We searched until the sky bled out its last color.
The arena's lower walkways, the judges' platforms, every hidden stairwell and shadowed nook—I swept through them all. Alfon at my side, stumbling, guilt-ridden. Two city guards joined us eventually. Another mage came. Nothing.
No sign of Garret.No trace.Not even a shoeprint that hadn't already been trampled by hundreds.
Not a single thread to pull.
By the time the torches were lit along the coliseum archways, we'd checked the seats three times. Alfon had brought me back to the exact spot.
The practice blade lay where he'd left it—propped awkwardly against the stone like a discarded stick.
Clean. Unscuffed.Untouched.
Whoever took him knew how to vanish.
And I hated them for being good at it.
We continued to search into the dead of night and returned to the orphanage past midnight.
The city was still alive behind us—festival drums, glowing banners, distant laughter. But it all sounded far away. Distant. Unreal.
As we reached the orphanage gate, Alfon lingered beside me.
"I—I should go," he said, his voice shaking, eyes red from crying and panicking. "My escorts are waiting, and they say my dad is also waiting."
I turned to face him. His immaculate tunic was wrinkled, his sash nearly falling off. The proud noble's son looked haggard and still shaken from what had just happened.
He looked at me, and for once, there was no grin.. Just a promise.
"I'll talk to my father," he shakily said. "Tomorrow morning. He'll help in the search."
I didn't speak.
"I mean it, Eamond. I'll make sure Dad helps us. If Garret's still in the city, we'll find him."
His voice cracked at the last word, and he seemed to start crying.
I gave a single nod. "Do it."
He cried. "I'm sorry. I should-'ve pai-d more at-tention." I quickly patted the kid's head.
"You can't fix what's already done," I said calmly. "And even if you were there, you would've been captured too."
Alfon nodded, wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, and turned away. His escorts wordlessly formed a triangle around him as they disappeared into the lower streets, green sashes swaying in rhythm.
Then I turned back and pushed open the orphanage gate.
The others were waiting in the courtyard.
Lysandra stood first, eyes searching my face. "Anything?"
I shook my head once.
Vale's jaw tightened. Jake looked away. Syd sat with his arms curled around his knees, eyes rimmed red. Link, for once, said nothing.
I felt them watching me, hoping for something I didn't have.
I wanted to give them orders. Make them move. Assign a task. Anything but this silence.
But even I couldn't force a lead out of thin air.
"I filed the report," I said, voice like sand. "The city guard has a full description. The tracking mage couldn't catch a trail. It's like he was never there."
Link looked up slowly. "So he's just… gone?"
"He's not gone," I snapped, sharper than I meant to.
He flinched. I swallowed the rest of it. "He's missing. That's different."
No one replied. Not right away.
Even the wind didn't move through the courtyard. Just stillness. That heavy, hollow stillness where a boy should've been sitting, talking about sword grips and tempo changes.
Syd rubbed his eyes. "What if they hurt him?"
"They won't," Vale said quickly. Too quickly.
Jake sat back against the pillar. "You don't know that."
"No," I muttered. "But we'll find him."
Lysandra exhaled hard. "And how, exactly, are you planning to do that? We have some money to bribe informants. Some magic. The guard thinks it's a petty squabble or runaway."
"They're wrong."
"Eamond…" she said, softer now. "You look like you're about to break something."
"I might," I replied.
She studied me for a second, then sat down beside the others.
Jake nodded slowly. "I'll check the festival square. The delivery crews are always whispering. Maybe someone saw something weird."
Vale crossed his arms. "We split the districts. Quiet questions. Small circles. We'll find something."
I didn't thank them. I just nodded.
But something still scraped at the inside of my chest.
It wasn't fear. Not exactly. I didn't think Garret was dead.
But I hated not knowing.And worse—I hated that I hadn't been there.That I'd let him walk off. I trusted it would be fine.
I stood alone long after the others had gone inside, the courtyard dimly lit by a single hanging lantern.
Above me, the stars were distant. Too far to help.
And in my mind, I saw the system interface flicker softly, unbidden:
[Side Objective: Raise a Sword Master — Status: Interrupted]
[New Status Added: Failure Risk — High]
[Karma Drain Imminent]
[Time Limit: Unknown]
I stared at the words until they faded.
Then I turned and went inside.
I didn't sleep.
I planned.
Third POV
Far from the cheers of the warm lights of the festival, deep inside the back alleys of the city, Garret stirred.
Stone walls pressed in around him—old, damp, and cold. The air was thick with the scent of mildew, iron, and stale torch smoke. There were no windows. No sun. Just flickering orange light cast by enchanted sconces that lined the crumbling corridor outside his cell.
He was tied to a wooden chair with thick cords biting into his wrists and ankles. A gag was strapped around his mouth, and though his head throbbed and his limbs ached, his eyes were clear.
Alert.
Afraid.
And panicking.
He'd woken up here hours ago—how many, he couldn't tell. They had drugged him. Something slipped into his drink or was forced onto a cloth.
He remembered the blur of the crowd, the warmth of the sun, the sound of a match beginning—and then a sharp, dizzying scent. A hand grabbed him. Darkness.
Now this.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Heavy, armored, deliberate. Garret lifted his head just slightly.
Three figures entered the chamber.
The first two were the ones who'd taken him. He recognized their boots—their gait. Tall, broad men in dark traveling cloaks, faces partially obscured by cloth wraps and shadow. They smelled of dust and steel and foreign oil.
The third man was different.
He walked with the smooth precision of a commander. His cloak was better kept, boots polished, voice quiet—but commanding.
The leader.
Garret tensed as the man approached him, giving him a cursory glance before turning to the others.
"Well?" the leader asked.
"He matches the description, boss," one of the goons said. "Boy, medium height, noble, and he was in the Arena as well as surrounded by the Marquess' knights."
The leader's eyes narrowed.
"Description," he repeated, stepping closer to Garret. His gaze swept over him—not cruel, but calculating. Measuring him like a piece of poorly cut lumber. "Does he look like someone born to a noble?"
The goons exchanged uncertain glances.
"Hard to say, boss."
"Of course it is. Because this isn't the right child."
The leader stepped forward, slow and deliberate. He stared at Garret—eyes raking over him, dissecting, calculating. Not with cruelty. With disinterest.
Garret flinched under the weight of it.
"This one's skin is too rough," the leader murmured. "Posture—too sloppy. Nails bitten. Tunic worn twice over."
He turned to his men.
"This," he said coldly, "is the wrong child."
Silence.
Thick. Suffocating.
The second goon spoke up, voice too quick. "But—he was there, just like the tip said. Surrounded by the Marquess' men—"
The leader turned slowly to face them, his expression unreadable.
"Did it occur to either of you that multiple children might sit in a noble-assigned seat during a public festival?"
"Well—" the first goon started.
The leader clicked his tongue. "We do not get second chances. You've brought me the wrong boy. And now someone—possibly someone important—knows he's missing."
Garret's breathing quickened behind the gag.
"No excuses. We don't get second chances in this line of work. You just brought me the wrong boy. And now someone knows he's missing."
Garret stiffened as the leader's gaze flicked back to him.
"Look at him," he continued. "Tied up like a smuggler's wine barrel. Frightened, but not broken. That's not the boy I asked for."
"Should we… get rid of him?" one of the goons asked, hesitantly.
The leader's expression darkened, but he shook his head. His angry face changed into an amused and dark grin
"No. Not yet. If we release him now, he'll scream the entire city down. And if we kill him, we have to hide a body and deal with an angry noble house if we guess wrong."
He turned back toward the corridor.
"Lock the door. Move him to the far chamber. I'll decide what to do with him after we clean up this mess."
Garret's heart pounded harder.
The men obeyed silently, one of them already moving behind him. The ropes tightened as he was dragged from the chair.
The leader didn't look back as he walked away.
"Stupid mistake," he muttered. "Let's pray it doesn't cost us everything. But on the bright side, I might have gotten an extra merchandise to sell," he said while licking his lip.
"Though I have to measure the worth of such merchandise, hehehe."
The torches dimmed as they vanished down the corridor, leaving Garret in shadows again—gagged, bound, and very much aware:
Whoever they were, they hadn't taken him on purpose.
And that meant he wasn't just in danger.
He was expendable, and that was even worse.