Chapter 15: Without Families

The drawbridge at Norvic's north gate lowered slowly in the morning light, its iron chains and winches groaning with a rough, grinding sound.

Vaste stood outside the gate, her tied-back hair and coat hem shifting in the morning breeze. At her waist, beside her cleaver, she now carried a hand axe and two small knives.

Glaze stood beside her, wearing her light brown calfskin boots, with a small backpack slung over her shoulders—Margaret had stuffed it with two loaves of black bread, a small bag of dried meat, a vial of healing potion, and a spare pair of wool socks. She'd watched, head tilted, as Margaret placed each item into the pack, like she was observing some unfamiliar ritual. Margaret pulled the drawstring tight and patted her on the shoulder.

"Next time you're back, call me big sister."

"Okay, Big Sister Margaret."

Margaret shot a look toward Vaste. Vaste had her back to them, making a final check of her weapons. The silhouette said nothing—but Margaret had known her for five years. She could tell when Vaste was pretending not to hear.

The drawbridge settled flat. Early wagon tracks already marked the road outside the city.

"Where are we going?"

"Seville."

"What for?"

"A job." Vaste pulled a folded piece of parchment from her coat—a Guild commission. A merchant in Seville wanted a shipment of dwarven steel, purchased from Norvic, escorted to a smithy there.

The client had paid three gold coins upfront—enough to cover two months at a cheap inn back in Norvic. And Seville was a large city. Work wouldn't be hard to find there.

She'd spent a few silver at the imperial caravan depot to book space on a grain wagon heading that way. The cart was half-filled with hay; the old man driving it said as long as she didn't set it on fire, she could lie however she liked.

Vaste sat on the hay, back against the cart wall, long blade across her knees, eyes closed. Glaze sat beside her, hugging her backpack.

"The one from before," Glaze said suddenly. "The man with the eye patch. What happened to him?"

"He survived."

"I asked what happened to him."

"I don't know."

"Can he still use that hand?"

"Yes. The tendons in his shoulder weren't severed. He got lucky."

Glaze nodded, resting her chin on her backpack, processing the information. After a moment, she spoke again: "Why do you keep making me use only the weakest magic?"

"To stay unnoticed."

"What does that mean?"

"Don't show what you're really capable of."

Glaze tilted her head, evaluating whether the answer was acceptable. Then she buried her face in her backpack and fell silent.

The wagon swayed along the empire's northern roads for two days, stopping overnight at a small town called Oldbridge, and reached Seville's north gate at noon on the fourth day.

Seville—the Danchester Empire's largest trade hub. If Norvic was a grey, somber garrison town always under Death City's shadow, Seville was a metropolis built of color and noise. Its walls were pale yellow sandstone, its main gate wide enough for three wagons to pass abreast, with a massive stone sun-wheel emblem—the empire's crest—carved above the archway. Two guards stood on each side of the gate, checking every person entering.

Prosperity alone couldn't capture what Seville looked like inside.

The main street was wide enough for four wagons side by side, lined with two-story brick-and-timber buildings, most with shops on the ground floor and residences above. The people on the street were dressed colorfully—women in flower-printed skirts, merchants with gold brooches at their collars, even cart-pushers with colorful ribbons tied to their straw hats.

Glaze stood just inside the gate, her head already swiveling—from a street performer juggling on the corner, to a vendor's cart steaming with roasted chestnuts, to a woman in a bright red dress carrying a fluffy white dog.

It was the empire's annual Harvest Festival.

Originally a farming holiday celebrating the end of the harvest, in a commercial city like Seville it had become a three-day carnival of street markets and celebration.

The shops along the main street had set up extra stalls outside their doors, selling everything from spices and fabric to dwarven tools. Street performers swallowed fire and juggled balls in the square. Children darted through the crowd, holding candied apples on sticks.

Vaste delivered the steel crate to the local Guild branch—the Guild would forward it to the client. She signed the papers and stepped back outside. The midday sun was warm, and the festival was at its peak. A temporary stage had been set up in the square, with musicians playing a tune she didn't recognize. She walked down the Guild steps—then realized Glaze hadn't followed.

She turned.

Glaze stood at the Guild entrance, her head turning rapidly left and right. Her blue eyes were brighter than ever. But she didn't step down—

Vaste realized: Glaze always ran off at the Norvic market, but always within Vaste's sight. This time, she hadn't moved a single step without Vaste going first.

"Let's go."

"To where we're staying?"

"To the market."

"Didn't we already go there?"

"That was just passing through."

---

This was Glaze's first real, unhurried exploration of an ordinary city market. Norvic's market wasn't small, but Seville's—cloth, spices, jewelry, toys, food—had far more things for the living.

They passed a toy stall. A boy of five or six stood before it, tugging at his mother's sleeve.

"Mom, I want that one—"

"You already have one at home, come on—"

"This one's different—look—"

Glaze stopped to watch. Then she spotted a tailor's shop nearby. A middle-aged woman stood behind the counter, holding a small cotton coat. Beside her, a girl of about seven in an old coat with sleeves too short stood on her toes, straining to see the new clothes on the counter. The woman shook out the new coat, bent down, and slipped it over the girl's shoulders, guiding her arms into the sleeves. She stepped back, tilted her head, smoothed the girl's hair where the collar had ruffled it, and smiled.

Glaze watched that gesture—the mother fixing her daughter's hair. For a long time.

"What are you looking at?" Vaste asked.

Glaze didn't answer. She pulled her gaze away from the tailor's shop and kept walking.

---

They turned into a side alley off the main street, where the noise dropped slightly. A few plane trees stood along the lane, their leaves already turning yellow.

Then Glaze stopped.

She heard something.

Crying. Muffled, from deeper in the alley—like someone trying to hold it in. She walked toward the sound, rounded a plane tree—

A girl of about four or five crouched against the wall, hands over her face, shoulders shaking. Her white dress was streaked with mud. She had only one shoe on.

Glaze stopped. She looked at the trembling little form, tilting her head.

"That child. Why is her body shaking?"

Vaste looked at the small figure crouched against the wall, and was silent for a moment.

"She's crying."

"Why?"

But Glaze's tone wasn't joking—she genuinely didn't know. Like she was consulting a dictionary she'd never opened.

"She's scared."

"Of what."

"She probably got separated from her parents."

"Her parents..."

Vaste walked over and knelt in front of the child, lowering herself to eye level. Her hand wasn't gentle by nature—the gloved fingers were calloused and rough—but the motion of wiping the girl's tears was light.

"What's your name."

"M—Mia..."

"Who did you come with."

"Dad—Dad said he was—going to buy apples—told me to wait here—waited—and waited—"

Vaste nodded. She asked for a description—early thirties, brown hair, grey coat, a silver earring in his left ear.

Then she stood and turned to Glaze.

"Stay here with her. I'll find her father."

"Why can't I come too?"

"It's not safe to leave a child alone. I'll look. You watch."

"...Okay."

Vaste's figure disappeared at the alley's mouth.

Glaze walked over and crouched before the girl. The child was still sobbing, tears leaking through her fingers. Glaze looked at those tears, reached out her index finger, and caught one just as it slid off the girl's chin. The teardrop rested on her fingertip for a moment, then rolled to her knuckle, and finally fell to the stone, leaving a small dark spot.

"Is your father the person who matters most to you?"

The girl nodded, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

"If you didn't have a father—would you be scared?"

The girl's body flinched, and she started crying harder. Glaze, startled by the sudden reaction, leaned back slightly. She blinked, then closed her mouth.

"Your shoe is gone."

The girl nodded, still sniffling.

"A different big sister bought my shoes for me."

Rapid footsteps came from the alley's mouth. A brown-haired man burst through, forehead drenched in sweat, tear tracks on his cheeks, a silver earring swinging in his left ear. He clutched a paper bag with a few candied apples inside.

"Mia—!"

The girl shot up from beside Glaze and ran toward him. The man dropped to his knees and caught her, the paper bag falling, one apple rolling to the wall.

"I'm sorry—Dad went the wrong way—shouldn't have left you alone—it's Dad's fault—"

The girl shook her head, burying her face in her father's shoulder, her shoeless foot swinging in the air. The man stood, holding her, and turned to Glaze.

"Thank you—thank you—"

"It wasn't me," Glaze said. "It was Vaste."

The man paused for a second, then nodded vigorously. The girl, perched on her father's shoulder, looked back at Glaze and waved—fingers opening and closing, like a small goodbye. Then the crowd swallowed them.

Glaze stood where she was, watching their backs disappear into the flow of people at the alley's mouth. She looked down at her index finger—the one that had caught the teardrop. There was nothing left on it.

"Why were they so happy?" she asked.

Vaste had returned to the alley mouth, leaning against a plane tree, arms crossed. Sunlight filtered through the yellowing leaves, scattering gold flecks across her face.

"Because they found each other again."

"What does that feel like?"

Vaste didn't answer.

She couldn't. She could explain the difference between a good blade and a bad one, between steel and iron. But she couldn't explain what made family matter so much. She'd lived nineteen years, seen all kinds of families.

But she'd never really felt what "home" was.

She looked down at Glaze. In those blue eyes, beneath the curiosity, there was something else—something deeper. Like a shape rising from beneath a calm sea, about to break the surface.

Vaste pulled off her glove and tucked it at her belt. As she passed Glaze, she raised her hand and placed it on her head—that rough, calloused palm resting on soft white hair.

"Maybe you really are a child. You don't know anything, do you."

She paused for a moment, then kept walking. Glaze followed—her distance had shortened by half a step.

The Harvest Festival continued around them. The musicians in the square had changed songs more times than anyone could count, the beat growing brighter. Two shadows, one tall and one shorter, stood side by side in the autumn afternoon light, then slowly merged into the crowd.