Theron stood in the center of the dead-end alley like he’d been planted there, brown hair catching the thin light that filtered down between the buildings. Around him, six or seven children fanned out in a rough half-circle - each gripping makeshift weapons that would have been laughable if their hands weren’t shaking. Kitchen knives. Wooden sticks worn smooth from use.

The pickpocket stood among them now, chest heaving from the chase, one hand still curled protectively around whatever he’d stuffed into his pocket.

“Theron.” The name came out flat, more statement than greeting. “What are you doing here?”

Theron turned toward him. His brown eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across his earnest face before settling into something that might have been relief. “Celvian! A fortunate meeting.” He gestured toward the children with an open hand. “One of these young ones came to me in the market. Said they needed help. That someone was hurt and they didn’t know what to do.” A pause. “So I followed.”

Cel exhaled slowly through his nose.

Of course he had.

Understanding crystallized with the kind of certainty that left no room for doubt.

“You were tricked,” Cel said.

Theron’s brow furrowed. “Tricked?”

“Yes.” Cel’s gaze flicked toward the children.

“That can’t be.” Theron shook his head, certainty settling back over his features like a shield locking into place. “She seemed genuinely frightened. I know fear when I see it.”

Cel didn’t bother arguing further. He turned instead, addressing the problem that mattered more.

“Why are you here then?” Theron asked before Cel could act, tilting his head with open curiosity.

“I was robbed.” The words came clipped. “A boy ran into me and took my coins. And something else.” His eyes found the pickpocket again, the boy shrinking slightly under the attention. “I followed him here.”

Understanding didn’t quite reach Theron’s face. He opened his mouth - probably to ask another—

A tall boy stepped forward instead, stick raised, voice cracking somewhere between command and desperation. “Both of you. Empty your belongings. Everything you’ve got.” He swallowed hard, jaw setting with the kind of forced resolve that came from having no other options left. “Do that, and nobody gets hurt.”

Silence pressed into the alley’s narrow space.

Cel looked at the boy. Then at the stick, thin and unremarkable, the kind of branch that snapped if you looked at it too hard.

“You picked the wrong person.”

Silent Moon materialized in his grip with its familiar weight, violet steel catching what little light reached down into the alley.

The reaction was immediate.

Sticks lowered. Knives dropped, clattering against stone. Children who’d been standing their ground moments before scrambled backward, pressing themselves against the walls, eyes gone wide with the particular terror of people who understood exactly what they were looking at.

A Chosen.

Someone who could end all of them without breaking a sweat.

Only the tall boy held his position. His stick trembled in his grip, breathing gone ragged, but his feet stayed planted where they were. Fear lived plainly on his face - Cel could see it, the same fear he’d worn a hundred times himself, dressed up as something else because admitting it outright meant losing whatever ground you had left to stand on.

“Celvian.” Theron’s voice cut through, sharper than Cel had heard it before. “What in the God’s name are you doing?”

“Taking back what’s mine.” The words came out flat, unbothered. “Obviously.”

“You can’t.” Theron moved between him and the children. “Look at them. Look at what they’re wearing, how thin their arms are. These aren’t criminals. They’re stealing because they have to.”

“And?” Cel stared at him.

“We should help them.” Theron’s earnestness had hardened into something more like conviction, his brown eyes carrying the particular light of a man who’d already decided how the story should end. He turned toward the children then, his voice softening into something meant to reassure. “None of you need to be afraid. You can keep the coins. All of them.”

“What? No!” Cel’s voice cracked sharp across the alley.

Theron blinked at him, genuinely startled by the objection.

“Those are my things you’re giving away.” Cel’s jaw worked, frustration climbing fast. “You don’t get to decide that. You don’t even know what you’re deciding.”

“I’m simply asking that we show mercy—”

“They’re not keeping it anyway.” Cel cut him off, the words coming faster.

Theron’s expression shifted. “What do you mean?”

“You think a street gang trains children to steal and lets them walk away with the profit?” He gestured at children. “Someone’s running this. Some adult who found hungry kids and gave them a reason to risk their necks, and takes almost everything they bring back.”

Theron’s face went through several expressions in quick succession - confusion, disbelief, something that finally settled into horror.

“That’s...” His voice had lost its certainty entirely. “That’s monstrous.”

“It’s common.” Cel’s tone stayed flat, unimpressed by the revelation that seemed to be reshaping something fundamental in Theron’s understanding of the world. “Every city has some version of it. Poor children are easy to exploit because they have nothing else.”

“Then we must help them.” Theron’s conviction returned, transformed now, sharper and more urgent. “If they’re being used - forced into this - that makes it worse. We should find whoever’s responsible. Free these children from whatever hold they have over them.”

“That’s not my problem.”

The words landed harder than Cel intended, but he didn’t take them back.

Theron stared at him like he’d said something in a language that he couldn’t understand.

“How is it not your problem?” Theron stepped closer, earnestness radiating from every line of his body. “These children are victims. Someone’s exploiting them. We’re Chosen - we have the power to help. How can you just walk away from that?”

“Because fixing every broken thing in Stella isn’t my responsibility.” The words came sharper than intended. “I have my own problems.”

They stood there, opposite convictions filling the narrow space between them like something physical.

Eventually Cel stepped forward, moving past Theron toward the tall boy, intent on finishing what he’d started before this conversation had derailed into philosophy.

Theron’s hand caught his arm.

Not hard. Not violent. Just firm.

Cel’s eyes cut toward him.

For a moment, something hot and immediate rose in his chest - the old instinct, the one that had put Kyros through a dormitory floor. The urge to shrug off the hand and make clear exactly what happened to people who put themselves between him and what he wanted.

Then a different thought arrived, cold and calculating.

Theron wasn’t just another student. He was the All-Blessed. The only person since the empire’s founding to receive marks from all seven deities. The center of the succession crisis that currently fractured the royal family into competing factions.

Making an enemy of Theron meant making an enemy of the Life Clan faction backing him. Which would be monumentally stupid.

The anger drained out of him, replaced by something tired and resigned.

Cel exhaled and dismissed Silent Moon with a thought.

“Fine.” The word came out clipped. He looked past Theron toward the children. “Keep the money.” His eyes found the pickpocket instead. “But I want the necklace back.”

The boy hesitated, glancing toward the tall one for permission. Something passed between them - a small nod, reluctant but final. The boy reached into his pocket, pulled out the cloth-wrapped shape, and held it out at arm’s length like it might bite him.

Cel crossed the distance and took it. Unwrapped enough to confirm the crescent shape still sat intact. Then he tucked it away, out of reach of anyone else’s quick hands.

Theron watched the exchange with an expression that had already forgiven everything.

“I knew it,” he said, something warm and pleased threading through his voice. “I knew you were a good person underneath all that scowling.”

Cel didn’t answer.

He turned and walked out of the alley, leaving Theron alone with the half-circle of frightened children.

He wasn't sure when the decision had been made - only that his feet had carried him toward the Golden Hart before the rest of him caught up. By the time he reached it, the sun had dropped low enough that the street outside had gone the color of old rust, shadows stretching long across cobblestones still warm from the day. His mood had curdled somewhere between the alley and here, souring further with every step.

Pushing the door open, warmth and noise rolled out to meet him - the familiar hum of conversation, the clink of tankards, the smell of roasted meat and spilled ale that had become, somehow, one of the few scents in this city that felt like something pleasant.

“There he is!” One of the regulars raised a tankard in greeting from his usual table. Another voice called out something similar from near the hearth, a woman who always asked after his week whether or not he answered.

Cel didn’t respond. Didn’t have the words in him right now, or the patience to perform whatever version of friendliness the moment required. He crossed the room and settled onto his usual stool at the bar.

The barkeeper appeared without being summoned, broad shoulders filling the space behind the counter like they always did. “The usual?”

“No.” The word came out flatter than he’d meant it.

The bartender’s eyebrows rose. Surprise flickered across his weathered features. “That’s a first.” He paused, studying Cel’s expression with the kind of assessment that came from years of reading customers. “What’s wrong?”

Cel considered for a moment.

“I’m out of coin.” He said plainly. “Don’t ask. It’s not worth the story.”

The barkeeper studied him a moment longer, clearly weighing whether to push. Then he shrugged, the motion settling his broad shoulders back into their usual ease. “Fair enough. Man’s got a right to his own business.”

Cel's hands rested flat against the counter's worn wood. "Keep me company instead. What do you know about the Life Clan and their territory?"