The tavern grew restless long before the trouble began.

Aster felt it in the too-loud laughter of the Concordat soldiers and in the tight, guarded glances the Katashakan sailors exchanged over their mugs. The soldiers were already deep in their cups, boasting about patrols and border sweeps, seasoning every story with thinly veiled contempt for the “jungle folk.” The Katashakans stayed quiet, backs straight, hands wrapped tight around their drinks.

The boy washing dishes flinched with every raised voice.

“It’s just noise,” Aster murmured to him as she passed, though she felt the air tightening like a snare.

It started when the boy walked by a particularly drunk soldier with a tray of mugs. The man stuck out his boot—just enough.

The boy tripped.
The mugs crashed to the floor, ale splashing as he landed face-first.

The soldiers erupted with laughter—sharp, cruel.

“That’s enough,” Aster said, stepping forward.

The soldier turned, his smile twisting. “Is it? Didn’t know you were so soft on Katashakans.”

Before Aster could answer, he shoved her. It wasn’t meant to hurt—just to provoke, to dare her to react.

Another soldier stood. A Katashakan rose in response. Voices sharpened. A mug was thrown.

And the tavern exploded into a brawl.

Aster moved on instinct—sidestepping a punch, pivoting like she had in the Astravere yard a thousand times, striking with clean precision. She blocked a bottle with her forearm, pain bursting along the bone. Her training carried her through the chaos with practiced ease.

A blade flashed.

She twisted, but the knife still caught her side—a searing cut that sent warm blood dripping down her ribs. She gritted her teeth, refusing to fall.

Then she heard the boy scream.

A soldier had him by the collar, dragging him backward toward the brawl. A knife gleamed in the soldier’s other hand.

Aster’s vision tunneled.

She lunged behind the bar, grabbed her bow, and drew the string in one fluid motion. The magic came unbidden, summoned by instinct.

A single arrow of shimmering light formed on the string.

Aster loosed.

The arrow struck the soldier dragging the boy in the back—an explosion of golden light—
then ricocheted with impossible speed.

It snapped sideways into another soldier mid-stride.
Rebounded into a third, knocking him clean off his feet.
Cracked against the chest of a fourth, sending him sprawling.

The impacts came in a single heartbeat—
bright flashes like stars connecting points in a constellation.

Then the arrow dissolved, its light fading softly.

Silence crashed over the room four bodies crumpled to the ground in unison.

Two soldiers lay dead.
Another writhed, groaning.
A fourth clutched a mangled shoulder.

The boy stared at Aster as though she had transformed into something terrifying and divine then ran to her for protection.

Aster lowered her bow, pressing her hand to her bleeding side. Her vision wavered and she dropped to her knees, her bow landing on the ground beside her. She hadn’t meant to do this—not like this. The boy collided with her, tears streaming down his face as she gave him a comforting embrace, wincing against the pain of the wound in her side.

Then she saw him.

A man in a gray cloak stood in the far corner, untouched and utterly calm. He watched her with quiet certainty, as if he had been waiting for her to reveal herself.

“Go to Mereth,” Aster whispered to the boy. “Hide.”

He ran.

Aster slipped into the alley through the back door, stumbling as blood soaked her shirt. The night air hit her hard. Her head spun.

Footsteps followed—slow, patient.

Her knees buckled.

The last thing she saw was a pair of boots stopping beside her.

“Found you,” someone said softly.

And she fell into darkness.