**The following takes place after "Of Lowlifes, Lutes, & Liars" Chapter 50: Until No More Remain & one year after Side Story 06: Merkander (Part One). Recap: Starving and despirited, Aranthus steals from a fruit merchant's cart in the zocalo of Old Sarzonn. He escapes with some dried fruit, but not before getting injured. Aranthus returns to Cadlen cottage, where Khazmine is cooking dinner and Tatty tells fairy stories to the children in the common room. Seeing her little brother so upset, Khazmine vows to make this year's holiday one he won't soon forget.**

Lonely cobblestone streets had gone quiet as full-dark descended on the slumbering byways of Old Sarzonn. Citizens and stall masters alike had long since settled in for the night, leaving only a handful of caravan merchants to close up shop.

The zocalo that had been bustling with people at midday was now an empty shadow of its former self, with only a familiar merchant and two foreigners securing their carts by dim lantern light.

Mister Tanner, a local whose name matched his trade, latched a cart window closed for an elderly fellow, hoping it would be enough to keep thieves at bay.

Of the two caravan travelers he aided, one looked like a great burly, bearded blacksmith from out west, and another must have been the old fruit peddler Aranthus had stolen from earlier that day.

D’jabareen, looks like. Or maybe from further south, like my father, Khazmine observed from the darkness. An old man, traveling at his age? Too frail to lock up his own cart, poor thing. Aside from them, there’s not much worth considering, I'm afraid.

The outcast had made her way through Merchant’s Quarter, hopeful to find any foolish marks to make a quick stag off of. Yet despite sneaking around for nearly an hour, Khazmine only found these weary men tending their wares.

Unfortunately, the half-breed had delayed her hunt, as she had two little brothers to comfort back home. Until Tatty had riled them up with tales of the trickster, Olan Merkander, and all of his thieving, swashbuckling ways.

Aranthus dropped off to sleep easily after a quick snuggle, but wee Pavo was still haunted by horrific nightmares, requiring his big sister’s embrace to finally fall asleep. It was late by the time both boys were abed, leaving Khazmine with few options to hunt for prey.

Icy blue eyes narrowed and at the three men wrapping up their activities in the zocalo. Shaking her head and releasing a defeated sigh, Khazmine ran options in the secluded shelter of a disused alleyway.

All this trouble searching for two foreigners and a local.

Her prospects were bleak. Khazmine couldn’t possibly overpower so sturdy a blacksmith, nor could she stoop to stealing from a weak old man who needed a walking stick to get around.

And Mister Tanner’s no good either. Didn’t Aunt Tatty mention his wife’s taken ill? Khazmine could hardly bring herself to steal from a man with a sick family either.

No matter how bad things had gotten since the Day of Dark Skies, the outcast couldn’t help but feel relieved that she’d never had to stoop to such depravity. Careless nobles and wealthy citizens of Holloworth were of interest, as they’d hardly notice a few stags missing, anyway.

The half-breed was lost in her thoughts, only able to listen in half-heartedly as the merchants gabbed by the streets.

“Oh aye, thank ye lad,” forge master Cysco cut in, jostling Mister Tanner on the back with a startling pat. “You’ve been a great ’elp.”

The blacksmith was a friendly enough man, despite his gruff appearance and marks from his trade. “Came ’ere for the festival season. Thought the streets might a been lit up an’ busy. What a shame.”

Mister Tanner flinched, whispering to the forge master and glancing around to be sure they weren’t seen. “We would have had the Feast of Merkander this year, but…”

But we can’t have nice things, Khazmine growled to herself.

His eminence, Lord Amias Vythorne, had decreed it. After the Day of Dark Skies, no festivals or extravagances would be held in the square. With war waging outside the city walls, who would dare celebrate, while men died in droves at their doorstep?

For two long years, it was just so; no parties, no parades, no cheer. How much longer would they all have to go, cowering in fear without a moment’s peace?

Well, no longer, Khazmine thought as she checked her weapons and sleeves. She couldn’t go home empty-handed, not after what she’d heard her little brother confess.

He's hungry? Every day?

The thought tugged at strained heartstrings. Aranthus was waiting back home for her, dreaming of sweets and a hot Merkander feast. How often had the Outsider child suffered, only finding fine foods in such errant dreams?

I’ll have a payoff tonight. One way or the other. Still, if only I’d managed to sneak away earlier, Khazmine grumbled. Maybe I’d have landed a house knight or two. As it is, all I’ve got are three merchants, none of which are good marks.

Not that the half-breed would have the opportunity to take from the merchants if she’d wished to, as two armored figures stole her chance away.

Lumbering in from Cheapside, two city guards approached the zocalo, likely on patrol through Merchant’s Quarter. One was a sharp-featured chap with a cruel glint in beady black eyes, broad-shouldered and well-equipped to bear a sword at each side.

The other was a portly lout topped with unkempt ginger hair, resembling a lumpy, misshapen toy more than a proper soldier or guard. A rusty pole arm at his side and an unmistakable voice caught the outcast’s interest, reminding her of an encounter long forgotten.

“What’re you lot doing out so late?” Murdik asked with a grating, coarse voice that put the blacksmith’s to shame.

“N-nothing, sir,” Tanner replied, averting his eyes and collecting his things. “Just helping these gentlemen clean up shop, that’s all.”

“Why? Are we not allowed to be out here at night?” the D’jabareen merchant asked with a defiant air and a discerning gaze. “There’s no curfew posted, as far as I’m aware.”

At the old man’s sass, the second guard closed the distance between them, his tarnished armor clinking like tin plates. Ruffled that a foreigner would talk back to them, the guard shoved the peddler into his cart, forcing the codger to lean into his cane.

“Watch it, old man,” Jarold sneered. “There’s no congregating in the zocalo after full-dark, under penalty of a fine. Of course, if you can’t pay it, we’ll accept goods in exchange.”

By the Ancients, Khazmine growled, her expression souring at their obvious lies. A local would know for sure; fees and fines were just a pretense to steal from foreigners and pad city guard purses.

There was no such thing as penalties for existing outdoors late at night, at least, not yet. Khazmine flinched at the thought of criminalizing such things, egging the outcast to approach silently. Don't those horrid bastards have anything better to do?

Murdik and Jarold were rummaging through vendor carts, pocketing trinkets and anything that they fancied. A small dagger or two from Cysco’s cart, a stitched purse lined with fine dark hart hide, and a length of leather cord were all taken.

Still not satisfied with their treasure, Jarold eyed the old fruit peddler’s cart with a smirk. “You’d better pay up too, old man, if you want to leave here walking.”

“No, thank you,” the fruit peddler insisted. “I’ve seen no notices on the community board for such a thing. It’s hard enough earning a living when you people cancel festivals on a whim.”

Another shove, this time it was hard enough for the little old man to tumble to the pavers. The Deceiver might have intervened, but was still too far away.

Is he okay?

There were only four lanterns lit, posted one at each corner of the zocalo. With so little coverage, it was easy for a stealthy Solanai initiate to sneak over unseen. Ducking under a cooper’s cart, Khazmine took a brief peek, only to find Jarold giving the D’jabareen merchant a good kick.

“I said you can pay the fine in gold or goods. What’ll it be?”

Brutes. Bullies, Khazmine thought with a scowl. The half-breed crept closer still, her mind made up. Judging by the jingling sacks at their waists, both city guards had plenty of fawns, does, and stags to claim.

“I’m tired of your stubbornness, foreigner,” Jarold exclaimed. “Now, get outta my way!”

Resistant to the last, the D’jabareen merchant had refused to cave. He was far too bold for a man of his years, rebellious, steadfast, and immune to intimidation.

Misters Tanner and Cysco had already paid their “fines,” but this lowly fruit peddler was uncooperative with two strong men easily one third his age.

Gods, I’m too far away, Khazmine lamented, her concern growing for the helpless old man still sitting flat on the pavers. If Jarold or Murdik decided to hurt him, there was nothing Khazmine could do but get in their strike range.

The outcast couldn’t get a proper look at anyone, what with the cooper’s cart wheel in the way. She repositioned in darkness, unaware that this refuge was shared.

Mrrroww!

A mangy tan house panther darted out from the cart, spooked by Khazmine’s boot grazing his body. The poor thing was practically skin and bones, likely surviving on scraps in the zocalo.

“What was that?” Murdik asked, not seeing the panther flee toward an alley.

“Just some scabby rat-catcher,” Jarold replied with a sneer. “Lousy animal’s always lurking around main streets.”

Starving and frightened, the house panther fled, reaching a side street that connected to Cheapside in the distance. It was an odd thing, though; as soon as the creature entered, his footfalls stopped dead.

Maybe you misheard, Khazmine thought, rubbing her injured ear.

The outcast might have been damaged from an ether blast two years back, but she could still hear well above a human’s abilities. And yet, not a sound from the panther once it reached the entrance? No jostled garbage, or pitter-pat of tiny paws?

Something’s not right, the outcast thought, drawing her ears back. Half-deaf but still sharp, Khazmine’s attention lingered on the side street that was obscured from the lamps. It was only for a moment, but the half-breed couldn’t help but feel that uncomfortable sense that she was being watched.

More thieves in the darkness, perhaps?

Or was it worse than that? If Old Sarzonn was a great ocean of territory, surely there would be predators bigger than her on the prowl. After all, for every pack of Fordaad sharks and city guards, there was always a leviathan lurking in the depths.

A free-lancer? A hunter? An Inquisitor, maybe?

Patches of goose bumps raised on her arms, convincing Khazmine that a presence was there. Calling upon her choir for help, Khazmine asked the darkness for a clue or some aid.

Huuunt… Preeey…

The outcast swallowed hard, convinced that she’d overstayed her welcome in the zocalo. Splitting her attention between the alley and two guards, Khazmine waited for a chance to change locations.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Jarold mocked with a grin. He’d slapped the fruit peddler down, leaving the old man rubbing his cheek. “Why’d you even resist?”

Jarold pinched a small sack of fruit Khazmine couldn’t identify, something dried and fragrant that smelled tropical, like foreign citrus. “C’mon, Murdik. I’m through with him.”

The pair sauntered off, flush with ill-gotten treasures and eager to spend their wages at The Blanched Hart nearby. Khazmine waited until their clinking armor receded, lingering under the cooper’s cart.

“Lousy, cruel buggers,” master Cysco groused. He strode over to the fallen fruit peddler, offering a gigantic hand for the old man to grab. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

What are you staring at, old man? Khazmine wondered as his eyes locked onto her cart.

“Nothing,” the fruit merchant replied, his gaze lingering for a moment before braking away. “I thought I saw something, but must have been mistaken.”

The trio trundled off on their separate ways; two peddlers to the caravansary and Mister Tanner back to his little townhouse in Cheapside. With all three gone, Khazmine could finally start hunting for prey.

Still, I had better not linger here longer, the outcast thought with a shiver. An unsettling quiet spread through the vacant zocalo, giving the half-breed a strange feeling.

Not taking any chances, the Deceiver activated her camouflage, vanishing into the shadows entirely. Untraceable even under dim lantern light, Khazmine crept from her hiding place, assured of her escape.

Surely, I haven’t used enough ether to track. This much should be okay.

As it happened, the invisible outcast needed to hug the backstreets, trailing behind the city guards to their destination. Relentlessly curious, Khazmine roamed where the tabby panther had gone, peeking her head to see if he was still there.

Wait a minute, that’s—

Khazmine’s thought stopped before it’d fully formed. The outcast could smell fresh blood in the alley, and couldn’t help but search briefly for its source.

Good gods, why? The outcast thought with a shudder.

The poor creature was lying dead where she’d last seen him bound, skewered through by a heavy black crossbow bolt embedded into a paver.

Get a hold of yourself. Merkander isn’t real, Khazmine thought, calming her nerves. He’s just a fairy story to excite children, nothing more. Besides, even if he was real, I doubt he’s cruel enough to kill small animals for making noise.

No, the black weapon told the Deceiver enough. A bolt of that size, fired without making a sound? Whoever was out there, skulking in alleys—they were stealthy, ruthless, and tough.

Khazmine clenched her jaw at the choice in front of her. She could either return home, safe and sound, or proceed and risk getting caught.

It's not too late. There’s nothing out here worth dying for. You can still turn back for home…