Eldam Square was far louder than ever.
Hammers rang against anvils, carts rattled over stone, and voices rose and fell in easy conversation. The square smelled of baked bread, coal smoke, and hot iron.
Xeno moved through the bustling street effortlessly.
Austin's Smithy sat near the edge of the square, modest and unassuming. Its wooden sign, burned with the simple image of a hammer and horseshoe, creaked gently in the breeze. The forge inside glowed warm and steady, a comforting orange warmth that felt almost alive.
Xeno pushed the door open.
Heat wrapped around him instantly, thick with the scent of iron and soot. Sparks jumped from the forge as a hammer struck metal in practiced rhythm. Without slowing, Xeno reached into his coat and flicked an apple across the room towards the person.
Otto caught it one-handed.
The man was in his early twenties, tall and broad, muscles earned through years of honest labor. His brown hair stuck out in every direction, damp with sweat, and his sleeveless shirt was streaked with ash. He looked up just in time to smirk.
"Missed me if you'd tried," Otto said.
"You're getting slow."
From the back of the shop came a warm chuckle.
Mr. Austin stepped into view. He was nearly identical to Otto—same build, same eyes— but his hair was threaded with gray, and his movements were far slower.
"Well," he said kindly, "I was hoping you didn't cause too much trouble on Gramsby Street today."
Xeno lifted his hands in mock innocence. "Please don't worry about me, Mr. Austin."
Otto snorted. "That's never reassuring."
Mr. Austin only smiled, placing a hand briefly on Xeno's shoulder as he guided him toward the back room. "Come. You look like you could use a proper meal."
The forge's roar faded behind them as they stepped into the small living space attached to the shop. It was simple— a wooden table, some mismatched chairs of different heights and different types of wood (one was even metal!), shelves lined with tools and old books—but it radiated warmth in a way no street ever could.
Xeno sat without being told.
Food was placed in front of him quickly. He ate quietly, while Mr. Austin leaned against the counter, watching him with soft eyes.
"It's good to see you like this," he said after a moment. "Hard to believe how far you've come."
Xeno didn't look up.
"Twelve years ago," Mr. Austin continued, voice quieter now, "when Otto and I went down to Beggar's Hole to donate the extra food from the CrownFall Jubilee… I didn't think you'd survive the night."
Xeno's grip tightened slightly on his fork.
Otto crossed the room and added a few roasted potatoes to Xeno's plate and Xeno grimaced immediately.
"You don't have to pretend," Otto said dryly. "I know you hate them."
"I tolerate them," Xeno muttered.
"That's hate with extra steps."
The forge crackled faintly through the wall. Outside, the square continued on, unaware. There came a silence, when a few minutes later, Otto broke it first.
"Wait. It really was exactly twelve years ago, wasn't it?"
Mr. Austin nodded. "Yes. Almost to the week."
Otto glanced toward the doorway. "Then that means…"
"The CrownFall Jubilee," Mr. Austin finished, smiling faintly. "It'll be held again soon. Probably within the week."
Xeno paused mid-bite.
The warmth of the room lingered as Xeno pushed his plate away, the last of the potatoes untouched. He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, gaze drifting toward the ceiling beams darkened by years of smoke.
"I know about the CrownFall Jubilee," he said suddenly. "I just… don't know what it actually is."
Mr. Austin paused.
"It's the one celebration," he said carefully after some tome, "where rich and poor stand side by side. Or at least, that's how it's told."
Xeno glanced at him now.
"Every six years, the noble houses of Lioren, old and new, big and small, present their participants. Most are taken from the Second Ring."
Otto leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Taken is a generous word."
Mr. Austin ignored the interruption, though his eyes softened.
"The nobles claim it's an honor. They adopt these children, give them their house names, dress them in silks and gold. For one day, they're paraded through the city as official members of noble blood."
Xeno frowned slightly. "Why the Second Ring?"
"Because desperation is easy to dress as hope," Mr. Austin replied. "The poor believe it's a way out. A chance to escape debt and the shackles of being born with nothing."
"Yeah. Freedom," Otto scoffed and pushed off the wall, his jaw tight. "It's all bullshit. Every last bit of it. No one ever hears from those 'participants' again. No letters. No visits. Nothing."
The air felt heavier now. "They vanish. Every six years. Like clockwork."
Xeno's fingers curled slowly against the table.
"And people still celebrate?"
At this, Mr. Austin sighed.
"People celebrate because the alternative is admitting something is wrong—and that's far more frightening."
That night, Xeno slept lightly.
---------------------------
The next morning, the city felt different.
The streets buzzed with preparation. Banners were being hung, guards were stationed where none had stood before, and patrols were moving in pairs instead of alone. Xeno slipped out of Austin's Smithy just after dawn, stretching as he stepped into the cool air.
"Oi."
He turned to see Otto standing in the doorway, wiping soot from his hands.
"Lessen the snatching," Otto said. "Just for now."
Xeno raised a brow. "Since when do you tell me how to work?"
Otto jerked his chin toward the street, where armored guards marched past. "Since CrownFall Jubilee's in a few days and security's tighter than a miser's purse."
Xeno followed his gaze, eyes narrowing slightly.
"City's on edge," Otto added. "Don't give them a reason to notice you."
Xeno smirked faintly. "I never do."
Otto snorted. "That's what worries me."
Xeno stepped backward into the street, hands tucked into his coat, the shadows already welcoming him back. "Relax," he said. "I'll behave."
Otto didn't look convinced.
As Xeno melted into the flow of the city, banners fluttered overhead– bright, cheerful, and heavy with meaning.
And somewhere beneath it, something, or something waited.