This is Bad

For the next few days, Eamond moved like clockwork.

He rose before sunrise, the city still half-wrapped in mist, and made his rounds with the usual crisp efficiency.

The commercial district stalls got their first inspection—checking numbers, watching customer flow, adjusting signage, and sparkle enchantments when needed. Mira gave him less grief now, mostly because she didn't want to admit everything was running well under his oversight.

Once satisfied that the commercial stand was stable, he made his way toward the arena.

Always by midmorning, he'd find Garret already there, seated near the mid-tier rows, elbows on his knees, completely absorbed in the sword matches.

Eamond rarely said much when he sat beside him. Sometimes he didn't even sit. He just stood close, arms folded, watching both the fights and the boy beside him.

By now, he knew Garret's expression during every match: the subtle leaning forward when a parry impressed him, the quiet intake of breath at a perfect spin-kick, the clenched jaw whenever a competitor let their guard drop.

Each evening, back at their shared quarters, Eamond reported the day's earnings, filed records, and gave assignments for the next.

One night, after a particularly close match in the arena, Eamond did something unexpected.

He told the others.

They were gathered on the second-floor loft of their rented lodge, a warm yellow light from the enchanted lanterns flickering across the low wooden beams and mismatched cushions. The scent of tart crumbs lingered in the air, along with the distant music of festival drums.

"So…" Eamond began, eyes on the ledger in front of him. "Garret wants to be a swordsman."

Everyone looked up.

Lysandra blinked. "Wait—a swordsman? Or like, a legendary sword master with a dramatic title kind of swordsman?"

"The latter," Eamond said, deadpan. "Obviously."

Garret, who had been sitting on the floor beside Link, froze.

"I didn't mean it like— I mean—"

"It's fine," Eamond interrupted, flipping a page. "You said it. I'm just making sure everyone knows."

There was a beat of silence. Then Syd gave a long, low whistle.

"Big dream."

"It's more than big," Vale said, arms crossed. "It's reckless. There's no shortcut to mastering a blade."

Garret looked down. "I know that."

"But," Vale continued, pushing off the wall, "you'll need a training partner anyway."

Garret blinked. "You mean you'll—?"

"I've handled a sword since I was ten. I can teach you the basics." Vale shrugged, then added, "Once the festival ends."

Link sat up straighter. "If we're doing sword stuff, I'm in. I've already got the dramatic shouting part down."

Syd grinned. "I'll bring snacks. Moral support is vital."

Jake leaned forward. "You'll need muscle training too. I'll draw up a meal plan. Tart-free."

"Blasphemy," Link gasped.

"Necessary," Jake shot back.

Even Farrah, who was half-dozing on a cushion, cracked an eye open. "Garret… you really want this?"

Garret nodded, quiet but firm. "Yeah. I do."

There was another moment of pause—then Lysandra snorted.

"Well, look at you, Eamond," she said, folding her arms behind her head. "Getting soft in your old age."

"I'm not old," Eamond replied coldly.

"You're definitely soft."

"I simply didn't stop him from wasting his time."

"And you're still here every day in the arena with him?" she asked with a raised brow.

Eamond didn't answer.

Because yes. He was. Every single day.

He didn't smile. Didn't show pride. But he didn't mock it either.

The following morning, the routine continued.

He walked the stands. Adjusted the signage. Counted the coin. Corrected Jake's ingredient labels. Then he left the district and returned to the arena, climbing the rows until he found Garret once again—this time joined by Link and Syd, all three of them whispering about footwork patterns and weapon grips.

He said nothing. Just stood behind them with arms folded, the faintest curve tugging at the corner of his mouth.

As the morning sunlight spilled across the stone benches, catching on the blades clashing below, a notification blinked silently in the back of his mind.

[System Message]You have created a Party Sub-Objective: "Raise a Sword Master."

Progress: 0.1%

+2 Karma Points for fostering group unity.

The next day,

The midday sun burned high over the coliseum walls, turning every canvas shade and enchanted drink barrel into a sanctuary of cool.

The arena stand, nestled at its usual archway perch, was deep in its busiest hour.

Eamond stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, jotting down inventory numbers with one hand and sliding a coin tray back into place with the other.

Link was halfway through performing a ridiculous pitch involving a tart duel between two pastries named Sir Blueberry and Count Lemonbite, while Vale worked the siphon taps with precise, almost military efficiency.

Garret handled the handoffs—serving drinks, answering questions, even offering condiment recommendations with growing confidence.

"Try the Elementary, My Dear with our new tart the Prideful tart," he told a curious swordswoman, who raised a brow at him like he'd just proposed a marriage. She still bought two.

"Sales are up by 17% from yesterday," Eamond murmured, glancing at his logbook. "If this continues, we'll clear out the last of the new stock by sundown."

"Excellent," Vale said without looking up. "Maybe then I can die in peace."

"Not until we balance the syrup-to-fizz ratio," Eamond replied coolly.

And then, like a breeze cutting through the heat, a familiar voice called out:

"Hai, Eamond, how's your tart doing, is there any left for me?"

Alfon came to the booth's counter with his usual grin—his dark tunic faintly dusted with arena sand, a loosely tied green sash marking him as part of the city's inner merchant guild. His small hand was waving around, trying to get our attention

"Didn't think I'd find you here without an escort, also, I haven't seen your sister," Eamond said, glancing at him.

"Umm, Alsa is playing with the other noble children at Baron Sirse's residence. Also, my escort is right there."

He jabbed his thumb toward the side, where three stern-looking guards stood within striking distance. They wore high-collared jerkins marked with the green crescent of House Calbren, eyes constantly scanning the crowd.

Eamond's gaze shifted lazily toward them, eyes trailing up and down the trio in that slow, assessing way that made people either bristle or sweat.

"So…" he said, voice dry, "any of you going to buy anything?"

One of the guards opened his mouth, thought better of it, and shook his head silently.

"Didn't think so," Eamond muttered, turning back to the counter.

Alfon laughed. "They're not the tart-eating type. Too busy pretending to be statues. I, on the other hand, could murder a Tart or two."

"I'll put it on your tab," Eamond said.

Link popped his head up from behind the stand curtain. "If you're going to order, do it quickly. We've got another rush coming in."

"You know," Alfon said, tapping his chin, "I was thinking—since it's the top 64 and all—why don't you all come watch the match with me? I've got spare seats near the judges' platform. Shaded. Close enough to hear teeth rattle."

Eamond's hand didn't even slow as he rearranged the coin trays. "We're working."

Jake, standing nearby, looked up just long enough to say, "Sales volume hasn't peaked yet."

Link groaned. "Plus, we already turned down three nobles asking the same thing. Let's start selling 'sorry we're working' signs."

Garret looked at Alfon and said.

"I was planning to go anyway," he said, slowly setting down the cloth. "I want to see how the top 64 handle tempo changes in a fight."

Eamond looked at him for a long moment, but said nothing.

"Then it's settled." Alfon clapped Garret on the back. "We'll head out."

"Just don't get him arrested," Eamond muttered.

Alfon gasped. "Don't worry, I won't."

Garret stepped out from behind the booth, slinging his satchel over one shoulder.

"Be back before the sun drops past the banners," Eamond said.

Garret nodded, and without another word, followed Alfon toward the arena gates, the three guards trailing like silent shadows.

But somehow they didn't see a different shadow that was following them.

For a few moments, the remaining crew worked in quiet.

Then Link said, "You didn't stop him this time."

"I'm not his father," Eamond replied coolly.

"But you are kind of his terrifying older brother," Link added.

Eamond only shrugged.

As the sun was beginning its slow descent, bleeding amber and gold across the tiled rooftops. Long shadows stretched across the plaza, turning the once-bustling walkway into a quieter rhythm of footsteps and murmurs.

The stand had quieted. Jake counted spoons. Vale cross-checked the inventory. Link, sprawled on two crates, muttered slogans with the commitment of a half-dead poet.

Even Eamond had loosened the collar, leaning one elbow against the counter as he stared absently toward the arena archway.

"Almost close-down time," Jake muttered. "Can't believe it was manageable today."

Eamond nodded vaguely. His eyes had flicked toward the gates more than once in the last half-hour.

Garret wasn't back.

Then—

A voice pierced the lull, frantic and high.

"EAMOND!"

Heads turned. Customers froze. Link sat bolt upright.

Alfon.

He was sprinting toward the booth, his tunic twisted and one sandal half off, his green sash dragging in the dirt behind him. His face was pale, his hair wild, and his shout cut through the plaza like a blade.

"GARRET—HE'S GONE—SOMEONE TOOK HIM!"

He practically crashed into the stand, gasping for breath, eyes wide and wet.

Eamond was already moving.

He stepped out from behind the booth in one motion, hands clenched at his sides, voice steady but low. "Alfon. Breathe. Tell me exactly what happened."

"I—I—I don't know!" Alfon cried, shaking. "We were watching the match from my seats—I left for a moment, just a moment, to get something from the vendor row—and when I came back, he was gone!"

"Gone?" Vale's voice was sharp. "Gone how?"

"His seat was empty," Alfon said, stumbling over his own words. "No sign of him. But I saw someone pulling something like a sack down the side stairway. And his sword—Garret's practice blade—it was left behind on the stone."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Link asked, "Who would kidnap a kid at a tournament packed with guards?"

Eamond's expression didn't change. Not visibly. But the ledger in his hand creaked under his grip. The air around him shifted quietly.

He turned back to the others.

"Vale, lock the stall. Jake, find Mira and the others at the commercial stand. Tell them what happened, and don't waste time explaining. Link, go to the city watch post near the arena gates. Bring the fastest runner and get a tracker mage if there's one still sober."

The boys moved instantly.

Eamond looked back at Alfon, who looked ready to collapse.

"Take me to the seat," he said.

Alfon nodded shakily and turned, already stumbling back toward the arena, with Eamond close behind.

The sky was beginning to bruise with twilight.

And for the first time in days, the scent of sugar and citrus no longer filled the air.

Only fear.

Only the beginning of something far darker.