Chapter 84 – The Dagger and the Smirk

The afternoon sun draped Arkwyn in gold. Warm light spilled through narrow streets, glinting off glass windows and the dull metal of hanging signs. The air smelled of fresh bread and grilled meat, mixed with the faint salt drifting from the harbor. It had been afternoon and for once, the town felt almost peaceful.


“Let’s take a break,” Narissa said, stretching her arms above her head. The corners of her lips lifted in the faintest smile. “We’ve been cooped up long enough.”


Slyvie was already a step ahead, her small boots clattering against the cobblestone. “Yes! Food! I smelled something good from that way!” she shouted, pointing at a crooked street lined with food stalls.


I followed at a measured pace, hands in my pockets. The streets were crowded — vendors calling out, children darting past, and old women haggling over herbs. It felt… ordinary. A rare moment of quiet before the next inevitable storm.


Slyvie skipped ahead, clutching a paper cone filled with candied nuts. “Aren, look! They sparkle!”


I glanced down at her, expression flat. “It’s just sugar, not magic.”


She puffed her cheeks. “You’re no fun.”


Narissa laughed, light and unguarded — the kind of laugh only people untouched by real despair could make. “He’s always like this, Slyvie. Cold as a stone even in a festival.”


“It was yesterday,” I replied.


She rolled her eyes. “Just try to enjoy a peaceful day for once?”


Peaceful. I’ve heard that word too many times to still find it meaningful. Peace is nothing but the pause between two inevitable storms. A breath before chaos resumes.


But I said nothing. Instead, I allowed myself to be led — through streets lined with traders hawking fruit, through the scent of burning resin and linen dye, past the rhythm of normal life pretending not to rot underneath.


Narissa stopped at a stall displaying ribbons and gloves. “Hmm, which color suits Slyvie more — blue or white?”


Slyvie spun in a circle, her hair fluttering. “Blue! Like the sky!”


I watched them. For a moment, the sight was almost… pleasant. Not in a sentimental way — but in the way a man admires an old painting before it burns. Innocence has a certain artistry to it. Fragile, transient, doomed.


Narissa caught my gaze. “What? You’re staring.”


“Nothing.”


She smiled faintly. “Are you sure?”


Her eyes lingered on me, playful yet probing, as if she was trying to read my thoughts. I could feel the warmth of her presence in the air, and for a moment, the noise of the town seemed to fade.


“You know,” she said softly, leaning a bit closer, “it’s rude to stare, even if it’s just a little.”


I shrugged, pretending indifference, though the corner of my mouth betrayed me. “Maybe I’m just appreciating the scenery.”


Her laugh was light, like the wind rustling through the market stalls. “Scenery, huh? Flattering, I suppose.”


I didn’t answer, letting her amusement hang in the air.


Naïve, but persistently cheerful. I shrugged and let my gaze wander to a blacksmith’s stall. Rows of blades glinted under the muted sunlight — short swords, knives, daggers. One in particular drew my attention: a simple steel dagger, hilt wrapped in worn leather. Unassuming at first, yet perfectly balanced, as if it had been waiting for a hand that knew its purpose.


The vendor noticed. “Fine blade, sir. Balanced for either hand.”


“I can tell,” I murmured, lifting it. The weight settled in my palm like it belonged there — a tool of will. Tools do not choose morality. Hands do. And my hands… have never been gentle.


Narissa walked up beside me. “You’re really buying a weapon here?”


“I prefer to be prepared.”


“You’re always prepared.”


“Then I am consistent.”


The thought of my previous dagger, dulled from battles past, crossed my mind. This one would serve differently — a new instrument, a fresh purpose.


Narissa sighed, paying for Slyvie’s ribbons, while I handed the vendor a few coins for the dagger. I didn’t need it — at least, not yet — but some instinct whispered that its time would come.


We left the stall, our arms full of small treasures, laughter mingling with the bustle of the market.


We stopped near a row of stalls. One was selling skewered meat glazed with thick honey sauce, another stacked with steaming bread stuffed with minced fish. Narissa leaned toward a stall, examining a delicate necklace of colored glass beads.


“Pretty,” she murmured, holding it up to the light.


“It’s cheap glass,” I commented. “If you want, I can buy you a real one.”


She turned, her brow lifting slightly. “Oh? Are you offering me a gift, Lord Aren?”


“Not a gift,” I said with a faint smile. “Consider it an investment in your mood. You’re easier to deal with when you’re not scowling.”


She rolled her eyes, but I caught the small smirk she tried to hide.


Meanwhile, Slyvie was busy at the food stall, waving coins at the vendor. “Three skewers, please! The big ones!”


“You’ll burn your tongue,” I warned.


“That’s okay!” she replied with her mouth already full. “It’s worth it!”


I sighed. “Children.”


Narissa chuckled. “You sound like an old man.”


“I’m actually a lot older than you,” I thought quietly, observing the innocence in their gaze.


Countless years have passed for me — not in the span of a single life, but across lifetimes.


My body may be young, but my mind has walked through decades of despair, ambition, and bloodshed.
I’ve touched power and ruin alike, seen hope and joy turn brittle with a single misstep.


But it doesn’t matter anymore.


Time has long lost its meaning to me — everything eventually rots, bends, or burns. Whether it’s kingdoms, faith, or love… all things fall the same way in the end.


“Perhaps I am,” I said quietly, taking a bite from my own skewer. “Too many lifetimes lived in too few years.”


She looked at me for a moment — as if trying to read something between my words — but said nothing.


We spent the next hour drifting through the town like aimless wanderers. Narissa stopped at a tailor’s place, examining fabrics. Slyvie tried on a wide straw hat three sizes too large. The atmosphere was light, the kind of moment people write songs about — fleeting peace in a broken world.


But even as I walked among them, my eyes kept scanning the crowd. Too many guards stood idle at corners, pretending to chat. Too many shutters were closed on a bright day. The air carried something beneath the noise — unease.


Narissa noticed it too, though she said nothing. Her gaze lingered on a woman arguing with a merchant, her voice trembling more from fear than anger. A group of dock workers whispered behind barrels, glancing toward the northern road. Whatever had begun in Arkwyn had spread beyond the manor walls.


“Lord Aren, look!” Slyvie tugged at my sleeve, pointing toward the far end of the street. A small puppet show had gathered a crowd of children. Paper figures danced, telling some local tale about the Weeping Cycle — the ancient curse that supposedly visited the town every few centuries. The puppeteer’s voice cracked dramatically as he mimicked the cries of those “chosen” to appease the wrath.


“Cursed stories for children,” I muttered.


Narissa glanced at me. “You don’t believe in the Weeping Cycle?”


“I believe in consequences,” I replied. “Whether divine or human, someone always demands payment.”


She frowned but said nothing more. The play ended with applause, and the children scattered — laughter echoing like birdsong. For a fleeting second, even I forgot the weight pressing on this town.


But the peace was short-lived.


We turned into another street, quieter now. The market noise faded behind us, replaced by the distant creak of wooden carts and seagulls over the harbor. That’s when Slyvie suddenly stopped.


“Oh! Ian!”


A small boy stood ahead with his parents near a toy stall. He looked about 3-4— round face, hair messy from the wind. But unlike the other children, he wasn’t laughing. His parents crouched beside him, forcing smiles as they handed him a wooden toy ship.


“Hey, Ian!” Slyvie waved, running up to him. “Remember me? From earlier?”


Ian blinked, his dull eyes lifting slowly. “Oh…
Sister Slyvie.”


Even his greeting sounded heavy. His parents stiffened when they saw us — strangers to them, clearly uncomfortable with our presence.


Narissa approached gently, crouching near the boy. “Ian, are you alright? You look sad.”


Before the boy could answer, his mother cut in quickly. “He’s fine! Just a little tired, that’s all.”


The father forced a chuckle. “Yes, yes. We were just buying him something to cheer him up. Kids get upset over small things, you know?”


Their voices trembled. I could hear the fear beneath their smiles — not fear of us, but of something else. Something unspoken.


Narissa’s brow furrowed slightly, but she respected their boundary. “I see… Well, I hope your day gets better, Ian.”


“Thank you…” the boy mumbled.


We began to turn away, but I paused. Something in his eyes froze me — that hollow, silent emptiness I had seen too often before. The look of someone who had endured too much and learned to speak in silence.


A faint smile tugged at my lips, cold and knowing, like a shadow stretching across a candlelit room — a smile that belonged more to a predator than a man.


“Wait,” I said, stepping forward. “May I talk to him? Alone.”


The parents hesitated, exchanging nervous glances. “Um… it’s not really—”


I smiled faintly. “Just for a minute. I might be able to cheer him up.”


The father finally nodded. “Alright, but please… don’t—”


“I won’t,” I assured him, and motioned for Narissa and Slyvie to step back.


Narissa frowned. “What are you planning?”


“Something educational,” I replied simply