**The following takes place after "Of Lowlifes, Lutes, & Liars" Chapter 50: Until No More Remain & one year after Side Story 05: Tough Times We Forgot.**

Jostling gently in the crisp autumn breeze, a lopsided pyramid of wyrbloom prunes sat in a precarious heap on a peddler’s stall counter. Rich, burgundy fruit sent the sweet treasure's aroma on the wind, wafting out in all directions.

The harvest season was upon them, and the citizens of Old Sarzonn were preparing for the end of Summer’s heat. Rich, aromatic spices mingled with the tempting scent of dried fruits, luring Cheapsiders and outcasts ever closer to the bounties in the market square.

Concealed nearby and egged on by need, a tiny hunter shifted his weight from one foot to another, waiting impatiently for an opportunity to strike. The silver-haired stall master was busily chatting up customers, but remained annoyingly close to his wares.

Come on, old man, Aranthus thought, his resolve tested and belly grumbling.

The young Outsider had been waiting ages for the leather-skinned merchant to look away, but the old timer never drifted far from his caravan stall. It was the first day of new-month after all, and vendors still had their freshest wares to offer the hungry masses.

Not only that, but after two years of intermittent deliveries from merchants, Old Sarzonn had finally gotten a fruit-peddler to visit, his cart stuffed with irresistible goodies.

It couldn’t have happened a moment later as far as Aranthus was concerned. The Outsider had grown hopelessly desirous for real fruit, having long since tired of charity stall gruel and meager grain rations.

Even just one, Aranthus whined, his hunger winning out over sense. You wouldn’t miss just one, right?

Aranthus inched from his concealed perch in an adjacent alley, preparing to dash forth and make a go of it. It was foolish, even dangerous to cross a merchant in the zocalo, especially someone Aranthus hadn’t seen before.

Perhaps the old man had a weapon like Aunt Tatty’s caravan hammer, or maybe he was a powerful etherling like that dark soldier who’d saved him from Pavo’s ether spark. Aranthus had learned the hard way not to underestimate strangers.

Lady Kiss-Me was his first teacher on that front, chasing him down to the Forbidden Ruins over two years ago. All for what? A few crusts of bread? Aranthus shuddered at what desperation had forced him to do back then.

If Kiss-Me was like the others… If she hadn’t taken pity on us like she had…

Who knows what would have happened to himself and Pavo? Aranthus needed to be careful, timing his strike just right, or else risk losing his only chance at a taste of normalcy.

Patient. You gotta be patient…

Two young ladies approached the time-worn stall cart, distracting the old fruit merchant with questions. If Aranthus had any hope of easing his hunger, there wouldn’t be a better time to try.

Come on. Just a little farther, Aranthus begged, his muscles tensed to spring.

NOW!

The Outsider took off like a crossbow bolt, flying through the street and rushing past the fruit peddler’s stall as fast as he could.

Gotcha! Aranthus thought as five gigantic prunes caught in tiny, pale blue hands.

Hamstringed by malnutrition, Aranthus was admittedly slower than he’d hoped, catching the D’jabareen merchant’s orange gaze as he fled. The old man spotted the thief immediately, throwing a walking stick his way and calling obscenities out at the youth in D’jabarese.

“<YOU DAMNED-FOOL IMP!>” the merchant screamed, clear enough for Aranthus to understand. His accent was much like Pavo’s, clawing into the Outsider’s heart with guilt. “<GET BACK HERE, YOU LOWLIFE!>”

Aranthus clutched his plunder all the harder, tucking the wyrbloom prunes to his chest as he ran. Protecting his fruit meant the Outsider couldn’t pump his arms for speed, robbing the lad of more momentum.

His legs throbbing from growing pains and fatigue, Aranthus juked through masses of Cheapsiders in the zocalo. Most Old Sarzonnese clutched their purses as he passed, while others gasped at the skittering youth, making way for him.

The Outsider took a sharp breath, his lungs burning from running, and vision blurring from overextended himself. Just a little farther. You’re almost home free.

Aranthus was just about to round the last corner and bound for home, when the outcast stopped dead without warning, crashing into a gigantic metal colossus towering at the crossroads.

Startled and shaken by the impact, Aranthus’s treasure dropped to the cobblestones, rolling around in the dust. Desperate to reclaim his prize, the outcast dropped to his knees and reached out for the dirty fruit before it was crushed underfoot.

Far too rattled to realize who he’d bumped into, Aranthus flinched when the brash, steely-eyed grump lifted him by the collar. The Outsider lunged helplessly, unable to grasp two of his prunes before being hoisted aloft.

“Oy, watch where yer goin’, runt!” the surly, rosy-cheeked city guard bellowed as Aranthus winced from his shouting. The man towered several heads taller than Aranthus, was well-fed, and bore a sergeant’s mark on standard Old Sarzonnese armor. “You coulda hurt me.”

Heavy as he was, Murdik wouldn’t have moved at all if Aranthus bashed into him at top speed. Still, this filthy little Outsider child hadn’t even apologized for his error, fueling the guard’s growing displeasure. “Not even a ‘sorry’ from ya?”

Aranthus flinched, but made no reply. His fingers were squeezing the stolen fruit so tightly that his hands smelled strongly of foreign luxury.

“Nothin’ ta say? I oughta string y’up for hog’s meal, ye lousy creature!” Murdik bellowed as he released the dirty Outsider, crushing one of the dried prunes underfoot.

Aranthus caught his balance, looking up at Murdik with a horrid mix of grief and rage. Blue eyes glowed a faint, ferocious gold around his irises, giving the Outsider a fearsome edge to his stare.

Murdik halted his advance, dumb-struck that some dusty nobody would dare to glower up at him. There was something about the plucky child that grated the city guard’s nerves raw, a festering hatred that was long-suffering and pointed.

Sensing a brief flicker of danger, Murdik shook in his plates, and snapped back to attention. An enormous pole arm landed a whisker away from striking Aranthus in the street, swung by a man too proud to admit that he’d been spooked by a child. “Go on, brat! Get outta here!”

Aranthus needed no further encouragement to leave, hastening away with an aching limp in his left leg. Striking Murdik with what little force he’d had, the Outsider managed to injure himself, adding more sting to the already painful encounter. That, plus losing nearly half of his plunder had soured Aranthus’s mood.

Still, there was no sense crying over crushed fruit, and Aranthus skulked away toward a row of flophouses to rest. Concealed in the dank, dingy backways, another prune vanished as the Outsider raced to sate his growing hunger.

Licking his lips at the prospect of finishing another, Aranthus startled at the sound of heavy boots echoing in the distance. The Outsider bristled as the metallic footfalls drew closer, forcing the outcast to flee for home, his leg twinging with every step.

***

The heavier of Harriet Cadlen’s stock pots simmered on the stovetop, bubbling a modest broth as the Deceiver peeked at the dish’s progress. Earthy smells of wyrwood tubers and sweet thistle-wheat filled the cozy kitchen, putting the half-breed at ease while she worked.

Hushed voices in the common room added to the ambience, dulling Khazmine’s senses as she waited for their night meal to finish cooking. Ol’ Tatty was hunched in her rocking chair, peddling fairy stories to Alix, Sprig, and wee Pavo, who all hung on her every word.

The legend of Merkander, eh? Khazmine wondered with a knowing smirk. Haven’t heard that one in ages…

“Some says he’s a warrior from way out east,” Harriet whispered to her gaggle of listeners. “Others says he’s a traveling peddler a’ sorts. No one knows for sure, as no one knows what he really looks like.”

Little Sprig’s eyes lit up as he leaned forward as in idea dawned on him. “How come, mama? Does he wear a disguise?”

“Oh aye, that’s right,” Tatty replied, excitement creeping into her voice. “Y’see, no one knows who he is, but he always visits, every year at harvest, handin’ out food an’ clothes for the needy.”

“Is that why we wear costumes?” Alix asked, equally enthralled by the idea.

Harriet smiled at her son, who was fidgeting with his too-large magician robes. “That’s why. We want ’im to visit, right? Then everyone needs ta help ’im hide.”

Khazmine smiled in the kitchen, her good ear twitching as she listened. It only belatedly dawned on her why such a man would want a disguise, visit in secret, and hide in plain sight.

He's a Deceiver, just like me, Khazmine smirked. A knowing smile lingered at the secret no one else seemed to realize, renewing the outcast’s spirits. Maybe if everyone knew that, they might not hate us so. Gods, if I had the means, who’s to say I couldn’t help him?

It was a foolish thought, but a cheerful one. Old Sarzonn’s gates had been closed for two years now, and Merkander hadn’t visited in all that time.

How could he? With humans and Outsiders locked in pointless territory wars outside, it wasn’t safe to leave the city anyway. Besides, Lord Vythorne had banned the festival entirely, citing civil disobedience and rabble-rousing.

Still, it’s hardly fair, is it? Khazmine wondered. Punishing everyone for the actions of a few?

The children were clapping and cheering at the end of another tale of Merkander, who’d used his clever tricks to bring bread during a lean harvest year. Cheers multiplied as Merkander defeated a thundering raddilbak pup who’d attacked a defenseless caravan.

All ears were on Tatty, save for a long, pale lilac one that drew back at the sound of the side door creaking open. Khazmine turned, a fresh capon tenderloin still in hand, spotting the Outsider as she dropped the meat into the pot.

Sharp blue eyes narrowed at Aranthus as he limped indoors, scanning the lad for signs of struggle. With eyes still locked on her little brother, Khazmine rinsed her hands in the old copper basin and strode toward the Outsider without making a sound.

“What’s wrong, little one?” she asked, thumbing through Aranthus’s dusty garments with growing unease. “What happened?”

Aranthus shuddered at Khazmine’s touch, his shoulders hunching when the Deceiver straightened his wrinkled collar. The Outsider averted squinting eyes, producing a pair of dusty wyrbloom prunes, one in each hand, for his sister to see.

“Where did you—” Khazmine began, only to stop mid-sentence.

She knew full well Aranthus hadn’t paid for his treasure, and whatever injuries he’d sustained were likely the price for such untrained foolishness. “Never mind. It’s not important. Are you injured elsewhere?”

Aranthus shook his head “no,” unable to form his thoughts correctly. He’d half expected a stern lecture from Lady Kiss-Me, had braced for her rebuke, only to find sympathy in her eyes.

“All right, fair enough,” Khazmine replied, ruffling her little brother’s hair with still damp fingers. “Why don’t you put those in this bowl, and I’ll wash them for you.”

“D-do you, I mean…” Aranthus trailed off before finding his voice again. “Can we share…with Auntie, and Pavo?”

Khazmine’s expression softened, the spirit of the season welling up in her heart. She couldn’t know exactly what Aranthus had gone through to secure such a present for his family, but the Outsider was generous and kind with his spoils.

A gentle nod and a wave of her hand encouraged Aranthus to approach, watching and learning how to cook as his siblings and cousins marveled at stories in the common room.

“Can you tell me why you stole, little one?” Khazmine asked after a prolonged silence. “Especially after you promised me…”

Aranthus froze, fighting back sniffles as his façade failed him. Life was so hard these days, filled with struggles and toils too great for a young boy to contend with. Aranthus should have been out playing, scraping his knees, climbing trees, and enjoying childhood—but such were luxuries the Asteras family couldn’t afford.

Rallying his courage, Aranthus confessed, his every word mangled in stifled sobs and whimpers. “I’m so hungry, Kiss-Me. All’a time. I know you and Auntie are doin’ your best, but it’s not enough. An’ I doan, I doan—”

“Shhh…” Khazmine soothed, pulling Aranthus into a big hug and rubbing his back until his tears subsided. “I’m sorry, little one. Truly. I didn’t realize you were suffering. I’m sorry…”

Aranthus winced. He hadn’t meant to dig at his elders, only to bring his own needs to light. Aunt Tatty worked so hard every day to keep the ovens lit for the bread-peddler’s bakery, and Khazmine did odd jobs for money to subsidize their meals.

It just wasn’t enough. With four children and two adults to feed, there simply wasn’t enough to go around. How many days had Kiss-Me come home with battered fingers from working fields, or Tatty collapse in her rocker at the end of another excruciating day’s work?

Exhausted and raw-nerved, Aranthus broke down, trying desperately to keep his voice low, so the others wouldn’t hear.

“It’s not fair, Kiss-Me,” the Outsider cried into her good ear. “We’re not bad people, just hungry. You work, but it’s… It’s just not fair.”

The Deceiver pulled away from their hug to face her brother, met his gaze, and frowned.

“You’re right, little one,” Khazmine replied, a hint of weariness in her voice.

She had the same look of grief-stricken want that countless other outcasts bore, carved into her expression from nearly two decades of poverty. “It isn’t fair. And likely never will be. The best we can do is work together—try to even the odds.”

“I doan unnerstan…” Aranthus wept. “What kin we do? I’m juss so liddle.”

His voice was weak, but the child was right. What could one person do? War was waging outside the gates, and famine ravaged many homes within.

Khazmine had to try harder. Not just for herself, but for her boys as well.

“Listen, I can’t control one damned thing outside this door,” Khazmine grumbled, not at Aranthus, but for his benefit. “But I can control whatever goes on behind it. Let them try and keep us from celebrating. You can’t outlaw an idea…”

Aranthus gazed up at Khazmine, wide-eyed yet clinging to hope. She had that tone of action he so admired, the one Kiss-Me had when she was about to do something brave or foolish. “I doan unner—”

“Only one of us has to, little one,” Khazmine interrupted with a comforting smile. 

Happy Halloween to you and yours! (Or, if you're on Chromaldus, Happy Feast of Merkander!) 

This year's holiday side story needs your help! Leave your thoughts in the comments below to help shape Part Two!