The next morning is nice. As much as sleeping under the stars doesn’t really bother me any more, and the trip with Mairi and Eilidh was great fun, this place has started to feel like home. And waking up to the chatter of little ones feels like a warm, comforting blanket, much more so than the actual blanket.
I wonder how things will go as we get further into autumn. I haven’t heard Rhona worry about it, and she’s been doing this for years, so I guess they have some way to deal with the colder winter months?
Cooking breakfast is just another thing to do, and it suddenly occurs to me how relaxing life is when you don’t constantly have to worry about work. Sure, there’s things I need to do, like cleaning the clothes, preparing food, and the theft itself is pretty stressful, but it takes but a moment and after that we’re essentially free.
That’s a pretty scary thought, I don’t think we should make our future dependent on continuing like this, and I doubt Rhona thinks so either, but for now it’s… nice. I can’t even really bring myself to feel guilty about that thought. It’s not like I didn’t try to get a more respectable job, it’s just this world forced us all into circumstance we somehow have to deal with.
It’s a bit silly to think that my very own isekai adventure turned into such a slice of life thing, but here we are, and I’m not even sad about it.
I look at the children running around. The three little ones with juice have stopped trying to fall in slow-motion by now, and are instead playing a game of catch with the others. A game they are winning. It’s shocking how quickly they adapted, but I guess kids will be kids. They kept practicing long after I’d given up in frustration when I was in their position. Maybe I should cut myself some slack though, I was trying to get somewhere, so falling on my face constantly wasn’t very conductive to that goal.
A shadow falls over me, and I look up to see Rhona standing there. Her eyes are bright, almost glowing with the lingering effects of the fruit. She crouches down beside me, her voice lowered so the children can’t hear. “How long do you reckon this’ll last?” she asks, gesturing vaguely at herself. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Just need to know what I’m working with here.”
I lean my arms on my knees, considering how to explain this. “I’ve never really tried to measure how long it lasts, to be honest. When I was learning, I spent a whole week practicing while traveling here, and I barely noticed any drain at all. The juice just seemed to stay at roughly the same level no matter how many times I used the time-slowing effect. It was still decreasing, mind you, just slowly enough that it might last months.”
My hand absently traces the rune in the dirt as I continue, “But powering runes? That’s different. When I activated that single rune here in the hideout, I felt almost a third of my juice vanish in an instant. It’s like there’s a massive difference between just using the juice naturally and channeling it through the runes.”
“Though,” I muse, watching the kids play, “those channelers on the wagons keep at it for hours. I’ve watched them at the city gates, and they’re constantly powering dozens of runes just to keep those massive things moving. So it can’t be that every activation costs a third of your juice. Must be about how much power you push through them.” The thought makes me frown, wondering if I’d simply been too heavy-handed with my attempts.
The thought of power consumption suddenly reminds me of Mairi’s dramatic display with the tree. “Mairi!” I call out, watching as she breaks away from her game with the other children. As she trots over, her hair bouncing with each step, I study her face for any remaining trace of the fruit’s glow. “That tree you destroyed—how much juice did that take? Can you feel how much you have left?” She scuffs her feet in the dirt, looking somewhat sheepish as she admits she’s running nearly empty.
“Why didn’t you mention this during our journey back?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle to make it clear I’m not angry. She meets my eyes then, a familiar stubborn set to her jaw. “I wanted the others to try it too,” she explains, gesturing toward where Rhona stands. “If I’d said something, you’d have given me another fruit, and then there’d be one less for someone else to experience.” There’s something touching about her logic, even if it makes me want to shake her for being so self-sacrificing. It’s exactly the sort of thing she does - putting others first while pretending it’s all part of some grand mischievous plan.
“Well, there you go.” I say to Rhona, as I gesture at Mairi. “If you keep it to zero runes, you should be good for months.” Rhona nods, having heard the story of Mairi’s tree by now. She smirks, an amused smile on her face “I don’t expect I’ll be needing any replacements soon.”
Rhona shifts her weight, her earlier amusement fading into something more pensive. She runs her fingers through her tangled blonde hair, a habit I’ve noticed she falls into when working through difficult thoughts. “Maybe we got ahead of ourselves here,” she says softly, her eyes distant. “Don’t get me wrong, when you showed up with the knowledge of those fruits, it seemed like… like finally having something that could change things for us. But now?” She gestures vaguely at the air around us. “What can we actually do with it? The moment anyone sees us channeling, that’s it. Game over.”
I let out a long breath. The excitement of discovery, of finally having something concrete to offer these kids who’d taken me in, blinded me to the practical realities. It’s one thing to have the power, but it’s another entirely to be able to use it without bringing the full weight of whatever passes for government, and potentially other mages down on our heads. The memory of Iain’s words about it being a death warrant echoes uncomfortably in my mind.
“You’re right,” I admit, staring off into the great beyond. “I think I got swept up in it all, that I’d finally found something to give back.” The words taste bitter in my mouth, but they’re honest. Since stumbling into this world, I’ve been mostly taking—taking shelter, taking food, taking protection. The fruits had seemed like a way to balance that a little bit, but perhaps I’d been too eager to give these kids that double edged sword.
I watch Rhona’s eyebrow arch up as she clicks her tongue at me. “Don’t be silly Emma, you arriving here has been the best thing to happen for me since I found Mairi.” She looks down at the floor. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re all wonderful, but… Iain and Calum are boys, and before you came, I’d just bottle everything up inside.” A crooked smile tugs at her lips as she meets my eyes again. ”You’re a grown-up, and as much as I hate to admit it, that makes me feel like I can dump all my troubles on you without feeling like I’m burdening someone who’s already carrying too much.”
She gestures at Iain, who’s already hunched over one of his ledgers—I still have no clue where he gets them—and then at Calum, who’s claimed back the imperial sword and is now in the middle of practicing some sword forms. She looks at Emma meaningfully “Even Eilidh left, and she was more like Calum than she’d like to admit.” She pauses for a moment, hesitating. “But now she’s studying medicine of all things, and I wonder if it was just because she was chasing after him.”
I watch her eyes drop to her feet as she shifts her weight. “It’s kind of weird how you can live together like this for years and still miss so much.”
I find myself nodding slowly, understanding the meaning behind her words. It’s strange how isolation can exist even in a crowded room, how leadership can create an invisible barrier between you and those you care for most. God knows something changed the moment they made me a team manager. So much jealousy and just plain inability to talk normally with each other. Responsibility for people and towards people makes it hard to be entirely forthright all the time.
My eyes drift to the ledgers, the sword forms, these individual pursuits that mark the growing independence of her makeshift family. The ache in her voice when she mentioned Eilidh strikes a chord—I know what it’s like to watch people you care about drift away, their paths diverging from your own. Without thinking, I reach out and squeeze her hand gently, offering what comfort I can in this quiet moment of vulnerability.
She glances at me with the ghost of a smile on her face. “Thanks,” she says with a small sigh.
image [https://pub-43e7e0f137a34d1ca1ce3be7325ba046.r2.dev/Group.png]
As soon as it looks like Rhona is done with me, Calum comes over. “I think it’s time you learned how to use this one too,” he says, as he holds out the sword.
I stare at him, my mind momentarily blank, then racing with memories—the bandit in the woods, that first terrifying encounter where dumb luck was all that saved me, the way my hand keeps finding the sword’s hilt whenever I feel threatened. How many times had I felt exposed, vulnerable, wishing I actually knew what to do with the blade at my hip beyond awkwardly swinging it? The weight of the sword has become sort of familiar against my leg, and very much so in the sack, but it’s more like a security blanket than a weapon—something that makes me feel safer without actually making me any safer. The irony of carrying around such a finely crafted blade while having no idea how to properly use it isn’t lost on me.
I nod slowly, feeling a small spark of determination kindle. After all, what do I have to lose? The blade’s already weighing down my hip whenever Calum isn’t using it—might as well learn to do something useful with it beyond accidentally stabbing myself. And it’s not like the skill isn’t transferrable to other weapons either. “Alright,” I tell him, trying to project more confidence than I feel. “Show me what to do.”
I quickly discover that Calum’s idea of “teaching” involves a lot of barked commands, precise criticism of every minute flaw in my stance, and absolutely zero patience for my complete lack of coordination. My arms are trembling after just fifteen minutes of holding the basic guard position he demonstrated, and he keeps adjusting my grip with increasingly exasperated sighs. It’s like having the world’s most militant dance instructor, except instead of learning the waltz, I’m learning how not to die.
“Higher! No, not that high—do you want to leave your entire torso exposed?” Calum’s voice cuts through my concentration for what feels like the hundredth time. When I dare to suggest that maybe we could take a short break, he gives me an incredulous look. “Eilidh never complained about the pace, and she mastered these basics in half the time,” he states matter-of-factly, as if that’s supposed to be encouraging.
I barely manage to suppress an eye roll at that comment. Of course Eilidh never complained—she would have endured far worse just to spend time with him. Sometimes men can be so oblivious it hurts. Still, I grit my teeth and adjust my stance again, determined not to let his comparison get to me. This isn’t about Eilidh or Calum’s teaching methods—it’s about me finally learning how to defend myself properly.
My arms feel like they’re made of lead, and every movement sends dull waves of pain through muscles I didn’t even know I had. The wooden practice sword, crafted from pieces of restwood, grows heavier by the minute, while the growing collection of bruises decorating my forearms serves as a colorful reminder of every time I’ve failed to block correctly. Calum may be using a practice weapon, but he certainly isn’t pulling his strikes.
Then something strange happens. As Calum’s practice sword comes whistling down in what must be the hundredth overhead strike of the morning, my body moves before my mind can catch up. The wooden blade comes up smoothly, angled just so, and his strike slides harmlessly off to the side. For a brief moment, I’m too surprised to feel the burning in my muscles or the throbbing of my bruises. My eyes meet Calum’s, and I catch the ghost of an approving nod before he launches into his next attack.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Calum lowers his practice sword and runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “You did well today,” he admits, though the words seem to cost him something. “Better than I expected, if I’m being honest.” A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he adds, “And I suppose I should mention that while Eilidh never complained during training, she also never stuck around past the second hour. Always had some urgent business to attend to elsewhere.”
I let out a breathless laugh and sink to the ground, my legs finally giving out. The ground feels wonderfully cool against my burning skin, and I allow myself to lie back completely, staring up at the patches of sky visible between the buildings surrounding us. “I completely understand her reasoning now,” I manage between heavy breaths. “Though I have to admit, I’m surprised she gave up on something that meant spending time with you.”
As I watch the leaves dancing in the breeze, a question that’s been nagging at me surfaces. “Where did you learn all this anyway?” I ask, propping myself up on my elbows to look at him. “These aren’t just random swings—I recognize some of these forms from historical manuscripts I’ve seen. They’re period correct, or at least close to it.” Calum’s expression shifts slightly, something unreadable flickering across his features, but before he can respond, I quickly add, “I mean, I wouldn’t expect a street kid to have access to that kind of training.”
Calum settles down beside me, his practice sword laid carefully across his lap. “Period correct… you mean from your world’s history?” he asks quietly, his eyes searching my face. When I nod, he looks away, focusing on some distant point beyond the buildings. The question seems to have struck something deep within him, something he usually keeps carefully hidden.
“There was an old man,” he finally says, his voice taking on an almost reverent quality. “He lived in one of the abandoned buildings near the docks. Most people thought he was mad—he’d spend hours practicing these movements with a piece of driftwood, muttering to himself in some foreign language. But he saw something in me, I suppose. Started teaching me when I was barely tall enough to hold a proper sword. Said he learned it all from his father, who learned it from his father before him, going back generations.” His fingers trace absent patterns on the wooden blade as he speaks, and I notice they’re following the same methodical movements I’d seen in his practice earlier.
It baffles me that there is something like a sword form here that would be similar to my world’s history, but then, I’m not sure if this is actually a different world, besides the existence of magic. I just haven’t seen or heard enough of it to judge whether the continents are all in the same place. All the name of countries I’ve heard so far are completely different from my world though. Even the historical ones. No Alexander the Great or Julius Caesar here.
Or could it be something even more crazy. Could people have appeared here earlier? In the same way that I appeared here, except from a different era? It’s too much to imagine that one fo the few of the 8 billion people earth that still knows these sword forms in my era had appeared here. Female programmers may be rare, but not nearly as rare as those that know historical european martial arts.
I shift my weight, drawing my knees up to my chest as I consider his words. That same reverent tone in his voice makes me hesitate before asking, but curiosity wins out. “What happened to him? The old man?” My voice comes out softer than intended, almost matching his earlier quiet tone. Something in the way Calum spoke of his teacher, using the past tense, suggests I might already know the answer, but I want—maybe need—to hear it anyway.
Calum’s expression shifts, a mix of sadness and pride crossing his features. “He went as he lived,” he says, still tracing those intricate patterns on the wooden sword. “Teaching. We were practicing by the docks one winter morning—he’d been showing me a particularly complex sequence of movements. The cold didn’t seem to bother him like it did the rest of us. He finished demonstrating, turned to me with this… satisfied look on his face, and just collapsed.”
His voice grows softer, but there’s a certainty in it that seems beyond his years. “The harbor master said it was his heart, but I think… I think he knew. That morning, he’d been more insistent than usual about getting the movements exactly right, about understanding the philosophy behind them. He’d told me that morning that a true swordsman’s legacy lives on in his students.” Calum’s fingers still on the practice sword, gripping it firmly. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s why he chose me—if he somehow knew he needed to pass it on before….”
“Well, Calum,” Emma says, slightly hesitant, but with authority in her voice. “If I can pick up that they’re authentic sword forms from the little I know of medieval manuscripts I’ve seen, then whatever else happened, you must have done something right.” It’s honestly bizarre. I don’t have a lot of experience with that kind of thing at all. It was more of a passing fancy when trying to see if the stuff you see in movies was actually sensible. But seeing him run through them makes me feel like I’m looking at those pictures. Can’t even recall what it was called, but it was authoritative.
I shake my head, leaning forward slightly. "No, Calum, I don’t think it was just chance.” An image of Johan springs to mind, his gangly form ricocheting off our living room walls, wooden sword whistling through the air as Mom ducks beneath his enthusiastic swings. “You said you trained with him since you could barely lift a sword, right? Most kids I knew would’ve killed for that chance. Hell, my brother Johan…” I snort, seeing him clear as day in his ridiculous padded vest, practically vibrating with excitement as he corners yet another victim for his demonstrations. “He found this historical combat group and wouldn’t shut up about it for months. The dinner table became his personal stage - ‘No, no, you have to angle the blade exactly forty-five degrees or it won’t deflect properly!’ - while our parents just sat there nodding, probably marking days off their mental calendar until his next great passion came along.”
I catch my thoughts drifting as my tongue shapes these foreign words, wrestling modern memories into ancient terms. Quite aside from the fact that it’s a different language, translating through different eras is a challenge. My brother’s padded vest becomes “leather armor,” his HEMA club transforms into a “warrior’s guild,” and I’m not even sure how I managed to describe our kitchen table without mentioning plastic. It’s like I’m telling someone else’s story, even though these memories still pulse warm and real in my chest.
“But most of them quit once reality hits them in the face. All those heroic dreams crumble the first time they’re standing in freezing rain, repeating the same slash for the hundredth time until their arms shake.” I point at the wooden sword resting in his calloused hands. “Your teacher didn’t waste years training some snot-nosed brat by chance. He saw something in you, watching you struggle and grow. Not just a student who’d memorize his forms, but someone who’d grasp the heart of what he was passing down. The soul of it, hidden beneath all those careful movements.”
Droplets of sweat trickle down my neck as my own words echo in my ears. Here I am, perched like some wise woman dispensing wisdom from her sacred stone. I have to bite back a laugh at the absurdity. Next thing you know, Iain will come up to me with those soft brown eyes of his, asking me to untangle his troubles. The thought alone makes me snort. Sure, Rhona and Calum, I can almost wrap my head around that - but Iain?
A gentle throat-clearing from Calum pulls me out of my wandering thoughts. His face has softened somewhat, the earlier tension giving way to something more vulnerable. “Thanks, Emma,” he says quietly, fidgeting with the wooden sword in his hands. “For… you know, thinking there might be more to it than just dumb luck.” The way he says it, almost shy, makes me realize how much my words must have meant to him. It’s strange seeing this side of him—the dangerous-looking boy who usually radiates such confidence, now looking almost unsure of himself. Family therapist indeed.
I watch Calum’s hesitant smile and something twists inside me. Mom’s face swims before my eyes—first that tight, worried look when Johan burst through our door, wooden sword held high, then the way her lips would curl up at the corners as the months wore on. Dad just kept nodding through dinner, even when his eyes turned glassy from Johan’s endless prattle about sword angles. They didn’t get it at first, but gods, they tried. Their love settled over us like Mother’s favorite quilt, giving us room to grow wild and strange and true. I glance at Calum’s white-knuckled grip on that practice sword, and my heart clenches. I’ve seen too many children with dead eyes and bent shoulders, crushed beneath mothers and fathers who refused to see them. Perhaps that’s what truly kills a soul—having no one to whisper that it’s right to be yourself, to love your strange loves, to walk your own winding path through this world.
I feel a warm smile spread across my face as I watch Calum return to practicing his forms, his movements more fluid now, less burdened. There’s something profoundly moving about being able to give these kids what they need—even if it’s just someone to validate their choices, to see the worth in their struggles. My own parents’ faces flash through my mind, and I understand now, in a way I never did before, why they eventually came around to support my decisions. It wasn’t about agreeing with everything I chose; it was about making sure I knew I was valued regardless of those choices. Standing here, watching Calum move with renewed confidence, I feel an unexpected surge of pride—not in myself, but in the fact that I can be that steady presence these kids seem to need so desperately.
image [https://pub-43e7e0f137a34d1ca1ce3be7325ba046.r2.dev/Group.png]
As if doomed by my own thoughts, Iain calls me over, gesturing at at one of his ledgers as he does so.
I drag my feet as I make my way over to Iain, mentally preparing myself for another emotional conversation. After the intensity of dealing with Calum’s feelings earlier, I’m not sure I have it in me to be anyone else’s impromptu therapist today.
To my immense relief, when I peer over his shoulder, I see he’s pointing at a series of numbers rather than trying to bare his soul. The ledger is open to a page filled with neat columns of figures, some circled in red ink, others crossed out entirely, there’s scribbles and shapes all over the page that don’t immediately resolve into sense for me. It seems my services as an amateur counselor won’t be required after all—though knowing my luck, helping with accounting might not be much better.
I lean in closer, curious to finally see the contents of these mysterious books he’s always scribbling in. The columns of numbers are interspersed with what looks like a crude map, locations marked with xs and circles, with lines connecting them in an intricate web. Some of the figures appear to be quantities, while others look more like dates or times. My eyes dart across the page, trying to make sense of the cryptic notations before he changes his mind about sharing.
Instead of explaining the figures, Iain’s finger traces along one of the connecting lines and he asks in a low voice, “Do you think you could make it from here to Ceann Locha without being seen?” The question catches me off guard—I’d been prepared for some accounting puzzle, not… whatever this implies. The way he asks makes it clear this isn’t just idle curiosity, and I find myself studying the marked route with newfound intensity, noting how it weaves through the less populated areas I’ve come to know during my time here.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
I pause, my brow furrowing as I try to recall the geography lessons I’ve picked up since arriving here. “Ceann Locha?” I ask carefully. “That’s the town to the north, right? Near the lake right before the great river empties into the sea?” I’ve heard it mentioned in passing conversations, usually in the context of trade routes and merchant caravans, but I’ve never had reason to think much about it before now. The way Iain’s asking about getting there unseen makes my stomach twist with unease—this isn’t just idle chatter about travel destinations.
Iain nods grimly, his finger tapping against the map. “Aye, that’s the one. Last proper town before you hit the scattered villages that mark where our lands end and the High Empire begins.” His voice drops even lower, barely above a whisper, as if merely speaking of it might summon unwanted attention.
The map before me shifts from abstract lines to a stark reality—the lines arranging themselves to show me a top-down view of the country around the city. The sea, the surrounding villages, what goes for the border. The Empire isn’t some far-off monster in children’s tales, but a beast breathing down our necks. I trace the short distance between our city and Ceann Locha with a shaking finger. Some thirty kilometers, maybe less. Any Imperial spy worth their salt could slip across that border under cover of darkness and blend into a market crowd by sunrise. The scattered villages Iain mentioned might as well be paper walls against a storm. Suddenly, all the worry about my hair and the conversations about the danger the Empire poses make perfect sense. The paranoia isn’t paranoia at all—it’s a fact of life for these people.
I lean forward, studying Iain’s face in the dim light of the room. “Why?” I ask, keeping my voice just as quiet as his. “Why would I need to make that journey at all, much less without being seen?” The familiar weight of anxiety settles in my stomach—the kind that always comes before something goes terribly wrong. I’ve learned enough about this world and the way the kids talk to know that whispered conversations rarely lead anywhere good.
Iain’s shoulders slump slightly as he traces the line of the river with one weathered finger. “There are whispers,” he begins, his voice tight with carefully controlled tension, “of troops massing beyond the border. Not just the usual patrols either—real armies. The merchants who make it through talk of supply lines being established, of blacksmiths working through the night, of recruiting parties moving through villages.” His eyes remain fixed on the map as he speaks, as if he can see these movements playing out across its surface.
I find myself drawn to the stack of ledgers at the edge of the table, seeing them with new eyes. The careful notes, the symbols I glimpsed in passing—they weren’t just tracking stolen goods and operations, the results of their thefts and such? They were tracking much more than that: Troop movements, supply chains, the subtle shifts in power that precede a war. My mind races back to all those times I’d seen him hunched over these books, thinking him their strategist. I was dead wrong. He’s not a strategist. He’s a spymaster.
I scrub my hands over my face, staring at his sunken eyes. “Iain,” I finally blurt out, my voice cracking, “you’re fifteen fucking years old.” My finger stabs at the map, at his meticulous notes, at the weight of a kingdom’s fate spread across this table. “How in all the hells are you getting this kind of information?” For a heartbeat he’s not a boy at all but something ancient and worn, like a soldier who’s seen too many winters at war.
“There are signals, small arrangements, sometimes chalk marks, laundry lines positioned in specific ways. Messages hidden where anyone could see them… I spotted them ages ago,” Iain whispers with an expressive shrug. “It began as a game,” he confesses, rubbing his neck. “Breaking codes, finding patterns. It was entertaining, like working out a puzzle. But then…” He pauses, his face darkening. “Then I began to understand what these messages were really saying. By then, I was in too deep to walk away. Someone needed to monitor it all, to connect the pieces. I never thought it would turn into…” His voice drifts off as he waves hopelessly at the map between us, at all the meticulously recorded evidence of impending war.
“So what do you want me to do?” I ask. “Wouldn’t it be better to just get out of here right now?” I point at the map in front of us. There’s more cities below the one we are in, further away from the High Empire.
“Maybe,” Iain concedes. “But this city, this hideout, is the only thing these kids know.”
“Anyhow,” I say sternly. “This is way too big for just us to figure out. Did you tell the others?”
Iain’s face falls, a mix of guilt and anxiety washing over his features. “No, I… I haven’t told anyone yet,” he confesses, running his fingers through his dark hair. “I only just pieced it all together last night. The implications, what it could mean for all of us—it hit me like a punch to the gut. I’ve been walking around in a daze ever since, trying to make sense of it all.”
I stare at him in disbelief, my mouth hanging slightly open. “And you came to me first? Not Rhona?” The words come out sharper than intended, and Iain visibly flinches, his cheeks flushing with shame. Without another word, I turn and signal to Rhona and Calum, who are across the room sorting through yesterday’s take. They notice the gravity in my expression and quickly make their way over, their usual playful banter quickly falling silent.
As if drawn by some invisible thread, Mairi appears at my side, her small hand finding its way into mine. I glance around the room at the other older children, all absorbed in their own activities, and marvel at how Mairi alone seems to sense these important moments, these gatherings of the inner circle. She stands there quietly, her presence both comforting and somehow significant, as Iain begins to explain everything again, his voice barely above a whisper.
image [https://pub-43e7e0f137a34d1ca1ce3be7325ba046.r2.dev/Group.png]
The beginnings of a hushed conversation about the brewing conflict dies in our throats as a shrill cry pierces the musty air of their hideout. Malmhin’s small frame appears at the entrance, her usually steady hands trembling as she grips the worn wooden frame. Her eyes, wide with panic, lock onto Rhona’s face, then dart between Calum and Iain as if unable to decide who needs to hear her warning first.
“There’s—there’s someone coming!” she manages to gasp out between rapid breaths, her thin chest heaving beneath her patched dress. “An older boy, I’ve never seen him before, but he’s heading straight for us!” The young childs words tumble out in a rush, her usual composure completely shattered.
I watch in stunned silence as Calum transforms before my eyes. Gone is the casual stance and lazy smile, replaced by a fluid grace that seems almost supernatural. There’s no trace of doubt or fear in his movements as he strides toward the entrance, his hand resting casually on the worn leather grip of the imperial sword. This is nothing like his training, where there was a certain kind of playfullness to his movements even while teaching me. The sheath at his hip is plain and unmarked, yet somehow that makes it more menacing—like a snake that doesn’t need bright colors to warn of its danger.
The rest of us fall in behind him almost instinctively, our footsteps echoing his purpose if not his grace. Mairi’s hand leaves mine, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch Mairi scaling one of the walls with an agility that reminds me painfully of Eilidh. The small girl finds a perch above us, melting into the shadows of the weathered stone like she was born to them. It’s strange seeing someone else take on Eilidh’s role as our eyes in the sky, but there’s something fitting about it too—as if the group refuses to leave that tactical advantage unused, even with our assassin gone.
Through the crumbling alley, a figure comes walking towards us. He moves with a swagger that seems almost choreographed, each step deliberate and unhurried as if he owns the very cobblestones beneath his feet. Despite his ragged clothes and the dirt smudged across his sharp features, there’s something about him that sets him apart from the usual street children—perhaps it’s the way he holds himself, spine straight and chin lifted, or the calculating intelligence behind his half-lidded eyes. He looks to be about seventeen, his frame lean but solid, suggesting regular meals that most street children can only dream of—our own group being a sort of exception. My gaze sweeps over him, searching for hidden weapons, but his threadbare tunic and patched trousers seem to cling too closely to conceal anything deadly. Still, there’s something about his easy confidence that makes my skin prickle with unease.
When he’s about ten paces away when he halts with a languid grace that seems more suited to a noble’s ballroom than these grimy alleyways. His eyes, dark and shrewd, sweep over our group with the casual dismissal of someone appraising livestock at market. That arrogant assessment raises my hackles, and I have to resist the urge to step forward to smack him in the face. Calum’s voice cuts through the tense silence like a blade, carrying the same deadly promise as the sword at his hip. “One more step,” he says, the words falling soft and precise in the still air, “and you’re dead.” The stranger’s lips curl into something that might be a smile on another face, but on his, it only emphasizes the predatory gleam in his eyes. He doesn’t retreat, but I notice how carefully he maintains that ten-pace distance, his body somehow managing to look both completely at ease and ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.
“This is close enough,” the stranger drawls, his accent carrying notes of an affected merchant district’s polish with the streets’ rough edges. “My associates and I have decided this territory would serve our interests well. I’m here to extend a… generous offer.” His words drip with condescension, but there’s steel beneath the silk of his voice. “You can either join us, leave this city peacefully, or we’ll ensure your little family dies a painful death.”
The weight of the threat settles over our group like a blanket, and I can feel the shift in energy as the older children exchange meaningful glances. Behind us, the younger ones press closer together, their small hands clutching at worn shirts and threadbare sleeves. One tiny girl, no more than six, peers around Iain’s leg with wide, fearful eyes that remind me of a cornered rabbit. The familiar protective instinct rises in my chest—these little ones have already lost too much to have their sanctuary threatened by this smooth-talking intruder.
My feet propel me past Calum’s shoulder before I can think better of it, shrugging off Rhona’s grasping fingers and her sharp intake of breath. My feet carry me forward with a surge of protective fury that drowns out any whisper of caution. My finger shoots out like a dagger, stopping inches from the silk-smooth front he’s putting on. His dark eyes widen, that smug mask slipping for just a heartbeat as I burst through his invisible wall of authority. He takes a half-step back, his practiced stance faltering like a street performer who’s missed his cue. It’s almost funny how his carefully crafted swagger cracks when someone simply refuses to play along with his little show of power.
“How dare you,” I snarl, my voice tight with a maternal rage that surprises even me. "These children sleep in the only corner of safety they’ve managed to scrape together in this piss-stained excuse for a city, and here you come prancing in like some two-bit playhouse villain with your threats?” I watch his shoulders tighten, that lordly mask slipping as I push into his space. His foot slides back, just a whisper of movement on the cobblestones, but I catch it.
The stranger’s spine stiffens, his mask of indifference snapping back into place, but not before his dark eyes flick up and down my frame, drinking in every inch with fresh caution. Gone is the lazy swagger of a bully toying with helpless children - his weight shifts to the balls of his feet, muscles coiling like a cat preparing to pounce. A muscle jumps in his clenched jaw, and his fingers twitch toward the suspicious bulge beneath his tunic’s hem.
“You misunderstand the situation,” he says, his voice harder now, stripped of its earlier theatrical flair, the reality of his native street accent on full display. “Our backers,” he spits the words like they should make me tremble, “have connections that reach into every shadow of this city.” He takes a half-step closer, voice dropping to a growl that’s meant for my ears alone. “Your little display of motherly courage won’t mean shit when they decide to move. Take the deal while you still can, before someone gets hurt.” The warning hangs between us, raw and honest in a way his earlier threats weren’t.
A flicker of movement catches my eye, and my heart nearly stops as I spot Mairi’s small form materializing behind the stranger like a vengeful shadow. Her face is eerily calm, a mask of cold determination that belongs on no child. The crude shiv in her hand, fashioned from a long curved piece of broken glass and cloth, presses upward with practiced precision against the man’s back, positioned perfectly to slip between his ribs and into his heart.
The stranger’s words die in his throat as he feels the pressure of the point beneath his breastbone, his entire body going rigid with the sudden realization of his vulnerability. His hands freeze. Stopping their slow inching towards whatever he’s hidden below the tunic. I lock eyes with Mairi across his frozen form, shaking my head in tiny, frantic motions. My heart hammers against my ribs as I recognize that hollow, distant look in her eyes—the same emptiness that haunted her when asking me if it was bad she’d killed people. The glass shard in her small hand doesn’t waver; she holds it steady, ready to plunge it home, just as she’s done before. Just as she’ll do again if anyone threatens our family.
My muscles tense as Rhona’s familiar form slides up beside me, her quiet exhale whispering against my ear. Her calloused fingers wrap around my arm, their gentle pressure pulling me back with the same quiet strength she uses to herd her wayward flock of street children. The fire in my gut still rages as I lock eyes with her, but the set of her dirty, but still beautiful face —douses my anger like a bucket of cold water. I yield to her guidance, my boots scraping against the cobbles as I retreat. These aren’t my streets, aren’t my battles, aren’t my children—no matter how my heart screams otherwise. Every scar Rhona’s bears, every calculating glance she casts, speaks of lessons bought in blood and pain. Lessons that have kept these little ones breathing when so many others stopped.
The weariness in her eyes hardens into something dangerous, a look I’ve only seen on her young face once before. I’m very happy that this time I’m not on the receiving end of it. “Listen well,” she says, her voice carrying the weight of someone who’s survived far worse threats than this, “I don’t give a fuck about your backers or their resources. This is our home, these are my people, and if you or anyone else thinks they can waltz in here making threats…” She lets out a short, harsh laugh that holds no humor. “Well, let’s just say we’ve buried better men than you. Now get the fuck out.” The words aren’t delivered with theatrical menace or posturing—just the cold, matter-of-fact tone of someone stating an absolute truth.
A mirthless smile plays across Rhona’s features as she takes another measured step forward, her fingers idly tracing the worn leather of her belt. “You know,” she muses, her voice carrying that dangerous lilt that makes my skin prickle with recognition, “you should count yourself fortunate you came alone.” Her eyes flick meaningfully to Mairi’s steady hand, still pressing the makeshift blade against his back. “It means you get to be the messenger.” The words trigger an unexpected memory in my mind—a half-remembered scene from an old animated film where a fearsome warrior spares a single soldier to carry tales of destruction back to his emperor. The parallel sends an uncomfortable shiver down my spine, especially given how perfectly it fits this moment, how naturally Rhona wears that same aura of calculated mercy that serves as its own kind of threat.
The boy’s complexion has gone ashen, his earlier bravado evaporating like morning dew under a harsh sun. I can practically see the thoughts racing behind his wide eyes as reality crashes down around him—how his employers had likely painted this as a simple intimidation job, probably describing us as nothing more than a raggedy band of helpless children. Now here he stands, at the mercy of a girl who barely reaches his chest, yet holds herself with the bone-chilling confidence of someone intimate with violence. The tremor in his hands betrays his dawning comprehension that he’s stumbled into something far more dangerous than he’d bargained for.
I press my lips together, fighting the completely inappropriate urge to laugh at his expression. It’s terrible timing for humor, given the gravity of the situation, but there’s something almost comical about watching his face cycle through shock, disbelief, and the slow-dawning horror of his predicament. The way his mouth keeps opening and closing reminds me of a fish suddenly finding itself on dry land, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to maintain my composure. Even as my heart pounds with the very real tension of the moment, a hysterical little voice in my head can’t help but appreciate the irony of this would-be tough guy being thoroughly cowed by someone who probably weighs half what he does.
Rhona’s lips curve into a predatory smile as she tilts her head, studying him with the calculated interest of a cat watching a cornered mouse. “Although,” she drawls, her lilting accent taking on an almost musical quality that somehow makes her words more threatening, “I suppose you only need to be able to carry the message, aye?” Her eyes flick briefly to the side, and Mairi responds to the silent command with practiced efficiency, her grip on the makeshift blade never wavering as she begins steering their unwanted guest around the corner of the tannery, Calum smoothly following after.
The moment they’re out of sight of the younger children, Calum moves to block any potential escape route while Mairi’s blade finds its mark with surgical precision. The stranger’s shocked gasp cuts through the air as crimson blooms across his thigh, the wound deep enough to ensure he won’t be running anywhere anytime soon, but carefully placed to avoid any major arteries. His legs buckle beneath him as Mairi steps back, wiping her blade clean on a scrap of cloth that Calum hands her, with the casual air of someone who’s done this many times before. He gives her a small nod of approval, as if to say she’s performed her role perfectly.
I’ve seen glimpses of their harder edges before—in the way they move, how they handle weapons, their wariness of strangers—but this is different. This is the first time I’ve witnessed them shift so completely from the children I know into something else entirely. The transformation is jarring, like watching a familiar painting suddenly reveal hidden depths in different lighting. Of course they did something similar when I first arrived, but I never received the full brunt of suspicion due to arriving with Mairi. Yet here they stand, deliberately maiming a young man without so much as a moments hesitation. My stomach churns as I realize I’ve been naively viewing them through the lens of my own sheltered childhood, unconsciously softening their edges to fit my comfortable assumptions. But there’s nothing soft about the clinical efficiency with which they’re handling this situation, and I’m forced to wonder just how many times they’ve done this before. Did I just find this group after they’d already claimed dominance over this part of the city?
The boy lurches away, his uneven footsteps scraping against the cobblestones as blood continues to seep through his trousers. His breathing comes in ragged gasps, a mixture of pain and fear driving him forward despite his injury. I watch as he stumbles once, catching himself against a wall with trembling hands before pushing onward with renewed desperation.
Mairi’s voice cuts through the heavy silence, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather. “You know,” she muses, absently trying to wipe a speck of blood from her sleeve, “we could skip the whole message bit entirely. When he doesn’t show up again…” She lets the sentence drift off with a small shrug, but the implication is crystal clear. The effect is immediate—our unwanted guest’s pace suddenly quickens, his injured leg dragging behind him as he practically throws himself around the corner, leaving nothing but a trail of blood and the echo of his panicked movements in his wake.
Mairi breaks into a fit of uncontrollable giggles, her small frame shaking with genuine mirth as she watches the blood trail disappear around the corner. Her laughter, high and clear like wind chimes in a summer breeze, seems jarringly out of place after the violence we just witnessed. Yet there’s something almost infectious about her joy, a child’s pure delight in successfully playing a role.
Her brown eyes sparkle with satisfaction as she turns to me, still fighting back residual giggles. “Did you see how fast he ran?” she manages between breaths, clearly pleased with herself. There’s pride in her voice as she straightens up, trying and failing to maintain a serious expression. Unlike Rhona’s towering presence and intimidating glares, Mairi’s particular brand of menace comes from the unsettling contrast between her innocent appearance and her casual brutality—and she knows it. The way she transitions so effortlessly between playful child and dangerous predator makes her threats all the more effective, a fact she clearly relishes.
I glance at Calum, who seems entirely unfazed by Mairi’s display of childlike glee in the aftermath of violence. His expression remains neutral, almost bored, as if this is just another Tuesday afternoon for him. Perhaps it is.
I try to summon a smile, to share in Mairi’s earlier enthusiasm, but something heavy settles in my chest instead. The contrast between her innocent appearance and casual cruelty leaves me feeling hollow, despite understanding its necessity in our world. I want to be happy for her success, to celebrate her masterful manipulation of our unwanted guest, but the echo of his desperate scrambling and the sight of his blood on the cobblestones keeps intruding on any attempt at celebration.
Calum’s sharp eyes catch my troubled expression, and he gently touches Mairi’s shoulder. “Go on,” he says softly. “You can check.” There’s a flicker of surprise in her eyes when she looks at Calum. And he gives her a small nod, as if to confirm his earlier statement. She looks between us for a moment, her earlier mirth fading as she picks up on the shift in mood, before nodding and skipping away, her bare feet barely making a sound on the cobblestones.
Once she’s gone, Calum turns to me with a gravity that seems too old for his young face. “If this is anything like the other times,” he murmurs, eyes distant as if watching ghosts. “People, children, are going to die. Potentially quite a few, before they learn it’s not worth the cost." Each word drops like a stone into a deep well, and I catch glimpses of old wounds in his eyes—the kind that never quite heal right. I find myself counting the invisible tallies in his expression, wondering how many bodies he’s stepped over to gain this particular wisdom.
The memory of the bandit crashes over me unbidden—the wet gurgle of his final breath, the shocking amount of blood that had clung to me on the forest floor. The mages on the wagons float through my mind next, their unseeing eyes staring at nothing, crossbow bolts protruding from their gut and head like macabre decorations. The memories of death are still fresh, still raw, but at least those had been adults—people who had chosen their paths, who had known the risks they were taking. How many memories like that does Calum have? How many friends, enemies, has he seen dying why screaming for their mothers?
These are children goddammit. Despite what I just witnessed with Mairi, despite knowing what they’re capable of, I can’t shake the wrongness of it. My throat tightens as I look at Calum, really look at him. He’s just a boy, they’re all just children, and yet here they stand on the precipice of what could become a bloodbath. I want to grab them all and run, to hide them away in some quiet village where their biggest worry should be stealing apples or ducking lessons.
My mind struggles to process the weight of everything that’s happening. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across his face, making him look older, more weathered than any child should. When he quietly says they could use my help, I feel my entire body go rigid, my breath catching in my throat.
The rational part of my mind understands the situation—these children need protection. But Calum’s earlier words echo in my head like a funeral bell: “people are going to die.” I can’t shake the horrible thought that he’s asking me to participate in something unthinkable. My hands feel cold, and I stuff them into my pockets to hide their trembling.
“Are you…” I start, then falter, the words sticking in my throat like thorns. I swallow hard and try again, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “Calum, are you asking me to help you kill those children?” The question hangs in the air between us, heavy and awful, and I hate myself for even having to ask it.
He looks at me with an expression that’s caught between exasperation and grim understanding. “Yes, children,” he says, his voice carrying a hint of bite. “The same children who just made it clear they’d happily wipe us out if we don’t do what they want.” There’s something in his tone that makes me wonder how many times he’s had to make these impossible choices.
Calum leans forward, and there’s a raw edge to his voice I haven’t heard before. His fingers grip the edge of his chair until his knuckles turn white, and in the fading light, I can see the slight tremor in his hands. “They won’t just go away because you don’t want blood on your hands,” he says, each word falling like lead between us. “I’ve seen it before. They’ll keep coming, keep pushing, until they either break you or…” He lets the sentence hang unfinished, but its meaning is clear enough.
His eyes take on a distant look, as if he’s seeing something far beyond the walls of this room. “Some of them, they’re desperate enough that they can’t see any other way forward. Others?” He gives a bitter laugh that sounds wrong coming from someone so young. “Others are so convinced of their own righteousness that they think the world owes them whatever they want to take. Either way, they won’t stop just because we wish they would. They won’t stop until someone makes them.”
I sink back against the wooden wall behind my back, my fingers absently tracing the cracks and crevices that speak of years of wear. The gravity of Calum’s words weighs on me like a physical presence.
My eyes drift to each face around me, Rhona and Iain having joined us silently. Calum, still tense and coiled like a spring; Rhona, her usual confidence tempered by something that might be uncertainty; and Iain, who is still carrying his ledger but whose quill has remained motionless in midair for the past several minutes. The conspicuous absence of Mairi’s cheerful chatter makes the atmosphere feel even heavier, though perhaps that’s for the best given the nature of our discussion.
“I understand what you’re saying,” I finally manage, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. “But understanding doesn’t make it any easier to…” I trail off, searching for words that don’t want to come. How do you discuss the logistics of something that shouldn’t even be contemplated? The rational part of my mind - the part that used to solve complex programming problems—tries to approach this like any other puzzle, but my conscience rebels at the very attempt.
Rhona shifts “We’re not asking you to make such decision alone,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “But we need to know if you’re with us. Because if you’re not, we can’t have you anywhere we rely on you to…” She exchanges a look with Calum that speaks volumes about conversations I haven’t been privy to, decisions already half-made.
I close my eyes for a moment, remembering the comfortable life I’d left behind—my family, my job, my quiet evenings with books about adventures far less complicated than the one I’m living now. When I open them again, I find myself staring at my hands, wondering if they’ll ever feel clean again after what we’re considering.
“Nothing will happen to any of you,” I say quietly but with a conviction that surprises even me. The words feel like they’re being pulled from somewhere deep inside, somewhere I didn’t even know existed until this moment. It’s strange how protective I’ve become of these people who were strangers not so long ago—these thieves and outcasts who’ve somehow become more family to me than I ever expected.
Rhona’s smile is slight but knowing, like she’s seeing straight through to my core. “Then you’ve already made your decision, haven’t you?” she says softly, and I realize she’s right. Whatever moral gymnastics I’ve been putting myself through, whatever rationalizations I’ve been trying to construct, they all come down to this simple truth—I won’t let harm come to these kids.
I lean back my head, letting it rest against the cool wood behind me, the thick clouds of the afternoon sky passing overhead in the thin strip of sky that’s visible between the buildings. I feel like it should start raining now. The enormity of what I’ve just agreed to settles over me like a heavy fog, and I find myself wondering what my parents would think if they could see me now. Their daughter, the programmer who once couldn’t even bring herself to squash a spider, calmly discussing the possibility of violence against children. Yet another voice whispers that this isn’t so different from my old worldview—I’ve always believed humanity was beyond saving, that people were fundamentally selfish and cruel. Perhaps all that’s changed is that I’m finally in a position to do something about it, to protect the few people I’ve come to care about from those who would harm them.
The irony of it all isn’t lost on me. In all those fantasy novels I used to read, the protagonist’s moral choices were always so clear-cut—good versus evil, right versus wrong. But here I sit, in my very own isekai adventure, and the lines between right and wrong have become so blurred they might as well not exist. There’s no dark lord to defeat, no magical prophecy to fulfill—just children fighting children in the grimy alleys of a city that’s forgotten they exist. And somehow, I’ve become part of it all, not just as an observer but as someone who’s willing to cross lines I never thought I’d even approach. From one moment to another, the horror and revulsion give way. What remains is only a sort of grim acceptance that settles in the pit of my stomach, a cold certainty that I’ll do whatever needs to be done to protect what’s mine.