Curious Eater
An ordinary street in Limelight Cities 18th District had become a sight unlike any other. Once filled with traders, labourers, and passing idlers, it had now been transformed into a refuge for the wounded, the weary, and those desperate for care.
Clerics hurried between makeshift tent, setting down bundles of supplies, calling for order, and guiding the injured toward shelter as swiftly as they could manage. Above them all, perched upon rooftops and upper ledges, guards kept watch, scanning the crowds for anything suspicious amid the already chaotic district.
Hidden from views of the crowded streets, rested in a quieter untroubled corner.
There, behind a tall, windowless building, stood a gate leading into a secluded yard. Above it hung a modest metallic sign marking the place as the Myriad Crescent Quarters.
Within the yard itself, a lonely carriage stood idle upon the damp cobbled road, enclosed by high walls and overlooked by empty pots where withered plants once grew. The space was no larger than a small courtyard, hidden away from the chaotic crowd.
The carriage itself was plain and unremarkable, fashioned from dark varnished wood worn smooth by weather and years of exposure. No crest adorned its panels, nor any painted mark to distinguish it from the countless common carriages that passed unnoticed through the city streets.
And, a single brown horse remained harnessed at its front, restless breath curling faintly into the cold air.
Atop the carriage stood a girl wrapped in a pink-brown dirty fluffy coat, far too large for her small frame, only her vibrances cap that fit her frame with all its pinkness.
The girl was once a great marshmallow queen, no longer.
She lifted herself onto her toes repeatedly, heels tapping back down in a restless excited rhythm.
Up and down. Up and down.
Each ounce of bounce made the carriage springs bend beneath her momentum. The wooden frame swayed gently back and forth, creaking miserably with every stomp of her tiny boots.
The horse was exhausted by the girl's relentless nonsense.
The carriage was the prison, the horse was the prisoner, and the little girl was the warden.
Every time the horse nearly found a moment to rest, the little menace would begin stomping again, causing the carriage to rock and the shafts connected to its collar to jolt and rattle irritably.
The horse snorted through pale clouds of winter breath and pawed irritably at the cold cobblestones, kicking wet snow aside with sharp scrapes of its hoof.
The girl's eyes gleamed with delight as she noticed the horse's subtle irritation.
Immediately, she bounced harder.
"Mov! Mor! Wak! Moe!" She shouted excitedly.
The girl giggled quietly to herself and continued toeing harder, further irritated the already restless horse.
In protest, the horse finally struck back.
With an irritated kick of its hind legs, it slammed against the carriage hard enough to make the entire wooden frame jump violently.
Thud!
The sudden jolt sent the girl sprawling face-first across the carriage roof.
For a brief moment, silence followed.
Then came a soft, chilling giggle that echoed through the alley.
The little menace was delighted.
She pushed herself upright and immediately crawled toward the front edge of the roof, peering down at the horse below with wide, accusing eyes, like a cat prowling and preparing to strike at its four-legged prey.
The prey was Wildly, a proud working horse belonging to the Crescent Cleric Clinic.
At least, it was proud most of the time, depending on which cleric happened to be handling it.
Now it had been left alone inside a suffocating, damp short alley with a tiny menace wrapped in a filthy pink coat.
The girl had originally been locked inside the carriage as either a patient or a prisoner, depending on whom one asked. All she had to do was wait quietly until the clerics and the guard returned.
Unfortunately, the girl possessed no such thing as patience.
They had only just arrived at the alley, and the girl was still fast asleep when they did.
The clerics hurried into the building without delay, leaving the carriage behind in the narrow alley.
The guard who had coach them remained outside for a time, standing watch beside the carriage. Kimmi slumbered on undisturbed, curled beneath her coat as though the world beyond the carriage did not exist.
Minutes passed.
Then, somehow, the guard was no longer there.
And so the little sleeping monster was left alone.
Like a slumbering ticking bomb waiting for the inevitable, she lay motionless.
Then it happened.
The girl suddenly stirred from her stupor.
Her bright emerald eyes fluttered open. She blinked away the last traces of sleep and glanced about the carriage, only to realize something was amiss. The familiar rocking had ceased, the wheels no longer rumbled beneath her, and the gentle sway of lullabies was gone.
The carriage was no longer moving.
Her expression darkened.
She became furious.
She kicked.
She roared.
She gnaws.
At one point, she may have attempted both to threaten the already missing warden herself using gibberish language.
Thankfully, the carriage had been specially prepared. It's plain exterior concealed layers of strong wards. The enchantments permeated every part of it; both the wooden frame and its glass windows possessed a strength greater than iron.
And yet somehow, impossibly, the girl escaped.
Beneath the coachman's bench sat a tiny sliding window built into the carriage wall. It had originally been intended as a clever feature, allowing passengers to peek outside and issue instructions to the coachman should travel plans change.
In reality, it was a flawed design.
The window sat too low to see through properly. Any passenger attempting to use it had to bend awkwardly to see through the window, only to discover their view mostly blocked by the coachman's legs.
Worse still, if left open during rain, water would pour directly into the carriage interior and drench everyone inside.
The clerics wisely kept the window shut and stuffed the empty space with tools instead.
Which, unfortunately, was exactly what the girl needed.
The tiny window was the only opening on the carriage that had not been locked.
And that was enough.
For a while, the carriage had remained quiet. The kicking ceased, the roaring faded, and silence settled within the wooden cage.
Then came the rattling.
The girl slid the tiny window open. With her small hands, she began shoving tools, crate, and loose junk out of the way with fumbling determination. Inch by inch, she forced herself into the narrow opening like a hamster forcedly squeezed through a small hole.
Eventually, her head popped free beneath the bench.
Dust clung to her tangled hair.
Cobwebs draped across her already dirty pink-brown coat as proof of her perseverance.
At last, she found freedom again.
Without hesitation, she climbed onto the coachmans bench, then scrambled upward onto the roof of the carriage. There she planted both feet triumphantly upon the wood and claimed the entire carriage as her castle.
And with great flair, she pulled a fluffy pink cap from inside her coat and placed it atop her head like a royal crown.
Yet a queen required subjects.
And none to be found, none to be near.
Her toy when missing.
Her cat betrayed her.
Her sister falls asleep.
Her mother awfully occupied.
And so, the little queen stood atop her square roof tower and scout her surrounding for something, anything, worthy of her attention.
Then she found it.
A horse.
A magnificent brown horse, proud and sturdy, fit only to serve the whims of a little queen.
From that short moment onward, Wildly's suffering stretched into what felt like an eternity.
Time passed.
Minute turn to minutes drifted by one after another, and so too did the queen continue her reign.
Eventually, however, even she grew bored of her loyal subjects refusal to acknowledge her authority. With a dissatisfied huff, she sprawled flat across the carriage roof and closed her eyes for a brief nap, restoring her chaotic energies for whatever mischief would next seize her fancy.
Baam!
The door flew open with such force that it struck the wall behind it.
Kimmi and Wildly was shocked by the sudden intrusion.
A hooded cleric appeared in the doorway carrying a wooden barrel in both arms, failed to notices Wildly's surprised huff or the girl's startled squeal as he stepped outside.
As he was about to step into the yard, he pushed a wooden crate, as tall as his knee, ahead of him with his boot. The crate scraped noisily across the ground before catching on an uneven stone just short of its destination and refusing to move any further.
The cleric frowned at the crate.
He nudged the crate with toe on his boot, but it still refused to budge.
For a long moment, he simply stared at the crate as though it had personally offended him.
Then he kicked it.
Yet, still the crate remains firm upright.
His shoulders slumped.
"Haaaaaaaai..." A long sigh of mournful defeat escaped him.
The Cleric lowered the barrel beside the immovable crate and sat upon the crate as punishment. Then, he pried the lid from the barrel and laid it across his lap like a makeshift worktable.
Bundles mix of herbs filled the barrel to the brim. One by one, he withdrew handfuls of dried herbs from within and began sorting them into neat piles with exaggerated annoyance.
After some time, he sensed that he was not alone.
Lifting his head, he turn toward the yard.
A smile immediately appeared upon his face.
"Oh, Wildly! You were here?" The Cleric exclaimed. "How fares your rest, my dear friend?"
The horse flicked an ear and huff in complaint.
"I see…" He smile faded. "…miserable. "
The Cleric returned to his board, sorting herbs, and began mumbling to himself.
The cleric still failed to notice the gleaming eyes peering at him with growing curiosity. He was busy with his work, completely unaware that a small disaster had just taken an interest in him.
"We could have had it all, Wildly..." He lamented. "My warm bed and my books. And you, your warm stable and a mountain of hay."
He leaned back, stretching until his spine gave a satisfying crack.
"But NooOoo..." He sighed. "An urgency they say and suddenly everyone becomes invaluable." He looked toward the skys. "Can you imagine it, Wildly? They woke me from my sacred communion with my bed." He shook his head sadly. "A tragedy rarely spoken of in scripture. One must not disturb an everlasting rest! Though admittedly, it meant for the death. Which! WHICH! I wish I was…"
He crushed the herb in his palm, bound it with a small string, and dropped it back into the barrel.
"My wonderful dream was cut short and replaced with the nightmarish reality."
Wildly bobbed its head as though agreeing. So did the girl. Neither of them had any idea what the cleric was talking about, but both seemed convinced he was absolutely true.
"Why me?" He pats his hand dramatically against his chest. "There are dozens of potioneers in the clinic. Dozens! Numerus! Why, of all people, must it be me?"
He held up a handful of dried herbs and twisted them angrily between his fingers. With a disgruntled huff, he tossed the bundle over his shoulder without so much as a glance.
From atop the carriage, a pair of emerald eyes immediately followed its arc through the air.
The girl watched the herbs land upon the wet cobblestones.
Slowly, she began climbing down from the carriage roof. She walks in the clumsiest way imaginable, fumbling over the edged and uneven cobblestone. Yet somehow, her footsteps remained remarkably light. Barely a sound escaped her as she crept closer, like a tiny predator stalking its prey.
The Cleric did not notice her in the slightest. His attention remained fixed upon his herbs and grievances, blissfully unaware that the girl was already behind him.
"But that is not the worst of it, Wildly..." He lamented. "They have exiled me from the alchemy chamber and condemned me to the kitchen." He paused dramatically. "The kitchen!" His face twisted in horror. "They handed me pots. Pots, Wildly! And cups!" He threw his hands into the air. "How is a humble potioneer of Lioris expected to brew anything under such conditions?" He shook his head solemnly. "Madness. Utter madness."
The Cleric stare toward the iron gate of the yard and looked outside.
Beyond the gate, the street stretched into a scene of controlled collapse. Row upon row of unconscious and injured people lay scattered beneath blankets and torn sheets. Some rested on hastily assembled mattresses, while others remained directly upon the cold stones. The air was thick with the scent of incense and herb.
Makeshift tents lined the street from end to end, turning the district into little more than an immense emergency shelter.
Kimmi stared through the gate as well, yet the plight of the people outside held little interest for her.
Her thoughts were elsewhere.
She missed her mother. But she was not alone anymore.
"It is getting crowded..." The cleric muttered as he sorted through his herbs, absentmindedly tossing unwanted pieces over his shoulder.
Behind him, Kimmi diligently gathered every discarded leaf and petal she could find, tossing them into her mouth one by one as though foraging for snack.
Wildly watched the spectacle with growing agitation.
The horse snorted and shifted its weight uneasily, its ears flicking toward the girl whenever she picked up another herb. Though it would never admit such a thing, Wildly seemed oddly concerned for the girl's well-being.
The cleric glanced back at Wildly. Seeing the poor horse's distress, he could not help but make a sorrowful face.
"I am not angry at you, Wildly," he said softly. "It is just that… I feel suffocated by all these tasks and orders, and disorder that follows..." He sighed. "Oh, Lioris, I pray for respite… for the end of this day… oh, what a bliss it would be when that comes."
The cleric let out a weary sigh and gazed at the herbs, drown in thought.
"All I know how to brew are sleeping potions. Perhaps a few more remedies… Soreness, toothaches, rashes, headaches..."
He paused for a moment.
"But poison?" He clenched the herbs tightly. "I know nothing of poison!" He gritted his teeth in frustration.
Then a small voice suddenly interjected from behind him.
"Kimmi knuh poiten!"
The Cleric was startled by the sudden voice and immediately snapped his head toward its source. There, seated beside him on the cold cobblestones, was a girl calmly chewing on the herbs he had discarded.
"Ack!" He let out a yelp.
In his haste to stand, he lost his balance entirely and fell flat on his back.
Thump!
The girl made no attempt to help. She simply stared at him with complete unconcern.
The cleric quickly scrambled to his feet after his fall. He straightened himself and brushed the dirt from his robe.
"By the wisdom of Lioris!" He exclaimed. "Where did you come from, child?"
He stared at her in utter bewilderment.
"This area is off-limits, child. Did you come through the gate?"
His gaze then fell upon the herbs she was chewing.
"And that is most certainly not edible."
The cleric immediately reached forward and pulled the herb from her mouth. Unfortunately, only the stalk remained. The leaves and petals had already disappeared.
Kimmi quickly swallowed the remaining bits. A numb sensation spread across her mouth. She stuck out her tongue in puzzled.
"Oh, Lioris preserve my sanity... and the girl stomach." he muttered worriedly.
The herbs he had been preparing were dried mint leaves, intended for the many patients suffering from the sudden disaster. Though they offered no cure for whatever afflicted the victims, he believed they might at least ease their discomfort.
Kimmi drew a breath through her mouth and immediately felt a cool sensation wash across her tongue. Assuming it came from the winter air, she remained blissfully unaware that the herb itself was responsible.
Her eyes brightened at once. She looked around in search of more and quickly found her answer.
Beside the cleric sat a barrel filled to the brim with dried herbs.
Without hesitation, she reached toward it.
This time, her prey was the barrel.
"No you don't!" The cleric cried, quickly pulling the barrel away before her hands could reach it. He promptly secured the lid, gathered the barrel into his arms like a precious treasure, and rose to his feet.
Kimmi tried to pry his hands away from the barrel, but her efforts proved unsuccessful. The cleric had already risen to his feet, holding it securely against his chest, far above her reach.
She stretched upward, fingers grasping only air. She reached for his elbows next, but the cleric simply lifted the barrel even higher. Kimmi jumped once, then again, each attempt ending in failure.
Kimmi then shoved at his legs, tugged, pushed, and pulled with all her strength, but the cleric remained firmly planted, unmoving.
"Hunggy," Kimmi plead.
The Cleirc response was to tighten his grip around the barrel even further.
Finding no success there, Kimmi abandoned the barrel altogether. Her attention soon drifted downward to the ground, where scattered fragments of dried herbs still lay undefended.
As she crouched to inspect them, the Cleirc found himself looking at her more carefully.
Only now did he notice the state of her clothing. The girl's coat was stained and soaked with blood. He had smelled it earlier, the faint metallic scent lingering beneath the odours of herbal medicine.
The realization struck him at once.
The child was none other than Kimberly Mae Gustmill herself. He had once seen her in his dispenser record.
The very girl he had once been assigned to secretly observe and report upon to the High Infirmier. The same girl whom the higher leadership quietly believed to possess a blessing or cursed.
Only just night ago, He had spent hours watching over Gustmill household house until another cleric had finally relieved him of the duty.
Unfortunately, his long-awaited rest had been short-lived.
The Cleric studied the girl for a moment, deep in thought.
Kimberly was clearly no ordinary child. If the Crescent Cleric Grand Elder himself, truly believed the girl possessed a blessing, then her importance would only continue to grow. After all, those in high places had a curious habit of treating every mundane detail into a matter worthy of pursuit.
Which raised a troubling question.
'Where was her guardian?'
The girl should not have been left alone.
Someone must have been watching her.
The cleric looks around the yard and quietly reached for his magic. A faint pulse of inviable tendril spread outward, seeking anything unusual within the surrounding area.
The attempt proved useless.
Not because he found nothing.
Quite the opposite.
Hundreds of people crowded the district beyond the gate. Their presence washed together into a tangled sea of life and lingering magic, making it impossible to determine what, if anything, deserved his immediate suspicion.
He let out a long, weary sigh.
For now, there was little point in searching further.
His gaze returned to Kimberly.
Then he noticed something strange.
He could not sense her.
Even standing directly before him, Kimberly's presence remained strangely absent from his magical perception. The discovery should have stirred his curiosity, perhaps even alarmed him. Yet, as his eyes fell upon the girl's condition, that curiosity slowly gave way to concern.
Whatever mystery surrounded her could wait.
First, he needed to examine her wounds.
Judging by the strong scent of herbal medicine clinging to her clothes, someone had almost certainly treated her already. Nevertheless, assumptions were poor substitutes for proper examination.
He was a Crescent Cleric and he was a Healer.
It was his duty as a servant of Lioris to help those in need within her reach. It was also his duty as a cleric to help those who required it.
Of course, before any examination could be done, he would first have to bring the girl inside and see that she received proper care.
His eyes drifted to the building behind him, and he sighed softly.
The building served as a supply depot for the Crescent Cleric Clinic. Every manner of provision passed through its halls before being distributed among the various clinics throughout the city.
It was located between the boundaries of Central Trade Hub and 18th Residential District
Though originally built as an ordinary residential house, it had long since been repurposed for storage. Its rooms, once intended for families, were now crowded with crates of herbs, medicines, linens, and countless other necessities required by the clinic's healers.
It was illegal to convert a residential building into a commercial or industrial establishment within a residential district. As such, the Crescent Cleric Clinic could not openly designate the property as a warehouse.
Their solution was simple.
Officially, the building served as a hostel for housing a member of the Order. Unofficially, it contained enough supplies to stock several clinics.
After all, there existed no law against owning an excessive amount of belongings within one's home or rooms.
Thus, through a generous interpretation of municipal regulations, the Crescent Order had quietly transformed the residence into a warehouse in all but name.
By every practical measure it was a warehouse.
By every legal measure, it remained, quite remarkably, a hostel—known as The Myriad Crescent Quarters.
Those who lived within its walls were mostly low-ranking acolytes of the Crescent Order. Their work varied, but most often they handled incoming sensitive components and ingredients, or worked as porters moving common supplies between branches.
Over them stood a supervising Crescent Cleric, who oversaw distribution and maintained the records that bound the entire operation together.
Today, however, the Myriad Crescent Quarters had been hastily repurposed into a makeshift hospital. Vast quantities of medical supplies had been emptied from its storerooms and carried into the streets, leaving behind only raw materials and ingredients awaiting preparation.
Lacking a dedicated alchemy chamber, the kitchen was reluctantly transformed into a makeshift laboratory where remedies could be prepared.
The newly cleared rooms were repurposed to receive incoming patients. Yet space within the building was limited, and priority was given to those deemed important or in greatest need of immediate care. Most of the afflicted were therefore treated elsewhere, beneath tents and shelters erected throughout the surrounding streets.
"Hey, girl, are you alright?" The cleric asked gently. "Are you in pain? Is that why you've been munching on my herbs?"
Kimmi listened.
She stared at the cleric in silence for a moment. Then she promptly returned to gathering pieces leaves from the ground.
He felt thoroughly ignored.
Undeterred, he moved closer and crouched down to her height.
With a quiet sigh, the cleric lowered his hood, revealing the gentle features of his face in hopes of easing the girl's wariness.
He was none other than Cleric Monaco, the Crescent Cleric Order's humble potionier and healer.
Monaco was a remarkably handsome man. Long black hair framed his features, and his dark eyes were clear despite the weariness lingering within them. His skin bore the warm complexion of one accustomed to sunlight, though faint shadows rested beneath his eyes from many sleepless nights.
Upon his head rested a circlet woven from Needle flowers, while delicate four-sided leaves hung from his ears as earrings, giving him the appearance of an eccentric cleric.
Kimmi was instantly captivated by Monaco's appearance, though not by his looks. It was the peculiar ornaments adorning his face that held her attention.
It a flower and its pretty.
She wants it.
Monaco offered the girl a warm, charming smile, pleased to see that he finally had her attention.
"Am I truly so beautiful?" he asked with a playful chuckle, convinced the child had been struck speechless by the sight of his handsome face.
Kimmi continued staring.
Not at his face.
"Wan' flover hat," she fawningly demanded, her eyes gleaming upon the woven circlet.
Monaco blinked.
"This?" He lifted the flower crown from his head and held it before her. "Ah, I see. You have an appreciation for the simpler beauty of the world."
He turned the woven flowers between his fingers, examining them briefly.
"But you already possess a cap of your own. How about a trade?"
The moment the offer left his mouth, Kimmi's eyes withered.
She immediately snatched her cap and hid it beneath her coat, as though a thief might steal it away at any moment. Yet, her eyes remained locked on the flower circlet, gazing at it as though it were an artifact she was already planning to nab.
It was a beautiful little thing.
Colourful.
Delicate.
Edible.
Her stomach rumbled at the thought.
Monaco heard the sound and instantly understood.
"These flowers may carry a pleasant sweetness from the morning dew," he said, amused, "but I fear they would hardly satisfy the appetite of a little glutton such as yourself."
Then he smiled.
"But I have something better. Watermelon! Bunch of them Assuming, of course, that Lioris holds any authority over fortune. If not, then let us pray my brothers and sisters have left some untouched for you." He muses. "Judging by your appetite, I daresay a whole watermelon would not be enough."
Kimmi nodded vigorously, paying little heed to his words beyond the parts concerning flowers and fruit.
Monaco, naturally, took this as wholehearted agreement.
"Come then," he said, rising to his feet. "Let us see whether the kitchens still understands their purpose."
With a cheerful gesture, he beckoned for her to follow.
No sooner had he turned toward the doorway than something cold kissed his neck.
A sword.
Its sharpened edge rested lightly against his throat.
Standing beyond the threshold was a ragged city guard, his weathered face hardened by suspicion. His grip upon the blade never wavered.
Monaco froze.
Behind him, Kimmi obediently followed as instructed. Finding Monaco no longer moving, she began pushing against his back with all her tiny might, attempting to urge him through the doorway, blissfully unconcerned by the sword threatening his life.
"W-Wait! Wait, Kimberly!" Monaco cried, cold sweat forming upon his brow. "I have suddenly had a change of thought! Please... stop pushing me toward my death."
The guard's eyes narrowed.
"You know the child's name…" He muttered
His voice was calm, though no less dangerous. "Who are you, cleric?"
"Ah... yes! Quite right!" Monaco replied with an awkward laugh. "A humble servant of Lioris. A cleric of the Crescent Order, I am Monaco Monos. As you may have noticed... this building happens to belong to our Order."
"So I gathered." The sword remained where it was.
"Yet every other cleric is occupied tending the wounded on the streets. Why are you here alone? Were you stationed at this yard?"
"Ah! Quite understandable, truly! I assure you! I am but a humble potionier. The yard simply happens to be just by the kitchen. Whatever this may seem to be, I assure you, it is all a terrible misunderstanding."
The guard studied him for another long moment before lowering the blade.
"You know this girl?"
"As a matter of fact, I do," Monaco replied. "She was once under our care at the Royal Infirmary... Though, come to think of it, she has never truly left our care."
His expression grew grave.
"More importantly, I believe the child requires immediate treatment. Judging by the state of her coat, she may still be bleeding beneath it."
"Is that so?" the guard asked, his voice easing slightly. "Then do not waste another moment."
Though he lowered his weapon, the suspicion in his eyes did not entirely fade. His gaze drifted past Monaco, searching for the girl.
She was gone.
Then—
CLANG! Tang! Tang!
The sharp crash of metal striking stone rang out from somewhere within the kitchen.
Monaco and the guard exchanged a wary glance before stepping inside.
What greeted them was a scene of complete disarray.
Large pots and utensils lay scattered across the floor. Cabinet doors hung open, and the remains of a watermelon were splattered across the stone tiles. Its red pulp had been crushed into a sticky mess, with fragments of rind scattered nearby.
Yet—There was no culprit.
The commotion had not gone unnoticed.
The corridor soon echoed with hurried footsteps. A young acolyte hurried into view, followed moments later by another figure entering the kitchen. The figured carried clean cloths and folded towels beneath one arm, while a bucket of warm water swung gently from their hand.
It was Vyset.
"What is happening here?" she asked, turning toward the acolyte.
"Senior Vyset!" the acolyte exclaimed. "There was a loud crash from the kitchen... We were worried something had happened. Brother Monaco might have exploded!"
The others quickly nodded in agreement, their concern mixed with a hint of amusement.
"Monaco?" Vyset repeated, her expression turning puzzled.
Only then did she notice the familiar figures standing near the exit leading to the yard.
It was the city guard, Harward, and her fellow cleric, Monaco.
"Cleric Vyset... you have finally arrived," Harward greeted.
"Sir Harward." Vyset inclined her head. "Were you not with Kimmi? Is everything all right?"
Harward let out a weary sigh.
"All is well. It is just that—"
Then came a faint sound.
Creeeak...
One of the lower cabinet doors slowly opened.
A tiny hand emerged, carefully pushing aside a wooden bowl from within.
The hand reached out, grabbed another piece of fruit from the nearby basket, and dragged it inside.
The cabinet door closed again.
From within came the unmistakable sound of squishy chewing.
Munch… Munch…
Monaco stared at the cabinet in silence.
The guard stared at it as well.
"Kimmi..." Harward sighed, already knowing exactly who the perpetrator was.
He stepped forward and slowly opened the cabinet door.
Inside was Kimmi.
The child sat comfortably among displaced bowls and utensils, having transformed the cramped cabinet into her own private dining corner. Pieces of watermelon surrounded her, and she happily scooped handful after handful into her mouth without the slightest concern for the dust, cobwebs, or the chaos she had created.
She paused.
Her cheeks still full, Kimmi looked up at the guard.
For a long moment, the two simply stared at one another.
Then, just briefly, Kimmi's eyes brightened.
A flicker of recognition crossed her face, as though she knew him from somewhere beyond the haze of her wandering thoughts.
Without a word, she reached down, picked up a piece of melon, and extended it toward him.
An offering.
The guard blinked.
"Haaaa..." he sighed. "I wonder how Sir Edward ever managed it. You truly are a walking nightmare." The child merely continued holding out the fruit, waiting patiently for him to accept.
His voice carried no anger, only the weary acceptance of someone who understood Kimmi for what she was.
The child continued holding out the fruit, patiently waiting for him to accept.
The guard finally took it and offered her a small smile.
Kimmi returned to her remaining melon, happily resuming her feast.
Yet, after a while, she lifted her gaze toward the ceiling of her cabinet.
She wondered silently when someone would come to take her home.
'Uuuume…' The small sound escaped her lips.
Perhaps this was home, too.
Cat or cap, reaf or leaf; She cared not, as she feast.
Mark of Oath
Not far from the Myriad Crescent Quarters, upon the highest rooftop overlooking the district, stood Princess Lucia, the Moon Maiden, her golden eyes fixed upon the streets below.
Hundreds of hastily erected shelters stretched across the roads like a sea of multicoloured canvas. Beneath them rested the afflicted, the wounded, and those still awaiting aid. Even from atop the rooftops, their suffering could still be heard.
The cries.
The moans.
The screams.
Gathered behind the princess were two companies of vastly different character. The hooded knights stood in perfect formation, their backs straight, hands resting upon the pommels of their swords, each as motionless and unwavering as a statue carved from stone.
The Night Rangers, by contrast, looked more like a gathering of wandering drifters. Some leaned lazily against chimneys, others perched upon the roof's edge with their legs dangling over the side, while a few exchanged quiet whispers among themselves.
Then came the sound of heavy footsteps from behind.
As two figures approached the Moon Maiden, the idle chatter among the Night Rangers gradually fade.
"My lady, we have returned from our investigation."
The voice pulled Lucia's attention away from the streets below.
"Seward. Has everyone from the affected district been evacuated?" she asked without turning.
Behind her, Paladin Seward lowered his head.
"No, my lady. Many civilians still remain within the affected district. They have refused to evacuate, choosing instead to barricade themselves on the upper floors of their homes. They believe the poison affects only those nearest the ground."
Seward lowered his gaze.
"Ordinarily, the City Guard would have evacuated them by force. However, nearly every garrison stationed within the district fell during the initial outbreak of the poisoned air. The remaining guards have been tasked with securing the perimeter and preparing to repel any further attacks."
Lucia remained silent for a moment, her expression unreadable.
"An airborne poison, is it?" Lucia said at last. "Capable of spreading swiftly across an entire district... yet restrained by nothing more than a difference in height?" Her gaze drifted toward the far edge of the district where the attack had first begun. "Those people fail to realize the very air they breathe may already be poisoned... Yet perhaps there is some wisdom in their actions."
She looked to Seward.
"Do you know of any other explanation?"
Seward hesitated.
"I... do not, my Lady."
"It is possible," another voice answered.
Barbara, one of the Night Rangers, stepped forward with her hands tucked inside her weathered cloak.
"Air settles in layers when the conditions are right. Some vapours are lighter, others heavier. If this poison were denser than the air folk breathe, it'd cling close to the ground instead of rising."
Lucia regarded her carefully.
"You speak with remarkable certainty. Have you witnessed such a phenomenon before, or is this merely conjecture?"
Barbara gave a raspy chuckle.
"I'd sooner bite off my own tongue than lie to a Moon Maiden. Water finds its own layers, and so does the air. Just because your eyes cannot see it doesn't mean it isn't there. Any healer worth the title, or any half-decent chemist, knows the air can be divided by its properties. It's old knowledge. Many a brewing craft depends upon it."
She paused before adding,
"Mind you, that's under controlled conditions. Something on this scale... you'd only expect to witness it upon a battlefield. Still, many things could explain such behaviour, especially when the spread simply stops... as though the source of the threat had vanished."
A sudden realization crossed her face.
"This poison does not travel upon the wind but instead radiates from somewhere."
Lucia's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"You are unusually well informed, Night Ranger Barbara."
Barbara inclined her head with a crooked smile.
"It's just a common knowledge for a decent folk."
Lucia rested her hand upon the pommel of her sword, her gaze sweeping across the shelter below in search of anything unusual.
Any suspicious movement.
Any hidden presence.
Yet what she felt was not danger.
It was something familiar.
A strange sense of longing and yearning stirred within her heart, as though something nearby called out to her from beyond her understanding. She could not explain it, nor could she grasp its meaning.
But she knew one thing.
Her goddess, Lioris, had already whispered in her ear, urging her to uncover the root of this disaster.
Not merely for the sake of justice—but curiosity.
Lucia turned back to Seward.
"Continue your report."
"Yes, My lady." Seward bowed.
"The substance has been confirmed as alchemical in origin. Its source was traced to Warehouse W-23D. Witnesses describe it as a black tar-like liquid from which the poisonous vapours continued to emanate."
"The warehouse itself has already been secured," Paladin Garin continued. "A cleric sealed the source shortly after its discovery. The Ward mages have since strengthened the barrier."
Lucia nodded once.
"And the intruders?"
A brief silence followed.
"Unknown," Garin admitted. "Several suspicious body were discovered within the warehouse, unconscious. However... there were also several imprisoned victims inside. Children among them."
His voice hardened.
"The Ward mages suspect the children were used in some kind of ritual. Though the exact purpose remains unknown... I fear they may have been intended as sacrifices for this foul alchemical working."
Barbara clicked her tongue.
"Tch. Do not confuse alchemy with ritual magic, Paladin," Barbara said with a dry chuckle. "They don't mix kindly... no more than machinery and sorcery do. Bring the two too close together, and something's bound to blow apart."
Garin shot her a hard look.
"You presume much for common rabble."
"And you unseasoned knight," Barbara replied with another dry laugh.
Before either could continue, Lucia raised a hand.
The rooftop fell silent.
"That is enough." Her voice remained calm, yet carried unquestionable authority.
"We shall proceed to the warehouse without delay. I wish to meet the individual who contained this... tar-like substance and spared the city from a greater calamity."
Only then did she look toward Barbara.
"The Night Rangers hold no authority over this investigation. Attend to your own duties."
Barbara merely bowed to Lucia. Then, her eyes fell upon a familiar mark on the princess's arm.
"As you say, Lady Lucia the Moon Maiden." She smiled brightly.
Without another word, the knights, the paladins and the Moon Maiden departed. One by one, they vaulted across the rooftops, their cloaks billowing behind them until they vanished from sight, leaving the Night Rangers to watch from afar.
Barbara let out a quiet chuckle.
"Well now... that's not something you see every day."
She glanced at her squads.
"A Moon Maiden in the flesh. A soon-to-be Night Ranger."
One of the younger rangers scratched the back of his head.
"Mentor... why'd nobles bother becoming Night Rangers anyway? Surely they're not short on coin."
Barbara walked over without a word.
Thunk!
She rapped him smartly on the head with her knuckles.
"You fool! Being a Night Ranger was never about the gold."
"But... that's why heaps of blokes sign up," the young ranger protested, rubbing his head. "Take the oath, get paid. Sounds like a great deal to me."
The others burst into laughter.
"Oh, is that right?" Barbara folded her arms. "So you've taken the Oath then?"
"Course I have!" The ranger proudly rolled up his sleeve and show it to everyone.
A silver circle, faintly luminous, marked his arm.
Barbara's teasing smile softened.
"For all my years... I still envy that mark." Her fingers hovered above it without touching. "To bear Lioris' mark is to carry a blessing as Night Ranger."
Her expression grew stern.
"But remember this... that mark shall never fade until your vow is fulfilled. Fail in your duty, and you shall suffer a terrible fate."
She straightened her back and clapped her hands once.
"Right then!"
"The day's still young, winter hasn't gone anywhere, and those legs aren't going to run themselves. Now... move it!"
With cheerful groans and scattered laughter, the Night Rangers departed across the rooftops in the opposite direction of the Moon Maiden's company. With ease, they cast their grappling hooks, swinging effortlessly from wall to wall as they vanished into the city.
The oath is sealed, through duty shall it yield.