Fulin had never imagined “Lance” would be this famous in Mubay City, his name drifting through alleys like willow fluff riding a night wind.

It wasn’t her fault; even Lance Morrison himself hadn’t grasped it. The man was looser than she’d pictured, brushing off others’ barbs like arrows off armor, letting gutter rumors roll past like muddy rain.

She shook her head in the dark, a stone dropping in a well. She’d just made a big mistake.

Relief still cooled her nape; not fatal. Fulin, wearing Lance like a mask, rallied like a blade sliding back into its sheath.

“Brooke, staying alive comes first,” she said, voice steady as a lantern flame. “Besides, Layne promised to help me find a living in Golden Bay City. Even if those people are as bad as you say, they won’t chase me there to cut me down, right?”

The old butler Brooke blinked, then sighed, breath like a tired bellows. “Young master… you’re right. But will they really let you go so easily? If Alice described exactly what you just—”

Annoyance pricked first, hot as a nettle; she hadn’t done a thing, and the old man was already weaving the rest. Fulin’s thoughts clicked like pebbles in a gourd.

Lance snapped, his temper a whip-crack. “Enough! We need to move. If you don’t want to sleep outside, shut it.”

“My apologies, young master.” Brooke swallowed his words like cold gruel.

They fell into silence and kept to the road toward the nearest village, boots whispering dust like dry leaves.

After about ten minutes, the far end of the lane opened to a village corner. A mild red glow licked the dusk like embers under ash.

That would be the watchmen’s torches at the gate. Where torches burned, beasts kept their distance. Near a waystation, most beasts had long been hunted by trappers or driven off by monsters, yet the habit stayed, a tradition like a milepost for travelers, a star you could touch.

“Almost there,” Lance said, voice a small anchor cast ahead.

“Oh, Light Deity above.” The old butler let out a breath, relief rippling his shoulders like slack rope.

If there were no village, they’d have to sleep in the open, which meant the night still belonged to beasts. For common folk, that was asking to be bones by dawn. Lance might manage alone, but with the butler in tow, he’d have to fend off wolves while shielding another body. Thank the heavens it hadn’t come to that.

“You got any money?” Lance asked as the village swelled closer like a safe harbor.

“Ah, none. Those hyenas licked us clean, above and below,” Brooke muttered, shame a bruise under his words. “They even found the money I hid in my underwear. Took it, then gave me a good solid punch.”

Fulin, wearing Lance, had already noticed the bruise on his face, a purple plum under the moon.

If the old butler was broke, Fulin still had three gold coins. She hated to spend them. An inn cot didn’t cost that much; a few to twenty coppers at most. If trouble pushed the price higher, it still wouldn’t touch gold.

Worse, a gold coin was a small fortune to hired hands. If they couldn’t make change—or their eyes turned greedy—that would be another storm to sail.

No choice now. She had to play Lance generous.

“Here’s a gold coin. You talk to the villagers. Hold on to it.”

She flicked the coin to him. Its mithril-gold sheen caught the moon like a fish scale, and Brooke snatched it midair with both hands.

He knew a coin spent on shelter might never come back. Pain pinched his voice like cold iron. “I’m terribly sorry! It’s my incompetence that made you suffer so much today, young master.”

“Good you know it. Pick up the pace,” Lance said, arrogance like a raised chin.

“Yes.”

They quickened their steps. Fifty paces from the gate torches, where they should’ve kept going, Lance stopped short, heels planted like stakes.

“Young master?” Brooke startled and almost bumped Lance’s back.

“Something’s off.” Lance’s warning hand cut the air like a knife, and Brooke froze.

“What’s off?” Brooke peered around. The night was as empty as a held breath.

“The village is lit.”

“Huh?”

Fulin, wearing Lance, had no time to explain. The gate wasn’t the only flame; within the village, several soft lights flickered, like fireflies that wouldn’t die. For peasants, torches were not cheap. In villages without books or nightlife, you didn’t burn this much pitch unless something big had landed.

The village wasn’t far from the waystation camp. A thought flashed like lightning: were there two mercenary bands? One hit the waystation; another came here to pillage?

No. She cut the thought like a taut thread. The air lacked the metallic tang of blood.

An arrow whispered in from the dark.

Lance moved before the thought formed. He stepped back on instinct, a leaf pulled by wind.

A feathered wooden shaft thunked into the spot where he’d been standing. It had real punch. When it struck the road, it buried its head three inches deep. If he hadn’t stepped back, that would’ve nailed his foot to the world.

Brooke froze, then found his voice with a crack. “Young master, danger! Run!”

Lance didn’t rush. He lifted a palm, steady as a held cup, keeping Brooke still.

Right on cue, four more arrows hissed in. Iron points this time. They slammed into the ground behind them and bit four inches into the cracked hardpan.

If they’d bolted, panic at their heels, those iron teeth would be in their backs.

No doubt about it. Someone was sniping them.

Two volleys missed. The hunters showed themselves.

From the village corner, soldiers stepped out like shadows growing flesh. From the brush at their backs, more men rose like wolves from grass. The dim light hid their faces, but their armor and weapons gleamed with cold lines, enough to mark them as professionals.

The circle around them wore the Lionheart Legion’s steel. From their ranks strode a knight sealed in full plate, a tin can on legs.

His steps punched small pits in the dirt, yet his motion wasn’t clumsy. He came on like a small mountain given the will to walk.

“Who are you?”

Such presence hit like a drum. Brooke didn’t even dare breathe loud.

Lance was surprised, then smiled, quick as a flicked coin. He cried out the line he’d prepared, voice like a bell in fog. “Bad news! A band of raiders hit the waystation camp. They took merchants hostage, looted the goods, and kidnapped a bunch of young ladies! They’re sons of whores, the devil’s excrement!”

The full-plated knight eased, a helm’s worth of tension loosening. “Hold. Say that again? First, put your weapons on the ground. Turn around and raise your hands.”

Lance obeyed. He set the short sword he’d taken from bandits on the dirt, then turned and lifted his hands like empty branches.

The knight and a few soldiers came near with torches. They searched the two thoroughly—no hidden steel, no sneaky blades—then marched them into the village.

Torches crowded the small place. The square around the well burned bright as noon. A few villagers watched from afar, eyes like wary deer. Two dozen Lionheart soldiers slouched against mud walls that looked ready to crumble at a touch.

There, the full-plated knight asked them to name themselves.

The butler’s nerves fluttered like a caught moth. “I—I’m from Springwater Town, west of Mubay City. Name’s Brooke. A professional butler. I’ve served Baron Morrison for many years.”

At “Baron Morrison,” the soldiers straightened like spears. The name called up the Golden Eagle Legion’s commander—bold and relentless, a man even their Lionheart commander couldn’t match. A few had even heard the tale of a loyal butler who bled beside Commander Malt in the early years. Respect kindled in their eyes for the flustered old man.

The knight nodded. His gaze shifted to Lance.

Fulin, as Lance, snapped her spine straight and lifted her chin, arrogance draped like a cloak. “My name is Lance Morrison. As you know, the Golden Eagle Legion’s commander is my father. You’d better protect me, or you’ll be in trouble.”

The soldiers’ brows knotted. Their eyes cut to his red hair. Even softened by the warm glow, the color still marked him like a banner.

Recognition landed. The room’s respect died like a snuffed candle. Contempt slid in—sour looks, curled lips—and one man spat with a harsh “ptoo,” leaving a dark stain on the dirt.

That crossed a line.

The knight shot him a glare sharp as a blade. The man’s eyes opened wide; he scraped the spittle away with his boot and snapped to attention.

The knight said nothing for a few heartbeats. Then he turned to Lance. He lifted his hands, pulled off his face-covering helm, left arm cradling it to his chest. His right hand clenched and thumped his breastplate with a hollow boom.

“I am Sergeant Major Lawrence Von of the Lionheart Legion. By order of the Iron Duke, I lead men to the waystation camp to find his youngest daughter, Alice. I have received no other orders.”

His voice rolled out like a roar from deep forest. A gust of righteousness swept the square, and lassitude fled the soldiers like mist before sun. Villagers, untraveled as field stones, froze; two of them went stiff as fence posts.

Fulin shuddered, a cold arrow under her ribs. Not the voice—the face.

Under that helm was the officer who had watched her, the very day she crossed over, burn a priest to blackened cinders.