In the city(4)

An hour passed, and the recruitment trials came to a close—swift and thorough. For the most part, the process went without incident. Only one recruit had proven troublesome: furious at having failed, he'd hurled his bow to the ground and shattered it beneath his boot in a fit of rage. His tantrum was short-lived.

Of course, after that a few soldiers stepped in, dragged him out by the collar, and left him bloodied and groaning in the dust of the street.

The rest of the candidates accepted their fate with quiet resignation—or cautious pride, depending on where they stood.

With the selection completed, Alpheo entrusted Laedio with the task of escorting the new recruits back to camp. Their real training would begin there. The trial had only tested stamina, but now came the harder part—teaching these green men to properly nock arrows, draw strings, and send shafts flying where they were meant to.

That left Alpheo and his small band with idle hands and an entire afternoon to kill. The sun was still high, the day too young for rest. And so, bored and restless, they wandered into the city like ants in someone's garden looking for food.

The streets bustled with the rhythm of daily life. Crowds flowed like currents in a great river, each person caught in their own purpose—merchants shouting from stalls, children weaving through legs, porters shouldering heavy loads. Tall buildings rose on either side like cliffs hemming the stream of people, and Alpheo made a habit of glancing upward now and then, wary of the occasional household chamber pot dumped from above.

Fortunately, none came.

As they strolled, music and laughter reached their ears. Street performers—mummers and tricksters—held court at various corners, drawing circles of onlookers with their colorful garb and exaggerated antics. Some danced, others juggled knives or performed sleight-of-hand illusions, drawing gasps and cheers in equal measure.

Alpheo lingered more than once, folding his arms as he watched with a slight smile tugging at his lips. When something impressed him—a particularly clever trick or a well-timed jest—he flicked a coin into the performer's hat with casual precision before continuing on his way.

It was a simple joy—wandering through the city without blood on his boots, basking in the chaotic symphony of street life. For a man like Alpheo, so often buried beneath duty and hardship, even these crude, fleeting glimpses of normality were precious. A momentary breath. A scrap of peace.

Naturally, it didn't last.

A sharp cry rang out to his right—high-pitched, angry, familiar.

"Grab that little shit, Jarza!" Clio's voice boomed, his usual composure upended.

Before he even had time to ask why, Jarza reacted. Like a hound on instinct, the hulking man lunged and snatched something small and squirming beside his belt. He hoisted it high—one thick hand gripping the collar of what turned out to be a wiry blonde boy no older than ten, who thrashed and kicked in the air like a rabbit caught in a snare.

Clutched tightly to the child's chest was a little bundle of leather. Familiar. Clio's coin pouch.

Alpheo didn't need the curses pouring from Clio's mouth to understand what had happened.

"You really got pickpocketed by a child?" Egil bellowed, doubling over in laughter.

Clio flushed a shade of red "Shut up! The bastard's so small I didn't even feel his hands!"

"A likely excuse," Egil said, still grinning. "Tell me, how often do your pockets go missing after a night at the brothel?"

Clio muttered something beneath his breath as he yanked the pouch back and opened it to inspect the damage.

''Wanna do something to the child?'' Jarza asked as he raised his arm higher.

Satisfied nothing was missing, Clio scowled and waved it off. "Whatever. Got my money back. No taste in beating a child."

Jarza raised an eyebrow and jostled the boy a little. "You're lucky, runt. A few years older and you'd be kissing cobblestones with your teeth." He made to drop the boy—

—but was stopped by a single, outstretched hand.

Alpheo's.

His expression was calm, but there was a glint of curiosity behind his eyes as he stepped forward. He looked the child over with quiet amusement. The boy froze, stiff as a twig.

"You've been awfully quiet," Alpheo said, tilting his head. "I expected at least a little shouting. A cry for mercy, a sob or two. Not even a lie?"

The boy's face twitched. A shiver passed across his lips.

"Tell me your name, child," Alpheo said softly.

The boy said nothing.

Alpheo's tone changed, pleasantness disappearing in a blink.

"Very well. You have three seconds to spit out the coin in your mouth before I pry it loose with a dagger—and perhaps take the tongue along with it."

He hadn't even finished the sentence before the boy spat a glistening silver piece into his palm and quickly held it out.

"Apologies, sir," he mumbled, eyes downcast ''was hungry''.

Clio recoiled in disgust. He plucked the coin from the filthy hand, wiped it on the boy's ragged shirt, and grimaced.

Alpheo crouched, bringing his face to the boy's level.

"Now tell me," he said with a touch of genuine curiosity. "Why waste time putting the coin in the mouth?"

The boy hesitated—then, sensing the danger had passed for now, he straightened just slightly.

"Most folks go easy when they catch me," he said. "Small kid, empty hands... they get mad, maybe throw a slap or two, but they take their coin and leave it at that. They don't want to deal with guards—they'd probably want their own cut for stepping in."

He looked around warily, then continued.

"So I usually tuck one coin in the mouth. Just in case. Worst case, I go home with a bruise... and a meal."

There was a cleverness in his eyes now—not unlike a rat's, wary and intelligent, shaped by streets and hunger.

Alpheo gave a soft, almost admiring laugh.

"Clever little bastard," he muttered.

He rose back to his full height, brushing his hands clean. Then, glancing at Jarza:

"Let him down."

"You sure?" Jarza asked, clearly disappointed.

Alpheo turned back to the boy without repeating himself, his eyes glinting with quiet amusement. He weighed the small pouch of coins in his hand, letting it dangle loosely between his fingers.

"Tell me…" he said, voice almost playful, "you want to try and hit something big?"

The boy raised a thin eyebrow, unsure whether this was mockery or a genuine offer. He said nothing, only squinted at Alpheo as if trying to see through the words.

Alpheo continued, stepping a little closer.

"We'll be in this city until dawn," he said, holding up the coin pouch now, letting it sway gently, "and if you can manage to take this from me without anyone stopping you.. it's yours. All of it."

His lips parted slightly. "You serious?"

"I swear it," Alpheo replied without pause, raising his right hand in mock solemnity. "By every god worth spitting on."

The child narrowed his eyes. "Why would you do that?"

Alpheo grinned. "Because I think my men are getting soft. Too comfortable. A bit lazy. I want them on edge. Nothing keeps a blade sharper than the thought of losing something to a street rat."

He turned his gaze skyward, squinting at the sun beginning its descent.

"Not much daylight left," he murmured. Then, looking back at the boy, "Go on. Run."

Without another word, the boy nodded once and bolted down the alley, vanishing into the sea of legs, wagons, and voices. The group watched him disappear, half amused, half confused.

Alpheo could feel their stares pressing into his back like sunlight on steel.

Without turning, he lifted his voice, dry and casual.

"If he loses… I'll buy you all enough wine and whores to kill a horse as a sign of my displeasure for doubting you."

That did it. A few laughs broke the tension, and the rest gave approving nods. Whatever misgivings they had dissolved as they kept on walking.

The farther they walked, the more congested the streets became. People jostled shoulder to shoulder, the buzz of the crowd rising like the hum of bees in a hive. Clio, clearly on edge, kept one hand tight on the hilt of his sword and the other clamped protectively over his coin pouch. He wore a scowl that deepened with every brush of a stranger's shoulder.

Alpheo couldn't help but find the sight amusing—Clio glaring like a guard dog in the market. He bit back a chuckle, knowing better than to laugh at a friend's expense, especially one so openly flustered.

Still, there was no sign of the nimble-fingered boy who had tried to rob them earlier. Perhaps he'd given up. Or perhaps he was still lurking somewhere in the crowd, watching.

No one dared to obstruct their path. The throng parted instinctively for Alpheo's group, the glint of steel at their sides enough to make the wiser citizens step aside. Experience had taught the cityfolk that armed men in uniform were best not antagonized. Too many had learned the hard way—bruises, broken teeth, or worse—what it meant to give a soldier an excuse to draw his sword.

Give a child a stick and tell him he's in charge, and soon he'll act like he owns the street. Power has a strange effect on people. A sword, even more so. Place one in a man's hand, and he'll start looking for reasons to use it.

Alpheo's eyes swept the street, his brow lifting at the sheer number of performers scattered throughout the plaza. Every few paces brought a new act: jugglers tossing knives in glittering arcs, contortionists folding themselves into impossible shapes, dancers leaping to the beat of hand-drums. Circles of spectators crowded around each show, their laughter and applause rising above the general noise of the city.

But for every awe-struck onlooker, there were others with less honest intentions. Alpheo's gaze lingered on a few suspicious figures drifting along the edges of the crowd—nimble hands, restless eyes, and feet that moved just a little too purposefully for mere wandering. Pickpockets, no doubt. Some of them might've even been in league with the performers, using the applause and spectacle as cover for quick hands and lighter purses.

But one circle caught Alpheo's attention above all others. It was the largest in the entire city, drawing in curious onlookers from all directions. "Seems like something exciting is happening over there," Egil remarked, placing a hand on Alpheo's shoulder.

"Shall we check it out?" Alpheo asked with a grin.

"Well, we don't have anything else to do," Egil replied with a shrug.

They made their way through the dense sea of people, easily parting the way with Alpheo's sheathed sword catching the light. The smell of sweat and grime surrounded them as they pushed forward, but the commoners quickly moved aside for the two men. Finally, they reached the front row of spectators and saw what everyone was clamoring to see.

The sight that greeted Alpheo was a strange one—one that didn't quite belong amidst the usual noise and colour of the city streets. The old man before him was no juggler, no mummer, no wandering minstrel. He held no lute, no juggling pins, no painted mask.

And yet he performed all the same, standing in the middle of a thinning crowd.

He was ancient—so much so that, to the youngest children, he might as well have been older than the city itself.

He hunched forward as if some invisible burden had fused with his spine long ago, pulling him earthward with each passing day.

Bald not just atop his head but across his entire body, he seemed almost reptilian in his hairlessness. Wrinkles clung to every inch of skin like dried riverbeds etched into parchment. His pallid skin bore the sickly yellow hue of something long rotted in the sun. He looked, Alpheo thought, like an egg that had been left boiling too long beneath a cruel sky.

And yet—those eyes.

Amidst the grotesque, those two orbs gleamed with a startling clarity. Sharp. Bright. Alive.

They twinkled with amusement, as though the world itself were a long, drawn-out joke only he could understand. A smile crept up his face—not kind, not grandfatherly, but mischievous and faintly deranged, as if innocence had rotted away long ago, leaving only glee at the madness of it all.

Despite his revolting form, the old man danced. Not well. Not beautifully. But with a kind of manic grace that left spectators unsure whether to laugh or run. It was clear now what he was: a fortuneteller, or at least someone claiming to be. He gestured wildly, fingers like crooked twigs, his voice rising above the bustle:

"Step forward, dear worms, come near and see!The mysteries of past and future, revealed for a fee!"

He twirled as he spoke, robes—if one could call the tattered rags that—spinning with him. Then he stopped, extending a trembling, gnarled hand. Despite the visible age, the movement was smooth, almost disturbingly precise. The fingers shook with time, but they knew exactly where to land.

"A silver coin, a token fair,For a glimpse beyond human care!"

He flashed a mouthful of broken teeth and laughed—a high, ringing cackle like cracked bells in an empty chapel.

Alpheo stared, a quiet revulsion blooming in his gut. The old man's very existence felt wrong. Not just grotesque, but off, as if he didn't quite belong in this world. His presence, more than strange, felt insulting. Like a parody of life. A distortion. An affront to reason and order.

He turned to glance at his companions and saw the same unease mirrored in their eyes. Even the usually unflappable Clio had stiffened. Around them, the faces of the crowd bore tension—drawn lips, shallow breathing, some swallowing hard .

And still the old man danced, limbs flailing with erratic joy, his rasping laughter growing louder. He pranced like a drunken marionette, his limbs grotesquely light, his feet barely touching the cobbles. Each breath was ragged, each motion a fever dream of ecstasy and decay.

And then—he stopped.

His eyes, those two gleaming, unblinking stars in the hollow of his face, found Alpheo.

And locked.

A slow grin unfurled.

It wasn't welcoming. It wasn't warm.

A jolt ran down Alpheo's spine, and his heart gave a sudden, anxious thump. The man hadn't said a word—but Alpheo felt seen, measured, as if weighed on some scale far older than steel or coin.

The old man tilted his head, still grinning.

And danced on.