Belmont’s red hair blazed like a beacon in the heart of Aeloria’s bustling marketplace, drawing more attention than I would have liked. I watched him weave through the crowds of merchants and shoppers, my annoyance growing with every step he took toward me. 

“Belmont!” I called out, frustration lacing my voice. “What took you so long?”

He strolled up with that infuriating calmness of his, his expression unreadable. 

“Apologies, brother. I got caught up with a certain Count.”

Of course, he did. 

“Houndly,” I muttered, the mere mention of the man’s name souring my mood further. “That man’s a blight on this city. We’re gathering evidence against him, but it’s taking too long.” I shot Belmont a look, trying to gauge just how deep into trouble he’d waded this time. “What happened?”

Belmont’s hand drifted to his temple as if the weight of his day had settled there. 

“He had his thug, Francis, accost a woman with hair as dark as a raven’s wing.”

My mind immediately flashed to the Xoltecan woman we’d encountered before. 

“The one from the pub?”

“No,” Belmont corrected, shaking his head slightly. “It was the woman we helped by the river.”

"He’s taken an interest in the Xoltecans, it seems."

"What do you mean?"

My jaw tightened. 

“I followed Tom last night. I saw him meet with Houndly. Seems like he is after a Xoltecan woman.”

Belmont didn’t look surprised. 

“Figures. I’ve heard Houndly’s got peculiar tastes, always after the novel and exotic.”

I scowled, disgusted. 

“Purchasing—or kidnapping—women as if they’re objects is more than poor taste. It’s despicable.”

Belmont nodded in agreement but added, “The problem is, we’ve never caught him in the act. All the women we’ve questioned at his mansion claim they’re there willingly.”

“That may change if he’s after the Xoltecan woman,” I said, my voice hardening. “This could be our chance to catch him breaking the law finally."

“We could set him up,” Belmont said, his tone serious for once. “We know he wants to get his hands on one of them.”

"What do you have in mind?"

"Two other companions surrounded the Xoltecan from the pub, but the one from the river seemed to be alone. We could convince her to help."

"How do you propose we convince her?" I eyed him thoughtfully, sure that whatever plan he was devising in his head bordered on unethical. 

"We simply tell her the truth. Of the horrors that Houndly has committed." 

I stared at my younger brother, dumbfounded at the simplicity of his plan. 

"And you think that will work, do you?"

"Yes." He answered firmly. "If it doesn't, then you just have to charm her with your looks. I've never seen anyone turn you down ever."

"I'm glad to hear you think my merits and achievements hinge on my looks, dearest brother," I answered him, annoyed at his implication. 

"We can’t afford to lose this golden opportunity, Mikhail." Belmont only used my name when he was serious on a matter. 

"We won't."

We stood in silence for a moment, both lost in thought. I finally broke the stillness, my voice low. 

“Belmont, you really should make an effort to stay under the radar while we’re here.”

Belmont scoffed, glancing pointedly at my hair. 

“And what? Use magic to change my hair or eye color like you?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. 

“This isn’t about vanity, Belmont. It’s about caution. We can’t afford to draw unnecessary attention.”

Belmont waved off my concerns with a careless grin. 

“If I’m going to be noticed anyway, what’s the point? Besides, it’s not like you’re fooling anyone with that brown hair.”

I bit back a retort, knowing this wasn’t the time to argue. 

“Just try,” I insisted.

With that, I turned back to the fruit vendor, but my mind was already churning over the plans we’d need to set in motion. 

*

“Here we are,” Jean said as he spread a checkered cloth on the grass. He began unpacking an assortment of snacks, arranging them carefully on the blanket.

“Thanks, Jean,” I replied, finally easing my hood back. The slight breeze was cool against my face, a welcome relief from the oppressive cover.

Sitting there on the picnic blanket, our little oasis in the midst of the bustling city, my curiosity got the better of me. 

“Who is Count Houndly?” 

Jean’s expression shifted immediately, his features darkening with distaste at the mention of the name. “A dreadful man,” he began, taking a moment to find the right words. “Count Houndly rules Aeloria like a tyrant, lording his power over everyone in the city. His influence is like a dark cloud, and under his watch, corruption flourishes like a garden of weeds. Every shady deal, every whispered scheme, has his name tangled up in it somehow.”

I frowned, absorbing the grim picture he painted. 

“But isn’t the Duchy under the control of the Aster family? Shouldn’t they be the ones governing Aeloria?”

Jean nodded, his gaze growing distant as he considered the complexities of the situation. “They do. The Count’s reign is by their appointment.”

“Why would they appoint someone like him?”

Jean let out a heavy sigh. “That’s the question that haunts everyone. Some say the Duke turns a blind eye to the suffering of the common folk, while others believe he’s just biding his time, gathering evidence against Houndly. But every day that passes, the Count’s grip on the city tightens, and the hope for justice seems to fade.”

We sat in silence for a while, the weight of our conversation hanging heavy between us. Finally, Jean broke the quiet, his voice laced with concern. “Mara, you need to steer clear of him at all costs.” His gaze locked onto mine, intense with genuine worry. “Rumors say he has a taste for the unique, the exotic—not just in objects, but in people.”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Visitors to his mansion talk about the maids—young, beautiful women from all over the kingdom and beyond. They’re forced into his service, and then... they disappear into the shadows of his halls, never to be seen again.”

A chill ran down my spine, my mind conjuring unsettling images of the man I had the misfortune of running into. 

As we ate in comfortable silence, Jean kept watching me, curiosity simmering behind his eyes. Finally, he spoke up, hesitant but sincere. “Mara, if it’s not too much to ask, I’d love to hear more about your life back in Xolteca.”

I hesitated, the memories of my past flickering like distant, unreachable stars. Where should I start?

“I... I used to work as a scientist,” I revealed, my voice carrying the weight of a life that felt worlds away.

“Scientist?” Jean tilted his head, intrigued by the unfamiliar word. “What’s that?”

“It’s someone who tries to understand the world,” I explained, tracing patterns in the air with my hands as if sketching out the idea. “We study how things work, experiment with materials, and try to discover new truths.”

“Like an alchemist, then? Someone who transforms and creates?” Jean said, a spark of recognition lighting his eyes.

“Yeah, something like that,” I replied, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Both my parents were scientists, too.”

“What do they do now?” Jean asked, his curiosity genuine.

“What do you mean?”

“You said they were scientists, are they not anymore?" 

The question hit harder than I expected, and I felt the weight of old memories pressing down on me. My fingers paused their idle movements along the grass. “My father is still a scientist, but my mother...she passed away when I was ten.”

Jean reached over, placing a comforting hand over mine. “I’m sorry, Mara. That must have been hard.”

I offered him a wistful smile, one that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “It was a long time ago,” I murmured, my gaze drifting upwards to the leaves swaying gently in the breeze. “I can’t even remember her now... or how she died...” My voice trailed off, a pained expression flitting across my face.

Then, suddenly, I felt a sharp intake of breath, and a trickle of blood began dripping from my nose.

“Mara!” Jean exclaimed, immediately moving closer to my side. He fumbled for a cloth, gently dabbing at the blood. “We should get you back; being covered up in this heat isn’t good for you.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I said with a shaky laugh, standing up and brushing the dirt from my dress.

Together, we packed up the remnants of our snack and started walking back toward Farmer’s Square. I kept my hood low, shielding not just from the sun but from the curious glances of the people we passed.

Out of nowhere, a small figure darted out from an alleyway, slamming into my side. I stumbled, falling to my knees, and the book Jean had gifted me dropped onto the stone street. The child snatched it up and scampered away.

“Hey!” Jean shouted, quickly handing me his satchel before taking off after the child.

“Wait, Jean!” I called, scrambling to my feet and chasing after him. My heart raced, not just from the chase but from a growing sense of dread that tightened in my chest.

We turned a corner into a narrow alleyway, but the child was nowhere in sight.

“I saw him turn in here,” Jean said as we came to a halt. 

Four shadowy figures emerged from the dimness of the narrow passage.

“Looks like we’ve got company,” one of the men sneered, stepping forward with a menacing grin.

“Let’s keep this civil,” Jean said, positioning himself protectively in front of me. His hand instinctively went to his waist, where I saw the hilt of a hidden dagger.

“Give us the girl, and you can walk away,” one of the men growled, his voice rough and threatening. He cracked his knuckles, the sound slicing through the tense air like a knife.

Jean’s gaze hardened, his resolve solidifying. He glanced back at me, searching my eyes for any sign of fear or surrender. But I met his gaze with a fierce determination of my own—we wouldn’t back down.

“Let us leave,” Jean commanded, his voice steady and strong, a beacon of courage in the growing darkness. 

The men exchanged glances, silently communicating as the tension thickened. My mind raced, searching for any possible escape route.

“You’re Dreux’s kid, aren’t you?” one of the men sneered, making Jean stiffen. “I hear business is going well for your family. It’d be a shame if something happened to them. Hand her over, and this ends without trouble,” the leader threatened, his tone dripping with malice.

I could see Jean’s jaw tighten, the muscles in his neck taut with tension. “That’s not going to happen,” he replied, his voice steady and unwavering as he locked eyes with our adversaries.

“Run, Mara,” he whispered without turning around, his hand gripping the hilt of his dagger.

But I refused to move, shaking my head. Memories of all those hours spent learning self-defense with my cousins flooded my mind. “No,” I said firmly, narrowing my eyes.

The best defense is a good offense, I thought, and without hesitation, I lunged forward. My movements were swift and precise, catching the men off guard. My palm struck the nearest attacker’s chest, sending him staggering back into another. Jean seized the opening, his dagger flashing as it met the third man’s fist, cutting across his hand and driving him back.

The alley erupted into chaos. We were outnumbered but not outmatched. I ducked a wild swing, using my attacker’s momentum against him, twisting and pushing until he stumbled past me.

“Go!” Jean shouted, spotting an opening in their formation.

We bolted, my heart pounding as we sprinted through the maze of alleyways. We dodged hanging laundry and upturned crates, turning left and right without any real sense of direction, just trying to get away. But then, our path ended abruptly at a high stone wall, a dead end.

“Trapped like rats,” one of the men sneered as they caught up to us. They quickly fanned out, blocking any chance of escape, their eyes gleaming with cruel intent.

I pressed my back against the cool wall, my mind racing. We had been so close to freedom, yet here we were, cornered. Jean moved slightly in front of me, ready to protect me at all costs, but I knew even his bravery might not be enough this time.

“Stay behind me,” Jean murmured, his voice barely audible.

I nodded, every instinct screaming at me to fight.

“If you’d just handed the Xoltecan wench over, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt,” the leader said, pulling out his dagger.

Hurt? The word echoed in my mind as I finally allowed myself to look at Jean. I had assumed the blood on his hand was from the fight, but then I saw it—a dark pool spreading at his feet, the blood seeping from a wound in his abdomen. Panic clutched my heart, cold and sharp. Desperately, I reached into the satchel, hoping to find something, anything, that might help.

The men advanced, and I saw Jean brace himself, ready to fight until the end.