Everyone watching gasped in shock. So people looked stunned, while others couldn’t help but smile quietly.
Erianlia had been arrogant and cruel for too long, and many were glad to see him finally pushed back.
But the mont of relief didn’t last. Almost imdiately, the guards standing nearby drew their swords.
Their blades caught the fading sunlight, gleaming sharply as they pointed directly at Kael. Their faces were hard and serious, ready to defend their family’s honor.
He glanced sideways at Cecilia, his brows knitting together. His voice was low, almost as if he was speaking to himself.
"Why... Why did I do that?"
Behind them, the scene was chaos. Erainlia lay sprawled on the cobblestones, clutching the side of his face where Kael’s fist had landed.
His once-proud expression was gone, replaced by a twisted mask of pain. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, dark against his pale skin.
Each shallow breath seed to rattle in his chest, and his eyes burned with hatred.
"You... scumbag," he groaned, his voice weak but laced with venom.
Around them, people had stopped in their tracks—stall vendors, travelers, and even children.
So gasped at the sight, others whispered to one another, their eyes darting between Kael and Erainlia.
A few, those who had long suffered from Erainlia’s arrogance, allowed the faintest smirk to curl on their lips.
Cecilia stood frozen, her lips parted but no words ca out. Her hands trembled slightly, her gaze darting between Kael and her injured brother.
She wanted to speak, to stop this from spiraling any further, but the weight of the mont had
stole her voice.
Kael never imagined the day would end like this.
The first soldier appeared at the far end of the street, his armored boot striking the flagstone with a sharp, cold echo. More followed behind him—three at first, then five, then more, until the whole street seed to close in.
They moved with the precision of a trap being sprung, spreading out in a slow arc that tightened around him.
The apothecary’s small wooden porch beca a stage, with Kael at the center. Guards fanned out, forming an unbroken ring, their polished armor glinting in the fading sunlight. The sharp tallic scent of oiled steel filled the air.
Each soldier’s hand rested firmly on the haft of a halberd, the long blades tilting just enough to catch his reflection in the cold steel.
The murmurs in the crowd died almost instantly, like a candle snuffed out. rchants froze mid-motion while locking up their stalls, eyes darting between the soldiers and Kael.
Children crept closer to their parents, their small faces peeking out from behind cloaks. Every gaze seed to judge him before he had even spoken.
"You scumbag, You will co with us." he said in agony.
The street seed to hold its breath. The heat of the crowd pressed against Kael’s back like an invisible weight. He forced himself to stand straight, to keep his hands steady.
Before he could open his mouth, Cecelia stepped forward. Her fingers gripped his sleeve tightly, almost trembling.
"Guards," she began, her voice cracking with urgency. "What is this about? He has done nothing—"
Erianlia’s eyes flicked to Cecelia and cold amusent softened her hard lines. "Cecelia," he said, "I know you like to sweep the city with your misplaced pity. But this is not a plea session. He—" her gaze fell to Kael like a verdict, "—has been seen where he ought not to be."
The guards tightened their rings. Kael studied the soldiers—four to his front, two to his back, a corporal with the insignia of Erianlia’s household braiding his reins into the formation.
It was a simple calculation: doors, obstacles, width of the street, a dozen onlookers who would be safe witnesses of a restraint. In the soldiers’ eyes there was the practiced boredom of duty; in Erianlia’s there was anger.
(I had to move.)
"Cecelia," he murmured, low enough so only she might hear. He ant to tug her back, to pull her into the shadow of the apothecary’s doorway, where they might speak and he might bargain in silence.
The soldier’s voice cut through the air like a whip.
"Hands where we can see them. You are under arrest."
The words slamd into the street like a hamr blow, making even the quiet shuffling of the crowd stop.
One of the soldiers stepped forward. His breastplate gave a low, grinding scrape, like iron teeth murmuring against each other.
Kael’s eyes followed the movent—the slight tilt of the soldier’s shoulder, the careful grip on the long halberd.
He could tell exactly how it would play out: if the man stepped closer, the weapon’s shaft would pin him against the wall, the blade angled toward his chest.
The mont felt wound tight, like a spring ready to snap.
Even the air seed different. The faint tallic tang of steel and armor sat heavy on his tongue.
Kael’s right hand slipped toward his hip, fingers brushing against the leather pouch hidden there.
He knew exactly what rested inside. He had only used it once before—a small, dangerous favor bought in a back alley from a traveling peddler who sold "little things that could save your skin."
His fingertips found the object—a bead no larger than a coin, rough and dull like an ordinary pebble.
Harmless to look at. Yet in the right hands, it was not harmless at all.
He had taken it from the academy that morning almost absentmindedly. There had been no thought of a fight, no reason to arm himself beyond the faint habit of being prepared.
He had always imagined it would serve for sothing small—maybe a spark of light in darkness, maybe a distraction during a tense conversation. Just a trick.
But now, that tiny bead felt as heavy as a stone in his palm.
Beside him, Cecelia’s hand suddenly gripped his sleeve, her fingers digging through the fabric like claws. "Kael," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Strands of hair had slipped loose from her braid, clinging to her face as if even they were trying to shield her eyes from what was coming. There was worry in her gaze, but also sothing sharp—fear mixed with defiance.
Kael looked at her. He wanted to tell her to back away, to duck, to get out of the circle before it closed completely.
But instead, his lips ford a single word he could never risk saying aloud.
(Run)
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