Mercy and Wards

Rishi heard it before he saw it.

A boy’s voice—panicked, defiant, cracking with fear.

A man’s voice—hard, angry, trained to command.

And the third sound: the hiss of a blade being drawn from its scabbard.

He turned into Ragpicker’s Alley and took in the scene at a glance.

The buildings leaned close, shoulder to shoulder, blotting out most of the sky. Lantern light smeared across wet stone and through smoke. The alley narrowed where a broken cart had been shoved half aside, making a choke point.

Two Flaming Fist enforcers in rust-red cloaks blocked the narrow passage.

Between them, a boy no older than fourteen, dressed in patched clothes, was pinned against a wall. He kept his hands raised and empty, but his chin remained stubbornly lifted. He was still talking, defiance in his words despite the fear in his voice. A torn purse lay on the ground, coins scattered in the dirt.

One of them raised his sword.

Rishi didn’t hesitate.

He stepped between blade and boy and caught the descending strike on his wrapped palm.

The impact shuddered through bone, climbed his forearm, and rang his teeth. His shoulder nearly gave. He held anyway, adjusting his posture with precision to spread the impact through his body.

The Fist soldier staggered half a step back, eyes wide with surprise—more offended than afraid.

“What in the Nine Hells—”

Rishi lowered his hand slowly, controlling his breath to hold back the growl rising in his throat.

“If a blade must fall,” he said, “let it fall on me.”

The boy stared at him as if he’d spoken a foreign language. Gratitude and terror warred in his expression, neither winning.

The second soldier moved in, anger already flushing his cheeks. His gaze settled on Rishi, who didn’t step back.

“You interfering bastard,” the man snapped. “This whelp runs with thieves. Alley-trash.”

He said it like a verdict. Like it made the rest easy.

Rishi shook his head. “Not scum,” he said. “Lost.”

The soldiers exchanged a quick, complicit look.

Then the first one grinned.

It wasn’t a villain’s grin. It was worse. It was the grin of a man who had found a way to enjoy what he was already going to do.

“You want to take his punishment?” he said. “Fine.”

Rishi didn’t raise his fists. He only turned his head enough to catch the boy’s eyes.

“Run!” he shouted.

The boy bolted past the broken cart. He looked back once. Fear was still in his eyes, but it was laced now with painful gratitude. Then he vanished into the maze of balconies and shuttered windows.

Rishi faced the two soldiers again. The alley gave him nowhere to breathe: wall at his right shoulder, cart to his left, slick stone underfoot. No room to maneuver.

Their armor made them careless—leather, metal, weight. His padding was rags and needlework, good enough for rain and scrapes, not for two trained men.

He knew it.

He took one slow breath in. Not to become calm. Just to be present for what he had chosen.

The first hit taught the rules.

The first man came in hard, crashing into Rishi’s guard and driving Rishi’s own hands back into his face. Pain flashed through his jaw. His teeth clicked together. He tasted copper.

Before he could raise his guard again, the second man kicked Rishi hard in the outer thigh, and his leg went dead.

They didn’t fight him.

They dismantled him.

One stayed in front, keeping him busy, pushing him back into the wall. The other shifted to his side, angling into his blind spot.

When Rishi protected his head, they went to his body. When he protected his body, they went back to his head.

Rishi moved like someone trained to survive being hit. Chin tucked. Shoulders high. Elbows tight. Hands open.

He turned to soften the blows and took what he could. His half steps were not meant to evade; they made the angles imperfect.

When the blows came too fast, he grabbed one of the men just long enough to break his momentum. The man snarled, surprised by the contact. Rishi let go immediately.

He would not let this become a fight.

That was the point.

That was the cost.

He felt fear, sharp and animal, when a blow landed too close to his eye.

He felt anger, hot under his skin, when he heard the men laugh between breaths.

He knew exactly how to end this—where to strike, how to drop them, how to walk away and leave them moaning in pain on the stones.

And he stayed anyway. Because fighting back would cost the boy his life.

His ribs burned. Each breath scraped against something cracked.

His mouth filled with blood. He swallowed it.

A knee buckled. He fell to the cobbles.

He pushed himself back to his feet, shaking, as if that could stop the world from crushing someone smaller.

Another kick struck him in the hip and drove him sideways. His shoulder hit the wall hard enough that his arm went numb. He blinked, dazzled.

Breathe.

Don’t panic.

Stay up long enough for the boy to get away.

The beating stopped when one of the men lowered his fists—not from mercy, but exhaustion.

“That’s enough,” he muttered, rubbing his knuckles.

The other spat on the ground and wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist.

“Let’s throw him in Wyrm’s Rock,” he said. “Let him meditate on minding his own gods-damned business.”

The men grabbed Rishi by the arms. Their metal gauntlets bit into bruised flesh as they hauled him up like a sack.

Rishi didn’t plead or explain. He didn’t give them that satisfaction.

He focused on his breath. The one thing still his.

The alley blurred. Lanterns smeared into streaks. He caught a glimpse of the scattered coins on the ground, dull and dirty now, and thought how small they looked measured against what he’d just paid.

Then the alley was behind him, the fog swallowing it as they dragged him toward the looming shape of the prison tower.

A hawk passed above him, its sharp cry cutting through the alley.

Borrowing the hawk’s senses, Maeril heard the soldiers’ laughter rise from the alley.

Then came the sound of boots and dragging feet over the cobbles.

At her stall on Wyrm’s Crossing, Maeril kept busy behind a plank counter. The cookfire hissed, a pot steamed, and bowls rested on the counter. A few early customers waited in line, trying not to look hungry.

Her hands had been moving by habit—ladle, bowl, coin, smile—threading a morning’s work through the bridge’s constant noise. The wind carried salt from the river and smoke from the bridge. The sharp smell of onions drifted from the stalls.

People surged past, shouting prices, laughing too loudly, coughing into sleeves. A child hovered near the edge of her canopy, pretending not to look hungry.

Moments earlier, the hawk’s gaze had settled on Ragpicker’s Alley.

Rust-red cloaks. The boy—Rook—cornered against the wall. A sword lifted.

Maeril’s stomach clenched.

She had told Rook to stay away from the Guild. Told him there were easier ways to die than becoming a cutpurse.

Of course he had listened beautifully.

A stranger stepped in. A wrapped hand caught the blade. And then—fists, boots, two men taking turns breaking another man because they could.

Anger rose in her so fast she tasted it, hot and bitter.

Deep down, she wasn’t even surprised. Just that old, familiar pattern: men in uniform giving themselves the right to be cruel.

Then something quieter moved beneath the anger and steadied it.

A man who chose to be where the blows fell.

Not because he loved suffering. Not because he was invincible. She could see it in the effort it took him to stay on his feet—he wanted none of this. He was scared. He was hurt.

And he stayed anyway.

By the time the soldiers dragged him toward Wyrm’s Rock, Maeril’s breath had gone shallow without her noticing. Even as they dragged him, he still tried to recover his footing—a reflex the beating had not erased.

Her ladle hung above the pot. Broth dripped back through the steam.

Someone cleared their throat in front of her, impatient.

Maeril didn’t look away. She sent a thought to the hawk—sharp, precise. Follow.

The bird adjusted its flight, and Maeril saw the prison tower again.

She went back to work, ladle in hand. She could not abandon everyone who was hungry for one man.

But she could watch.

She dipped the ladle into the pot and filled the bowl held out to her. She handed it back with a smile by way of apology.

Then she quietly slid another toward a child in threadbare clothes without asking for a coin.

She looked through the hawk’s eyes again. The soldiers were still dragging the monk toward the tower, and she felt her resolve take hold.

“All right, then,” she murmured, watching him through the hawk’s eyes.

“Let’s see where you land.”

And she sent the hawk to watch Wyrm’s Rock from above.