The market didn’t have its usual charm that morning. There was a tension in the air, and the usual sounds of bustle had been replaced with an eerie silence. The marshal was still visiting villagers’ homes, conducting his “interviews. More like “interrogations.” Why not just call them what they are?

The escort of men he had brought with him was stirring a similar amount of distress. They’d pluck fruits from vendor stands as they walked past, ignoring the demands to pay for what they were taking. Carts full of goods were stopped before entering or leaving the village as well. The fact that, the nicer the goods looked, the more likely the soldiers were to conduct a search, didn’t go over my head either. What a bunch of bullies.

As Mother passed the market square, we watched as a villager was escorted into the marshal’s tent by soldiers at either arm. “I was already interviewed by the marshal himself! I told him everything I know!”

Father had delivered the swords to the marshal’s tent as he requested, which was bold, even for my father. Either his swords were magical or my father had a secret past as an acrobat. After hearing the theories of our neighbors, I assumed Father really had used magic to enhance his skill, but, judging by his willingness to cooperate with the marshal, I may have been wrong. 

Whatever the case, we hadn’t heard any mention of them, so either the marshal had not yet looked over the blades or he had actually found them satisfactorily lacking in magic. I crossed my fingers and prayed to the Maker that it was the latter.

My mother slipped into Auntie Bev’s Kitchen, the soft chime of a bell ringing as she opened the door.

“Ah, come in, love.” Auntie Bev moved to my mother and greeted her with an embrace as I was set down from my sling. “Those soldiers been keepin’ their distance from ye, I hope.”

“No less than anyone else,” my mother said as she unloaded her satchel on a nearby countertop. “I’m afraid I don’t have much for you today, Bev.”

“First the emperor an’ now these thugs? ‘Tween the tax and the thievin’, we won’t be left with nary a scrap to eat.” Bev shook her head as she took stock of the vegetables my mother could offer. “What’s the bloody good in keepin’ us safe from magic if we’re all dead from hunger, eh?”

My mother put on an apron. “Now Bev, if we’re all killed by arcane mishaps, then we miss out on the joys of starvation.”

Bev snapped a towel at Mother. “Be serious, Gwen! They say they’re ‘ere to do good, and look.” She gestured toward the dining hall beyond the wall. “More people in ‘ere than any damned bloody storm has brought in!”

“Oi! Watch the language in front of the little one, eh?” Mother gestured with her eyes toward me as she scolded Bev, carrying a bowl in each hand as she went through the door to the dining hall.

“Eh, eh! It’s not like he understands it,” Auntie Bev replied, shooing my mother out the kitchen. 

Perhaps if you actually spoke an intelligible language, I would have something to understand!

Aunt Bev’s unintelligible accent aside, she had a point. I agreed that it was the empire's responsibility to ensure that only licensed Imbued citizens should be performing magic. If an untrained Imbued attempted to perform spellcraft, the potential failure could destroy towns or even cities. But even with the knowledge of the damage that unregulated magic practices could cause, all of these interrogations and strong-arming over one measly Fire Wolf attack seemed pretty unnecessary.

In my empire, I would have never had to resort to such a performative show of force. My men would simply find the source of arcane magic and deal with it, unlike this bunch. The marshal likes to pretend he’s more competent than his host of buffoons, but he clearly doesn’t know what he’s doing either.

“What the hell is this slop?” a voice asked from the dining hall, louder than was necessary. “Do you people just sneeze into a bowl and call it food?” A clatter followed the insult as a wooden bowl toppled onto the floor.

“If you don’t care for it, move on,” another voice called, this one more strained than the first. “No need to insult it.”

“What did you just say to me, old man?” A scream sent Aunt Bev marching through the door, armed with a wooden spoon. Before the door could swing back shut, I crawled to a vantage to see what the commotion was. An older man, famished and weak, was lying on the floor, covering his head. Soldiers were kicking him when Bev broke them apart, clocking one on the ear with her spoon. 

“Out! Out with ye! Little boys want to dress like soldiers and play pretend, eh? How bout ye go off to a bloody war n’ die for all we care?” The men were each easily a full two feet taller than Bev, but they backed down like school boys. “Piss off!”

The soldiers left, and Beverly and Mother ran to the old man’s side. Some villagers sprang up, fetching rags and a bucket for water to clean blood from his face. Others just sat and watched. And though my mother did more for the man than any of the bystanders, I could see the pain in her face, knowing she had the magical power to help this poor soul, yet she was powerless to do anything at all.