CHAPTER 57: WHAT BEGINS WITH A STONE
The atmosphere in the village marketplace had always been lively, brimming with animated chatter, the clang of metal tools, the scent of spices, and the occasional bray of a stubborn animal being dragged by its reins. Today, however, the energy around one particular stall had shifted drastically. A tension, thick as the summer humidity, now hung in the air.
At this moment, both sons of the King Alaric stood right in front of John, their eyes blazing with anger.
"How dare you look at my sister with bad intentions? Now you'll have to pay for it—with your life!" one of them shouted.
The words sliced through the air like a blade, their sharpness undeniable, impossible to ignore. Before John could even react, before the thoughts swirling in his mind could take coherent shape, the two boys, fueled by righteous fury, started rushing toward him.
Chaos threatened to erupt.
The old man, their grandfather and the one who had brought John into this part of the village, saw the impending confrontation and didn't hesitate. Instinct took over. With a desperate motion, he lunged forward, grabbing John by the arm and dragging him backward, away from the charging youths.
"Look, young master," the old man pleaded, his voice trembling—a desperate plea wrapped in urgency. "Actually, this boy is new here and doesn't know the customs of this place. Please forgive him, he truly didn't know anything."
He continued to shield John, putting himself bodily between the boy and his furious grandsons. Wrinkles deepened on his face as his stance widened protectively. His breath came fast, but he held firm, unwavering despite the danger.
"If he's new here, then we're just trying to teach him the ways, aren't we?" one of the boys retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His words didn't match the rage etched into his face, nor the aggressive way he approached.
Without another moment's hesitation, and with a rough shove, he pushed the old man aside. The act was sudden and crude. The old man stumbled, his frail form barely catching itself before falling. Yet even as his body faltered, his eyes remained fixed on John—filled with a silent warning, a desperate message wordlessly conveyed: Don't do anything foolish.
But John's gaze was still fixed on the girl.
He hadn't looked away. Not even as her brothers advanced. Not when threats of death had filled the air. Not when the old man had placed himself in harm's way. There was something—an impulse, quick and feral, something he couldn't quite understand, that kept his eyes locked on her. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was madness.
A strange impulse, born of a rapid assessment of the situation and something else he couldn't quite articulate, seized him.
In that frozen moment—between heartbeat and breath—John stooped. His hand closed around a loose stone lying forgotten near a stall's leg. It was smooth and cool against his skin, but it might as well have been fire, because the moment he touched it, his entire body moved with purpose.
With a swift, almost practiced motion, he threw it.
The action was fluid. No hesitation. No second thoughts.
He didn't aim at the brothers. His target was clear.
He aimed straight toward the girl.
The crowd gasped. There was a visible ripple, like wind passing over a field of tall grass. Whispers rose. Eyes widened.
Her brothers, caught completely off guard, were momentarily shocked. Their expressions froze in confusion, disbelief clouding their features. The anger that had propelled them forward evaporated in an instant. They spun around, hands outstretched, no longer poised to attack—but to protect.
Desperation clung to their every motion, as if their very lives now depended on what would happen in the next second. If that stone hit their sister—if even a scratch marred her cheek—the consequences would be dire. The entire tribe would rise. Honor would be questioned. Blood would be demanded.
The stone flew true.
It cut through the air like a whisper, a small grey blur against the colorful backdrop of the market. Fruit vendors and cloth merchants instinctively ducked. The metallic clink of a dropped pot echoed behind it.
It reached the girl—fast, precise.
But instead of striking her, it passed right next to her ear. So close that she could feel it—a whisper of wind brushing lightly against her skin. A breath. A threat. A message.
She flinched. Everyone did.
Silence fell like a blanket.
And in that silence, John stood perfectly still, his chest heaving, his gaze unwavering.
The moment was not over, but it had transformed. What had been a near lynching turned into something else entirely. The girl blinked, stunned. Her brothers turned back to John slowly, their faces blank with shock and confusion. Even the old man, still slightly hunched from the push, stared in disbelief.
The stone had missed. On purpose?
No one could say for sure. But the message had been sent—and received.