Another low sweep against his leg.
None of it did much.
It was like a little girl attacking a heavy punching bag that had been trained to hate her.
The boy grunted, more annoyed than hurt, and wiped mud from his eyes.
"Why, you little—"
Lily realized her mistake.
She was too close.
She tried to cartwheel back, a tactical retreat of the highest order, but his hand caught her shoulder before she could finish the movement. His other arm hooked under one leg.
The ground vanished beneath her feet.
"Let go!" she shrieked. "Or I bite!"
She twisted, kicked, and tried to sink her teeth into his arm, but he shifted his grip before she could reach. Then he turned, spinning once in a full circle to build momentum.
Lily's eyes widened.
"Wait, what are you—"
He lifted her higher.
"Go cool off, little girl!"
Then he threw her.
Lily flew.
Her scream tore across the clearing, high, furious, and deeply betrayed. For one impossible second, sky, trees, chickens, lake, and the boy's mud-smeared face spun around her.
Instinct took over.
She tucked, twisted, and turned through the air with the unwilling grace of a professional diver having the worst day of her life.
Then she hit the lake.
A neat splash leapt from the surface.
Cold water swallowed her whole, dragging her under in a rush of bubbles, pale hair, and wounded dignity.