Fisticuffs

The market was bursting with noise, dust, and chaos. Thousands of Catyrans swarmed the streets, some hawking their goods, others sneaking around, hoping to steal one.

Vin stood under a dilapidated shed, eyes wide with awe. He had never seen a crowd this massive before.

Where he stood reeked of sour ale and stale sweat—it must've been a local bar or something worse. He scrunched his nose in distaste. “Catyrans are filthy,” he muttered.

His skinny hands were hidden beneath a loose, long-sleeved shirt. His legs, too, were covered. He was under a disguise spell, looking nothing like himself. At the moment, he wore the appearance of a dark fae.

He slung his bag over one shoulder and stepped out into the open. It was time to begin the mission.

To start searching.

As he walked with his new body, he noticed how much he actually liked these feet. They were firm, balanced—not like his oversized ones back home that wobbled with every step.

His curious eyes roamed hungrily over the buildings, the twisted alleys, and towering scaffoldings.

> “This is really nothing like I’ve ever seen before…”

The Dreamchasers’ facility was nowhere near as crowded or chaotic. This was a different world.

But as he walked, doubt trickled in.

The prophecy hadn’t mentioned the savior’s gender, race, or even species. How was he supposed to find them?

Then came Master Liam’s voice in his head, clear and low:

> “Remember, do not assume. Do not judge. Truth and light are found where you least expect them. And learn to trust your instincts, lad.”

Vin sighed. Of course his master would say something like that. He knew Vin too well.

Vin was a scientist. He believed in logic, patterns, facts. Instinct? That was for poets and fools. But what choice did he have now?

He almost bumped into a haggard-looking elf with droopy red eyes.

“He’s drunk,” Vin noted silently and gave a polite bow, hoping to move on quickly.

But a sudden tug at his shirt stopped him in his tracks.

> Oh no.

In his haste, he had forgotten—he was disguised as a dark fae. And if there was anything worse than a drunk elf, it was a drunk elf faced with their natural enemy.

The elf, also in human form, glared at him with unfocused but unmistakable rage.

Vin cursed under his breath. He rarely swore.

How was he going to get out of this?

A crowd began to form. Catyrans loved a good street brawl. Some started cheering.

> “Oh, this is so not good…”

He tried to step back, but the elf grabbed his collar and pulled him up like a sack of flour.

“You think you can walk scot-free? If you weren’t a dark fae, I wouldn’t even care!” the elf growled, his breath reeking of sour wine.

Vin tried to explain—really, he did—but the elf wasn’t listening.

A sudden punch smashed into Vin’s jaw.

Then another to his cheek.

Groaning from the pain, he turned his head—just in time to catch a third punch to the side of his face.

The crowd cheered and jeered. This was entertainment.

“LET ME GO!” Vin screamed, pushing at the elf. “Let’s fight like real men!”

"Let him go!" someone shouted from the crowd.

“Fight like men!”

“Hooo!”

The crowd chanted in unison.

Relief washed over Vin. At least the mob had some sense of fairness.

The elf growled. He was the crowd favorite, the reigning champion of these street fights. But now they were turning on him.

Vin swallowed. He knew he couldn’t win this.

Fighting was not his strength. Chemistry and physics were.

But then again… maybe a little cheating could count as self-defense.

The two squared up. The crowd circled, eager for blood.

Vin lunged first, muttering a tiny spell under his breath. His fists swung upward, knocking into the elf’s chin—followed by a tiny flash of fire magic.

The elf groaned, face twisted in pain.

Vin smirked.

The elf roared and charged, but Vin darted to the side—again, with a bit of spellwork. The elf’s full momentum carried him forward—and he fell flat on his face.

The crowd exploded with applause.

Vin grinned. He was basking in the moment, just for a second—

Then chaos.

The crowd scattered, screaming, running in every direction.

Vin stood frozen.

What the hell just happened?

Even the elf scrambled to his feet and bolted.

Vin blinked. “These people are weird…”

He turned, pretending nothing had happened, only to slam into something hard.

He groaned, rubbing his head.

> “Ouch! Another trouble successfully made…”

He looked up.

And froze.

Towering above him were three stonegyoles, red-eyed and radiating menace. Their monstrous bodies were covered in spikes. A single blade ran down their backs, curving to the tail.

These weren’t just security guards—they were death sentences.

Vin gave a nervous wave. “Hi…”

They didn’t wave back.

The one in the front spoke something guttural. The other two nodded.

Before he could react, they grabbed him—one by each arm.

Vin screamed. “Where are you taking me?!”

Heads peeked from stalls and windows, then ducked again. The market fell into eerie silence. Not one soul came to help.

These creatures were feared.

And Vin knew he was finished.

---

*

Vin shivered in the cold, dark room they had thrown him in.

A whole day had passed, or at least he assumed so—there was no way to tell time in here.

“What did I even do wrong?” he muttered, his voice echoing in the stone walls.

He felt utterly alone. No sound. No movement.

No one.

He couldn’t see a thing. Just darkness. Somewhere above, high on the wall, ash fell gently through a barred window. Ashes… falling like snow.

He didn’t even know ashes could float like that.

He curled into a corner, defeated. A hand of failure seemed to rest on his shoulder like a living weight.

“I’m such a mess…”

He thought of Maree’s smiling face. She had once told him she admired his bravery—his patriotism.

> “I’m nothing but a failure,” he whispered into the dark.

He searched the walls again for an escape route. Nothing. The window was too high. The only evidence of it was the constant soft fall of ash.

Ashes. In a world where the sky still burned, ashes fell like rain.

How? It wasn’t in any book. No records. No mention. And Dreamchasers prided themselves on knowledge.

He sighed deeply.

Maybe if he hadn’t worn the disguise of a dark fae, he could’ve avoided the fight. A simple apology might’ve worked.

He remembered the moment Master Liam had cast the spell.

Vin had protested. “Why a dark fae?”

Master Liam had calmly replied, “Do not judge. One of the greatest members of the House of Council was a dark fae. That alone disproves prejudice.”

So he had accepted it.

But now, sitting alone in the dark, Vin wondered:

> Was there a reason Master Liam chose that form for him?

The thought swirled again,

round and round in his head.

But it always returned to the same pit of despair.

He stared up at the drifting ash.

> How did everything go so wrong?

> And what else was the Dreamchasers wrong about?