The sun beat down mercilessly over Haven Town, casting long shadows and igniting the dusty streets in a relentless blaze of high noon heat.

The square was packed, a throng of shouting voices rising into the stifling air. The usually peaceful market stalls had shut their shutters, and mothers pulled their children indoors as two angry mobs squared off in the center of the town.

On one side were the Krowls—a group known for their fierce pride and reputation as warriors. They stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces a mixture of defiance and suspicion, hands hovering near the swords at their belts.

On the other side were the Valeks—merchants and traders who controlled the southern caravans, well-dressed and equally furious, their eyes narrowed with distrust. The tension was thick, a single spark away from igniting a full-scale brawl.

Magron, tall and broad as a mountain, stood between them, his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles in his neck stood out like cords. His hands were fists at his sides, his eyes darting between the two ringleaders—the Krowl leader, a rough-looking veteran with a scar down his cheek, and a Valek spokesman who sneered with thinly veiled contempt.

“The Krowls have been favored!” the Valek leader shouted, his voice carrying above the noise.

“Ever since King Ren came into power, you lot have had the best contracts, the best weapons! You’re bleeding us dry!”

“That’s a lie!” bellowed the Krowl leader, spitting on the ground. “You Valeks have been undermining us for years! You play at being loyal while you fatten your purses and leave the real fighting to us!”

The crowd surged, shouts turning to jeers.

Magron’s deep voice boomed over the clamor, silencing them for a moment. “Enough!” he thundered, his face twisted with barely restrained fury. “I will not have Aropians brawling in the streets like common thugs! ”

But his command fell on deaf ears.

The Valek leader, his face red with anger, sneered at Magron and stepped forward, pointing a finger. “And what about you, Magron?” he spat. “We know where your loyalties lie. You’re a dog of the Krowls.”

A roar of approval came from the Valek side, the crowd surging behind their leader.

Magron’s face darkened, his brow furrowing as the heat of his anger surged like a storm. He recognized this man—the one who had been part of the ill-fated revolt among the southern raiders, a traitor who had been barely punished under Ren’s leniency. His eyes flashed with fury, and he stepped forward in one quick, brutal motion.

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Without warning, Magron’s fist shot out, a blur of muscle and rage. The blow connected with the Valek leader’s jaw, the crack echoing through the stunned silence that followed.

The man dropped like a stone, hitting the ground in a heap, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. The crowd froze, a collective gasp of shock rippling through both sides.

Magron’s chest heaved, his breath coming fast and harsh as he glared down at the fallen man. “I said, enough,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Anyone who has a problem with Ren’s rule can take it up with me. But you will not raise a hand against your fellow Aropians while I stand here.”

For a moment, it seemed as if chaos might erupt, the crowd shifting and muttering, the atmosphere electric with shock and anger.

But then, as if his fury alone had cowed them, the tension began to ebb. The Krowls and Valeks exchanged wary glances, unsure whether to press forward or retreat. Magron’s glare promised pain to anyone foolish enough to challenge him.

At that moment, a messenger pushed through the crowd, his face pale and anxious. “Sir Magron!” he called urgently, rushing to Magron’s side. “I have a message for you—an important one.”

Magron turned sharply, his blood still boiling from the confrontation. “What is it?” he barked, his voice still rough with anger.

The messenger hesitated, glancing nervously at the restless crowd. “It’s... sensitive information, sir. It cannot be discussed here. Your guest has already arrived at the villa.”

Magron’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Who is it?”

The messenger swallowed hard, shaking his head. “I cannot say, sir. Not here, not in public.”

Magron’s expression hardened, but he knew better than to press the man in front of the crowd.

He turned his back on the two opposing groups, leveling them with a final, dangerous glare.

“Listen well,” he growled, his voice carrying across the square like the rumble of distant thunder. “This ends now. If I return to hear that any of you have caused more trouble, I’ll make you wish I hadn’t.”

With that, he stalked away, the crowd parting before him like a wave breaking against a rock. He moved quickly, his mind racing.

The identity of the visitor gnawed at him. If it were Ren, there would be no need for secrecy—Haven Town had always been loyal to him. The thought left him uneasy, a dark shadow settling over his thoughts.

His footsteps quickened as he neared the villa, his gut tightening with each step. The villa’s tall, elegant windows glinted in the sunlight, and for a moment, he hesitated at the door, his heart beating hard in his chest. He braced himself for whatever waited inside, shoving down the remnants of his temper and forcing his expression into something more controlled.

Pushing open the heavy oak doors, Magron stepped inside, and his breath caught in his throat.

There, standing in the middle of the room, was Fretia Cheryat. She looked exactly as he remembered—poised and graceful, her eyes carrying that same quiet strength that had captivated him once before.