Amidst the middling midday hustle of a run-down rural marketplace, a young woman cast her sharp stare about in search of something sweet.

Set in a face still clearly wearied by the ravages of poverty, her violet eyes nonetheless conveyed the cold conviction only a life of a certain harshness could yield. But the harshest of days were behind her, or so she believed; empowered by her holy blood, she had learned to draw on resources that no others around could wield. That single advantage--the first she'd ever had over so many others--had made all the difference.

Whether because of her developing body or her intensified presence, she was no longer quite as invisible as she had been in years past. Thus did she don a hooded brown cloak to help maintain an unassuming air about herself, still quite convinced that whatever attention she might receive would be of a rather undesirable sort.

Though she soon sighted a stand of simple confections that might have satisfied her sweet tooth, she was distracted--and visibly displeased--when a familiar scent wafted into her face. Fish, she surmised, but certainly not of quality. Curious, she turned and recognized a familiar stand tended by an unfamiliar face.

He did not look to be much older than she, and certainly not any better built. Aside from a rim of stubble growing from his chin, his face was rather better cared for than was common for a standkeep, but his scrawny form betrayed his status as a poor or unfortunate salesman. Nonetheless, his dull brown eyes lit up the moment he recognized he had some attention, and he eagerly waved the young woman over. She took several drawn-out seconds to acquiesce to the summons.

"Oi oi!" he exclaimed in greeting. "Ya've an eye for good eatin', I can tell. How 'bout a bit o' fish for yer table t'night?"

The girl lifted a hand from beneath her cloak to prod one of the specimens on display. Her features twisted in disgust at the texture. "Are these safe to eat?" she asked.

"Safe enough, I'm sure" answered the standkeep. "Fill my belly when they gotta." He patted one of the fish proudly. Too many flies fluttered from the stand in reaction, eliciting a nervous chuckle from the young man. "Maybe might c'mout a wee bit more fiercely than it goes down, but'll still nourish ya just the same!"

She found his dogged enthusiasm disarming, though certainly not enough to take a chance on rancid fish. "How long have you had all these?" she asked as she scanned the offerings once more.

"Some longer'n others. Fish is fish, though, innit? On my word, they's all good."

She scoffed. "I used to see much fresher than these."

"Did you?" Her gaze snapped back to him to catch his mirth falter at last, but he was quick to enforce it anew. "Me father's catches no doubt, heavens take 'im. He was a superior angler to me, I'dmit."

"Was?"

The youth nodded. "Lost 'is head just here, actually. Young Master came a'callin' for the tax, and the ol' man came up short. Fish wasn't sellin' like they used to, I s'pose. Still isn't." He patted the stand. "Did you know 'im?"

"No," lied the girl, uncertain whether or not it guilted her to recognize that she truly had indirectly caused an execution. She'd not spared a thought for that crusty fisherman since the day he'd made her bleed. His son, though, seemed more deserving.

With that in mind, she decided her nostrils could endure a brief bit of discomfort. She concealed her hand to mask the light that floated from her fingers as she summoned a single golden coin into her grasp. She placed the coin onto the stand, then gripped three fish by their tails while the standkeep eyed her offering. He gave it a curious poke before lifting it up. "Never seen coin like this before," he observed.

"It's foreign," said the girl: a half-truth, but true enough for his lot. "The symbols have no meaning here, but the gold is good. Maybe use it to get a meal that won't make you sick."

The boy laughed. "Right neighborly o' ya t’care. Reckon we've ourselves a trade, then. Thanks for doin' business with good'n honest Ars!"

Taking the young woman's nonplussed stare for a lack of understanding, he cleared his throat. "I'm Ars, by the way," he explained. "Hope you'll stop by again soon, maid..."

He paused and leaned in to hear her name. The orphan refused to offer it. "Maybe," she said instead, then turned and went on her way. As soon as she'd reached Hovale's edge, she conjured flames to burn the fish to ash in her hands and cast the remains into the dirt.

Reminded of a lingering urge by her exchange with Ars, she traveled to a hill overlooking the home of the one who received the taxes so many struggled to pay. Predictably ostentatious in both decoration and fortification, LeBaron Manor was as much a fortress as it was a home: an important feature when one lived lavishly off the scant fruits of peasant labor. The overabundance of soldiers outside was a curious change of pace. The young woman was left wondering what settlement they might be moving to harass today.

She seated herself and jammed her thumb through the grass and dirt. A stalk erupted from the spot immediately, stretching rapidly skyward into the form of a gnarled plant.

Footsteps in the grass momentarily drew her attention away from the Wonder. Their uneven pattern clued her in to the familiar presence approaching, and she disregarded it to focus on growing the plant while Hethys drew nearer.

"Nicely crafted," Hethys observed, eying the plant. "You could sprout the fruit more quickly if-"

"If you hadn't interrupted," interjected the girl.

Hethys scoffed. "Your fundamentals are lacking. With a proper foundation, Wonders of Life should sustain themselves."

The girl chose to ignore the admonition in favor of reaching toward one of the fruits the plant finally bore. In one fluid motion, she plucked it and shoved it into her mouth for a fierce bite, staining her cloak and rags with juice. Hethys shook her head.

"The maralekt could stand to show a bit of propriety."

"I'm hungry. I eat. Propriety be damned."

"Hmph. Propriety might serve you well if you covet the hand of the young Master. As might your proper name."

In the course of their conversation, there had been a stirring in the ranks below. The Lord's arrogant son Bram emerged from the manor's gate on horseback and rode into the center of the formation. Maximum glory with minimal risk. That was just like him, as was his choice to go forth in garish silver armor while his future subjects were left with aged leather.

"I'll not have you speak it," spoke the girl. "It is my mother's name. I would sooner die than be defined by that heartless whore.

"As for his hand: perhaps." She snorted. "But it is not what I most covet."

"Be mindful, maralekt." Hethys warned. "Ikoras you may be, but before the might of the King, you are as a flea in a lion's mane. Must you fixate on The Kingdom Throne?"

"Mm. Perhaps not," said the girl. She devoured the rest of the fruit, core and all, and wiped her lips clean before getting to her feet. Down below, the gathered warriors and their petulant leader began their march from the manor.

"It may be unwise of me to seek to steal a kingship just yet. But to steal a lordship..." She clenched her fists. "That might prove a fitting endeavor."

Hethys sprouted a wicked grin. “Oh? So the time has come?”

The young woman nodded. “It has.”