In the dark back‑alleys of Ranoa, the final death throes of a living being were expelled in vain. Under the surgical assault of a stained needle that pierced with no remorse, and had pierced countless people across the course of history, a young lady by the name of Annabelle was screaming.
"Bear with it," I urged, one of four pairs of hands pinning her in place.
"Gyaakh—!" she choked back.
Across from me her aunt Marielle—steadying Annabelle's right shoulder—barked a laugh, echoed by the two younger cousins bracing her wrists.
"Children," Biriji grumbled with a frown deep enough to swallow her face. "Louder than ever. Still spineless under the needle." The old crone drove the tip down again with no hesitation.
Annabelle's next shriek nearly made me laugh.
Marielle chuckled. When our eyes met she offered a wistful smile. "Ludnica was the same, you know. Froddie never let her live it down—kept teasing her about the 'tiny' tattoo and the opera she made out of it."
I closed my eyes and tilted my head, remembering the man.
"Froddie was watching me the first time I picked up a sword," I said. "I was nine. Nearly sliced my pinky off. He didn't know whether to laugh at me or patch me up."
Marielle laughed louder than Annabelle screamed. The sound filled the little parlor with warmth, but it didn't last long.
Eventually the noise ebbed, laughter faded, and Marielle leaned close to murmur reassurance in the girl's ear. Annabelle tried a brave nod—then hissed when the freshly worked skin pulled. Her face sank into the pillow again with a whimper.
Marielle's gaze flicked to me, hesitating. I already knew what she wanted to ask.
"Is it true, Roderic?" she whispered. "You're restarting the revolution?"
She looked worried about the answer, but I never lied. "Yes."
Her eyes squeezed shut. "Why? Isn't this"—she gestured vaguely at the parlor, at our parts of the city beyond—"what we fought for? What your father fought for?"
"No." My answer was iron. "He fought so our people could stand eye‑to‑eye with the monarchy. To give the children a future. Right now, we have none of what he bled for."
Marielle didn't argue; she knew it as well as I did. "Back then we had even less," she muttered.
Wooden huts, tents, no trade—savages, not citizens. I met her stare. "Did you trade your arm for royal leftovers?"
That silenced her. She looked down at the empty sleeve.
While she looked down at her stump in silence, I turned to Ludnica, who squealed as the granny gave her finished work a satisfied smack.
"Can you come back to training?" I asked the girl.
She froze, then she buried her face in the pillow. "Mom won't let me," she mumbled. "She gets… mean when I ask."
"I… see." Anger at Ludnica flared, but I tamped it down. "I'll try talking her out of that stubbornness."
I doubted it would work. But that never stopped me before.
I stood from the makeshift table, brushing wood splinters from my pants. At the door of the parlor, I turned one last time.
Annabelle peeked up from her pillow, eyes red but shining.
"The tattoo suits you," I said. "Well worth the pain."
She blinked at me, surprised. Then nodded with a smile on her face.
A ripple across still water. A soft rain on a clear pond.
oOo
"Let her go, Ludnica."
My voice was sharp. I didn't bother sugarcoating it. "When the revolution begins, you don't want Annabelle to be the only girl who can't fight. It's for her sake."
But Ludnica was immovable.
"She won't be fighting, and your revolution won't get its foot off the ground," she snapped.
I sighed through my teeth. "We're approaching seventy strong, Ludnica. Over a third of them are adults with war training. We're already in the air."
It wasn't much I was asking. An hour a day. Time enough for Annabelle to learn something—anything—that might keep her alive. Ludnica could even attend, if she wanted to, though I knew she wouldn't.
The problem wasn't logistics. It was fear. And pride.
"If war returns and she isn't ready," I said, "the disservice you've done her may be what gets her killed."
She didn't flinch.
"I'm not letting you have her, Roderic!" she shouted, loud enough for half the street to hear, no regard for privacy, or phrasing for that matter. "I fought for eight years to give her a future without war—and I'll be damned if I let you drag her into another!"
My patience was slipping. Her eyes locked with mine—burning, bitter. I could tell just by looking at her that no matter what I said to her, she wouldn't accept it.
Words would bounce off her skull all day. I ground my teeth, searching for any angle. Only one presented itself.
"Then teach her something yourself. Self-defense. Anything," I said, the words dragged like nails across stone. "At least give her that."
The suggestion tasted like ash. Ludnica once fought with fire; Annabelle needed that fire, not this sullen husk.
I spat into the gutter. It didn't help.
Ludnica's jaw clenched. Her eyes shifted sideways, avoiding mine.
"Don't tell me what to teach my daughter," she snapped. Then she kicked a pebble into the street and turned away.
"And don't talk to her again."
~oOo~
George's leg‑kick was vicious—until I stepped outside his lead leg. Every time I did, I answered with hooks to the ribs or cheek, making the lesson sting.
After another exchange in my favour, frustration finally boiled over. He came forward behind jabs, straights, wild overhands. I guarded, patient. A breath's lull—then he hurled the leg‑kick at full force, all gritted teeth and fury.
I slipped diagonally. The kick grazed my thigh; his reward for his effort— my knee sinking into his exposed gut.
"Gukh—!" he collapsed, coughing and gasping on his hands and knees.
I didn't feel particularly inclined to wait for him to finish. "Timing is king, George. Doesn't matter how strong the move is, or how clever your setup. If you throw it when the opponent expects it, it's already too late."
Carlos picked that moment to wander in.
"But that leg kick was clean," he commented, far too cheerfully.
George wasn't comforted. Still on all fours, he slammed a fist into the dirt.
"Oy!" I yelled, running up to him. I seized his hand before he could do worse. He struggled and tried to tear it from my hand, but I did not let go. The knuckles were red but intact. I looked him in the eye, and was confused how frustrated he truly seemed. "Break that and you're out for months, George. You know this—what's going on?"
He looked away. Avoided my gaze.
This wasn't like him. Not at all.
"Maybe you broke him," Carlos offered from behind me, helpful as ever.
"If you don't shut up, you'll be the one I break."
Innocent whistles marked his departure. Comedians.
I crouched beside George, gentler now. "You're not a sore loser, and this isn't like you. Speak."
George had proven many times that he could take a little roughhousing, and while he could get frustrated, his upper limit was far higher than this. His motivation usually burned all of his complaints away. Whatever this was, it was bad, and I could not afford setbacks at this stage.
For a long moment he stared past me, jaw grinding.
"My old man found out," he rasped. "Says I'm done training—says if I come back here he'll throw me out."
The words hit like wet iron. Terry..
"I'll talk to him—"
George's head snapped up, panic blazing. "No. Please." He flexed the hand I'd just inspected. "Let me handle it. Just… keep this between us."
Before I could answer he lurched upright and offered a stiff salute.
"I'll be back tomorrow. I'm not stopping—he just won't know." Shame flickered across his face. "Thanks, Roderic."
He limped away, shoulders squared by sheer will. I watched, torn between chasing after him and letting him fight his own battles.
Around me other trainees hovered, eyes darting to me, each carrying a fresh plea they were too polite to voice.
George can handle it for now, I told myself. When I have the chance, I'll help him.
"Uh—Captain, Roderic, sir," Carlos babbled, hands pin‑wheeling, but eyes glittered with mischief. "Jaime here says it'd be tremendously educational if you could, well, grapple him for a minute or two. Strictly so I can observe the technique from, y'know, a different angle—the underside, presumably. Purely academic!"
At his side, Jaime had gone the shade of chalk left in the rain.
A few minutes later I was sighing as I left behind the mad cackling of Carlos, Bowen, and oddly enough, Mina.
Why, in all the seas, didn't he just tap?
~oOo~
George
George ran through the alleys as sunset bled out, nerves buzzing. Every few steps his head swiveled, half‑sure he would see one of his father's friends, and then the jig would be up. When Nate's mom started pegging sheets to the line, he waited until one billowed wide, then slipped under it and jogged the rest of the way home.
The front door would creak, so he circled right, hopped the fence, and hauled himself through his bedroom window. Feet hit the floorboards just as knuckles hit the door.
He wiped sweat off his neck, straightened his shirt, made sure the bruise on his chest was hidden by the collar. Deep breath. Open.
Terry filled the frame, shoulders blocking the lamplight. His eyes moved over George—boots, hands, face—measuring. After a long second he jerked his head toward the kitchen.
"Dinner."
The food was good—salt‑crust potatoes, three steaks—but every scrape of fork felt louder than words. Terry chewed like a machine, gaze switching between George and his plate periodically. George matched him bite for bite, wanting the meal over, wanting back in his room where Terry's silence couldn't pin him to the chair.
He thought about the alleys. About kids their age treated like rats, about patrols that laughed when old women ducked out of their path. About standing there and doing nothing because he couldn't yet do anything.
Revolution fixes that, he told himself. Roderic's drilling us for a reason. Every hour missed is an hour longer under that boot.
When the last plate was scrubbed clean and stacked, George muttered a stiff goodnight and retreated. Terry's stare pressed between his shoulder blades the whole way.
Door shut. Lock turned. Air finally in his lungs.
He flopped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. The plan was simple: wait for his father to leave, window, training, window, dinner. Bruises where clothes covered. No excuses, no slip‑ups. Terry could threaten chores, lectures, to throw him out—didn't matter. George wasn't missing a single session. The alley kids, his own pride, the whole damned island needed them ready.
Tomorrow he'd throw that leg kick right, keep his guard tight, and prove he wasn't dead weight. Not to Roderic—Roderic only judged those who failed to even try—but to himself, and to the name they'd carry when the streets finally belonged to Ranoa.
George closed his eyes, anger settling into something harder. Justice wasn't going to hand itself over; they'd have to break it free. He set an arm over his face, counted out a slow breath, and let the room fade.
Morning couldn't come fast enough.
~oOo~
Sorry about the delay, everyone.
I tried to get this chapter out yesterday but my god was it tough to come up with that first and last scene. Took me forever, literally, and several attempts.
Soon, the grand payoff shall come.
Feel free to leave a review. Positive or negative.