“My oh my, what have we here?” Lamont Skelfrig tilted his head and pushed back the foppish emerald hat that flopped in front of his unfocused, booze-addled eyes. He took a few confident strides towards Khazmine until he swaggered uncomfortably close to her personal space. “I say, you are handsome, aren’t you?”

Khazmine raised a single brow in protest and forced herself to look away, as not to engage with the decidedly foolish noble son of a—

“Hey, didn’t you hear me, miss?” Skelfrig pressed, scooching his face right into the outcast’s. Khazmine flinched as she detected the telltale traces of brambleberry wine and cheap perfume oozing off Skelfrig’s breath and clothing. The crushed velvet finery reeked from a debauched night out, and the outcast guessed that his outfit probably fit the tailor’s model much better than how the swaths of fabric draped on this oaf’s distasteful frame at present. The young master’s entire being gave the impression of “ill-fitting,” from his too-expensive clothing and accessories to his boorish manners and scraggly black stubble. “I said you’re rather pretty.”

Without a word, the masquerading sergeant side-stepped the young master, who practically toppled over once the outcast had ducked away. Khazmine limped forward, bearing west toward what looked like a shopping district, trailed by young Skelfrig and two of his more cognizant goons.

“You must not be from around here, miss,” Lamont offered as he breathed noxious fumes at the retreating sergeant. “Otherwise, you’d know that it’s rude not to greet your betters.”

Ha. “Betters” indeed. Khazmine scoffed to herself as she lumbered on, ignoring the constant pain in her leg and incessant blathering from the young master as he pursued her.

Lamont’s reasoning was sound, even if his wits eluded him. Under normal circumstances, a person from a lower class would greet a nobleman or his son with respect and dignity, but Khazmine knew already that feigning politeness was more than this scummy tyrant was worth. She remembered all too well the taste of bloody spit from when he’d taken her by surprise in The Dregs not long ago.

“Don't let anyone mistreat you.” Jaycen’s words echoed in her mind as Khazmine continued on in a race of progress to get away from this odious bully.

“…And you may not know this, but my father’s an important man,” Lamont continued with unceasing tenacity. “He owns practically all of the farmland outside Old Sarzonn. I come from a long line of wealthy landlords, miss.”

“How nice for you,” Khazmine caught herself saying, against her better judgment. The response was meant to sound sarcastic, but the young master failed to detect the outcast’s insincerity and applauded himself for getting a response from the exotic Outsider in black.

“It is, isn’t it?” Lamont crowed as the pair meandered ahead of the young master’s retinue that he waved away with a casual gesture. Whatever he had in mind required privacy, and Lamont would not tolerate an audience. The outcast limped to a clean side-street with ornately laid slabs of rectangular stone arranged in a herringbone pattern. The smooth surface allowed Khazmine to increase speed as she didn’t need to account for bumps and divots with her injured leg. “Say, miss… Who are you?”

“I’m busy,” the outcast snapped, her patience finally worn down to a nub.

The shadowed side-street opened up on a large and prosperous network of buildings, whose facades glittered in the morning sun’s light. Several wealthier merchants were tending to their businesses, and a few houses’ fetch-and-carry servants scuttled about performing their daily duties. None of these early morning passersby paid much attention to the brash young master, and Khazmine found no relief from his constant torment.

Holloworth had all the fine trappings and adornments of luxury, but none of the heart or spirit of Merchant’s Quarter. The gleaming rays of sun lit everything from opulent mansions to the Grand Cathedral, giving each landmark a lustrous glow seldom seen in Cheapside or The Dregs. It was a needlessly expensive monument to excess, which left a sour taste in the outcast’s mouth.

How many stags must it have taken to craft such finery? Khazmine wondered. These people traipse around this glittering carnival while those poor boys starved in the Ruins…

No amount of marble statuary, decadent architecture, or aromatic scents from expensive cafes could sweeten Khazmine’s opinion of this decidedly unpleasant place as she tried to shake off the meddlesome youth.

“…so come on, miss, don’t be like that. I’m sure I could conjure the right price, if you’d be willing to—” Skelfrig pleaded as he haphazardly strode right into a small fetch-and-carry boy, bowling the lanky lad over. His vision dulled, the young master hadn’t seen the scraggly child toting a large wooden crate full of heavy treasures, which turned out to be glass containers once their jagged pieces scattered on the intricate herringbone street. “Of all the—why don’t you watch where you’re going, you stupid clod?”

The disguised sergeant turned to see what had happened and spotted a gangly youth at the young master’s feet. The boy’s knees were scraped and bleeding from having landed unexpectedly on the hard stone street, and he cowered away from Lamont Skelfrig to recover his spilled goods. Though the youth didn’t bear any physical resemblance to her Outsider companion, Khazmine couldn’t help but be reminded of Aranthus when she saw the desperation in his movements.

“I didn’t see you there, sir.” The fetch-and-carry—a skinny, tanned-skinned lad of no more than fifteen—averted his dim, brown eyes and scrambled on the pavers to try and save as many glass containers as he could, gashing his spindly hands to ribbons as he collected the broken vials. He didn’t appear to care about the growing severity of his wounds, and instead toiled to contain whatever precious liquid was leaking from his overturned crate. The fetch-and-carry muttered to himself as a note of unease crept into his voice. “Oh no, we need these vials…”

“Hey, you could have hurt me, boy! How dare you ignore me?” Skelfrig declared as he sent a bracing kick into the child on his knees. “Where’s my apology?”

Khazmine’s blood boiled on the spot. Not only had Lamont Skelfrig failed to take accountability for his own failing to see the young servant, but he had the audacity to strike a wounded child when the boy’s back was turned. And this fetch-and-carry wasn’t even an outcast—he was a human being, just like this horrid brute. The Solanai pledge rattled her mind as Khazmine found her body moving without meaning to.

By the higher order of Her Majesty’s charter…

Torrents of ether flooded Khazmine’s limbs, lending strength and speed to her rapid movements.

To protect the weak…

Khazmine briefly lunged on her limping leg and pressed up with tensed thighs to release the pent-up energy she’d collected.

And ensure the peace…

A black-gloved hand on her uninjured arm flung up at Skelfrig’s smug face, nailing him in the nose with a palm-thrust that sent Lamont flying backwards into the windowed wall of the glassmaker’s shop with a thud. By some miracle, Skelfrig avoided hitting the stained-glass window, but found himself splayed against the wall and sliding against its hard marble surface. His floppy hat covered the young master’s reddening face as he stared back at the Solanai in utter confusion.

“You-you hit me!” Skelfrig shambled to his feet and wiped a smear of blood from his sniffling nose. The young master fumbled ineffectually for a knife in its scabbard but couldn’t quite release the clasp holding the blade to his side. “F-for what? Some stupid boy?”

Sensing the young master’s simmering rage, Khazmine closed the distance between them and sent her injured arm to Skelfrig’s knife. Deft fingers unlatched the scabbard clasp, and the outcast drew the long knife in a fluid motion to rest against Lamont’s throat. Khazmine’s other arm pinned Skelfrig’s wandering hand to the wall, near his flabbergasted face.

“You’ve insulted my Order with your filthy bartering,” the sergeant sneered as pain tingled the length of her knife-wielding arm. A single drop of sweat trickled down her face as the outcast struggled to remain in control of the knife. Without realizing it, Khazmine began emitting a foreign, burning odor that only the strongest of noses could detect or identify. “And you threw a tantrum against a helpless child in my presence… You disgust me.”

Lamont’s terrified eyes darted across Khazmine’s cold expression and rested on her rank insignia pin gleaming on the sergeant’s black vest. The color drained from his face as the realization of his mistake took hold. “You’re a… You’re with the Solanai?”

“I gave you every chance to back away with your dignity intact, and still you harass me,” Khazmine growled, growing angrier at the mountain of slights she’d contended with over the years. The knife trembled in Khazmine’s grasp as the blade danced delicately against Skelfrig’s exposed neck, threatening to slice his blanched skin. Even the injured fetch-and-carry paused from his task to note a new, strange aroma in the air around the angry sergeant.

She didn’t have to pretend to hate this wretched youth; he was the embodiment of unearned privilege and indifferent brutality that was everything Khazmine despised most. As far as the outcast was concerned, Lamont was just as bad as the other blood-sucking nobles who threw garbage at her, or Lord Vythorne’s church that declared her magic “illegal.” The scent wafting from the outcast intensified, causing the young fetch-and-carry to shrink away from the combative pair.

“It was a mistake, miss, uh, ma’am,” Skelfrig admitted as he shied away from the pilfered knife’s edge.

“Mistakes are the one thing you can’t afford, sir.” The outcast channeled her fury into a menacing snarl, as if she were striking back at every wretched person who’d ever mistreated her. Khazmine’s volume increased by magnitudes as she continued. “And if you even think of filing a complaint against me, it'll be the last mistake you ever make. By the time I’m through with you, there won’t be enough left for TARGET PRACTICE! AM I UNDERSTOOD?!”

Lamont Skelfrig flinched against the wall; his body as stiff as ironwood under Khazmine’s fiendish grasp. He managed a quivering nod to acknowledge the sergeant’s order, and slumped down to the pavers as the outcast tossed the gilded knife away and out of reach with an echoing clink. Having heard the forceful command from the distance, Skelfrig’s minions arrived just in time to see Khazmine stagger back and away from their master.

“If you have any sense at all, I suggest you stay away from me,” Khazmine scowled at Skelfrig, who was still dumbstruck by the force of the sergeant’s command. A faint trickle of blood from Lamont’s battered nose brought the youth back from dissociating on the spot. Lamont made a half-hearted attempt to prop himself up but waited for his retinue to approach before gesturing for aid.

“Young Master, are you—?”

“Just help me up, you parasites,” Skelfrig fumed, looking like he would protest the officer’s mistreatment of him, now that reinforcements had arrived. A growing crowd of curious onlookers dissuaded the young master from pressing his luck in public, and Lamont skulked away, muttering obscene things about the Solanai officer’s parentage, manners, and status as he stormed off.

Khazmine simply rolled her eyes and turned away from the fumbling trio to help the injured fetch-and-carry collect his remaining treasures. To her surprise, the youth had made quick work of the remnants of his wooden crate and managed to save six sea-green bottles filled with curious liquids. The scrawny boy winced in pain while handling the splintered crate and its contents, until the outcast laid a trembling, gloved hand on his shoulder and lowered herself to meet his pained eyes.

“Are you all right?” Khazmine asked as she scanned the youth for additional injuries. She could feel a spur of hard bone underneath his thin tunic even through her black glove, and the outcast winced at how frail the boy looked. Beads of sweat collected on the sergeant’s brow, and a bothersome flutter in her heart caused her eyes to glaze slightly and vision to blur. Khazmine tried her best to ignore the deep, throbbing pain in her chest and limbs as she continued. “Come on, let’s get those wounds treated, yeah?”

“It’s fine, ma’am,” the youth replied with his gaze averted, as not to offend the officer. It was clear to the outcast that this fetch-and-carry likely didn’t have money for proper treatment and would endure the pain without aid. “It happens all the time… Thank you for stopping him all the same.”

“You’re whu—y-you’re welcome,” Khazmine stammered as she struggled to find her words. The sergeant swallowed hard and pitched forward slightly as the world began to spin around her. Khazmine’s fumbling speech drew the young fetch-and-carry’s eye, and he tilted his head curiously at the growing pallor of the officer who’d spared him a ruthless beating. “C-can you point me to the, to the hu-hospital, little one?”