Violet knocked twice on the frame before easing the door open. The familiar creak of old hinges answered back, but no Amaryn.

  Then her voice called out from beyond the house interior. “Out back!”

  Violet stepped in, letting the door close behind her. The place still smelled like sun-warmed wood and steeped herbs. She crossed through the quiet main room and made her way to the rear door, hooves clicking lightly on the old stone floor.

  Outside, Amaryn was crouched by a half-shaded planter bed, her sleeves rolled up and fingers deep in dry soil. A few pale shoots poked through the mulch. Nearby, a chipped watering can sat beside a pile of empty seed packets.

  “I thought you said you weren’t that good of a gardener,” Violet said, leaning against the doorframe.

  Amaryn looked up with a wry smile. “Yeah, but I keep coming back to it. Who knows, maybe it’ll do better this time.”

  “Amalia’s not a half bad gardener, you should ask her for some tips.”

  Amaryn hesitated before responding. “Your sister is… very funny.” She sounded honest. “I saw her out hiking the other day with the biggest gun I’ve ever seen in my life strapped to her back. She looked like she was having the time of her life.”

  Violet laughed a little. “Yeah, we’ve got a pregnant creature of myth in our ship and she’s letting Amalia train to use her favorite sniper rifle.”

  Amaryn eyed her for a moment. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

  They shared a small, easy silence—one of many they’d learned to let sit between words.

  Amaryn glanced back toward the house. “No Tamiyo today?”

  Violet shook her head. “Nah. She said to say ‘hi,’ but she’s helping the myth with her nesting.”

  Amaryn laughed softly, brushing dirt from her hands. “She’s sweet. I like her.”

  “She is,” Violet agreed.

  Amaryn stood and stretched her back with a quiet groan. “I’m glad you came, I’ve been enjoying your visits.”

  Amaryn hadn’t given Aurania an answer yet, about if she wanted to leave Mol’eyne with them. There was no pressure from anyone but the clock, but they still had two weeks before they were supposed to leave.

  They returned inside Amaryn’s house to sit and talk over tea. Inside, the little house was cool and quiet, a welcome break from the dust-glare outside. Amaryn moved with habitual grace, setting a kettle on the stovetop and retrieving two mismatched cups from a shelf above the sink. Violet took her usual seat at the small wooden table, one hoof nudging the chair leg into place as she settled in. A faint breeze drifted through the open window, stirring the curtain and carrying in the scent of soil and lavender.

  “You know,” Violet said after a moment, “we’ve been in Boadicea two weeks now, and I think we’ve officially passed the ‘quiet frontier charm’ phase.”

  Amaryn smiled as she set the tea down. “So what phase are we at now, then?”

  “The one where I want a decent shower.” Violet accepted the cup. “But updating the plumbing is Brana’s current project, and she’s using it to show some of the more tech-savvy d’moria around here how to turn a wrench, so hopefully soon.”

  Violet took a sip of the tea. It was bitter and earthy, but oddly soothing. “Bridge is nearly repaired too,” she added.

  “You all work fast,” Amaryn said with a gentle smile.

  “Doesn’t feel that way, sometimes,” Violet responded with a slight head tilt. “Venlin’s not exactly rolling out the welcome mat.”

  Amaryn sat down across from her, expression thoughtful. “What makes you say that?”

  “Anytime we check in with him to update him on repairs, he always acts like we’ve interrupted something sacred. Cold shoulder, clipped answers, never says what he’s thinking. I get the feeling more and more like he doesn't want us there.”

  She sipped the tea again, then held it just in front of her face, absorbing the scent as she thought.

  “Amalia even said she’s starting to agree with the rest of us. She had been hoping he’d turn out to be a misunderstood dreamboat.” Violet gave a short laugh. “Said it with this look like someone had just kicked her puppy.”

  Amaryn's smile turned faint. “She’s charming. Direct.”

  “She’s honest,” Violet said. “She loves good, honest men, and likes to see the best in people. But she hates when someone fakes it.”

  Violet caught Amaryn’s gaze for a moment. “I don’t mean to trash your mayor. What’s your take on Venlin?”

  A small silence passed between them. Then Amaryn shook her head gently. “I haven’t spoken with him much. I keep to myself, mostly, I could probably count on one hand how many times we’ve spoken since Morgan passed. I wish I could be more help… Sorry.”

  Violet set her cup down. “Nothing to apologize for, Amaryn.” She let out a sigh, then said: “Maybe tomorrow will bring more answers.”

  Amaryn looked at her with curiosity. “Something special about tomorrow?”

  “Sort of,” Violet said. “The Liberty Union has more supplies being sent over and we’ll be escorting the convoy into town.”

  “And you’re expecting trouble?”

  “We’d be stupid not to.” Violet’s tone was dry, but her posture had stiffened slightly. “Every time something valuable moves in or out of Boadicea, someone shows up to try and take a bite. We don’t know who’s feeding them intel, but it keeps happening. It’s too consistent, and too damn clean. There have been some minor injuries, but no one has been killed in any of the recent attacks.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” Amaryn sounded nervous.

  “Yes, and no. It’s not like I want people to die, on either side. But the fact that they can get in and out so simply with so few hiccups is extremely suspicious.”

  Amaryn didn’t speak right away. Her hands had gone still around her cup. Then she stood up quietly, and said, “I’ll be right back.”

  She went into the room where her bed was and returned after several moments carrying a medium-sized wooden box. It was stained a deep walnut and carved with soft, flowing patterns—d’moria craftsmanship, or something close. She held it close as she walked back to Violet.

  “I think I’d like to finally show you Morgan’s statue.”

  Violet blinked. “What, now?”

  Amaryn nodded. “Now’s the perfect time.”

  They left the house together just as the last of the afternoon light began to stretch long and gold across the dusty road. Amaryn carried the wooden box carefully, tucked against her chest with both arms. Violet didn’t ask what was inside, she figured Amaryn would tell her when she was ready.

  Boadicea was quieter than usual. A few locals moved between buildings, dragging toolkits or water barrels or coils of wire. Someone’s child chased a fat beetle across the road. Off in the distance, the windmill turned with a low groan, steady and tired. Violet’s hooves crunched softly over gravel and dirt as they walked in step.

  They followed a path past the edge of town, where the bluff dropped away into a stretch of pale, sun-bleached field. At the top of the ridge stood the statue.

  It wasn’t particularly tall or grand—just a life-sized likeness of the thick-bearded d’moria man in a bronze-silver alloy already dulled by wind and time. He wore a long coat and an old-style wide-brimmed hat, the kind that marked him as the wanderer he had been. Whomever had crafted the statue had also stylized him with large stag antlers growing out the sides of his hat. The effect was striking. Odd, but respectful.

  A plaque sat at the base of the statue, displaying the words:

  Saint Morgan — He Was a Good Man.

  Violet stood quietly beside Amaryn, hands clasped lightly in front of her. “You said you two hadn’t been here long when he passed?”

  Amaryn nodded. “Just over a year. But he really made an impact on the town.” She looked up at the statue. “He helped keep people safe. Helped fix things. He had this… steady presence. Like he knew what needed to be done before anyone else did.”

  “Sounds like someone worth remembering.”

  “Most people around here think so.” Amaryn smiled faintly. “It’s become a habit—before someone leaves town, or takes a dangerous job, they stop by. Not exactly to pray. Just to… ask for him to watch over them. Help keep them safe.”

  Violet glanced sideways at her. “Do you think he’s still out there? Watching over people?”

  Amaryn hesitated. “I don’t know. I’d like to think so. It’s comforting, even if it’s not true.” She turned toward Violet. “Do you think it’s possible? That someone could still watch over the people they cared about?”

  Violet looked out across the fields, eyes narrowing slightly. Her chest felt a little tight at the question. “I’m not the spiritual type. Never really was. But…”

  She paused, her voice softening. “We lost someone recently. Someone who… protected people, even when it cost him everything. If anyone would stick around to make sure the people he cared about were okay, it’d be him.”

  Amaryn’s voice was quiet. “Then maybe they’re looking after both of us right now. Together.”

  Violet exhaled slowly, feeling tears start to well up in her eyes. She held them back, and said, “I hope so.”

  Amaryn knelt and set the carved box down gently in the dry grass near the statue’s base. Her fingers hovered over the lid for a moment before she opened it.

  Inside, nestled in dark cloth, was a weapon unlike any Violet had ever seen up close.

  It had the silhouette of a revolver, but nothing about it was old-fashioned. Sleek and brutal, the gun had a heavy barrel and a deep nickel finish dulled slightly by time. The grip was dark, polished, and etched with the faint outline of a stag skull—simple, but unmistakable. Along the slide, just above the chamber, a name had been engraved in careful lettering:

  Morgan’s Mercy.

  Violet crouched beside her, breath caught in her throat. “This is…” She didn’t finish the sentence. She reached out, then paused—almost afraid to touch it.

  Amaryn nodded toward the weapon. “He never named it, but people started calling it that after he died. Said it sounded like the kind of thing he’d say. ‘Mercy, if I can give it. Justice, if I can’t.’”

  Violet’s hand finally settled on the weapon, and she lifted it from its case. It was heavier than it looked, solid and balanced. Not just a gun, but a legacy.

  Amaryn took a spare magazine from the box and passed it to her.

  Violet turned it over in her hand, inspecting it. The slugs were thick—ten millimeters wide and three centimeters long, all muscle and no casing. The magazine itself was built solid, with venting grooves down the sides.

  Amaryn spoke quietly beside her. “The mag acts as a heat sink. No shell casings to eject, but… don’t touch it after a full load unless you like second-degree burns.”

  Violet gave a low whistle. “This is… beautiful.” Then a thought occurred to her. She cocked an eyebrow at Amaryn. “I thought you said your group just traveled around looking for work.”

  She gave a small shrug. “Didn’t say what kind of work.”

  “Uh huh.” Violet’s eyes returned to the magnificent hand-cannon. “This is a work of art, Amaryn. But if you’re offering this to me, I couldn’t possibly take it from you.”

  Amaryn met her eyes. “I’ve never been that good of a shot. Morgan tried teaching me a couple times—I always messed something up. I kept it because it reminded me of him. But…” she paused, and looked up at Morgan’s face.

  “I think if Morgan saw how you’ve been checking on me, he’d be thankful. And he’d want you to have this. To make sure you stay safe tomorrow. Please.”

  Violet stared at the gun a long moment. What would Elias tell me to do here?

  She finally nodded. “Alright. I’ll put it to good use.”

  Amaryn reached into the box once more and pulled out a bundle of deep brown leather, folded with care. She unfolded it slowly, revealing a belt rig and matching skirt—stylized in frontier fashion, but with a tailored cut that immediately caught Violet’s eye.

  The belt was old, but the leather was smooth and shaped like it remembered the one who used to wear it. It was covered in sturdy loops designed to hold spare magazines, with hand-tooled detailing down the edges—symbols Violet didn’t fully recognize, but that looked d’moria or maybe even lacravida in origin.

  “This was Morgan’s,” Amaryn said. “I… reshaped it. Recut the skirt from his old armor-weave coat. I didn’t want it to just sit in a box forever.”

  Violet ran a hand down the edge of the skirt, eyes soft. The fabric was weighty but flexible, with thin plating sewn beneath the seams for movement-ready protection. Even with its rugged design, the skirt still managed to flow with style—cinched at the waist, flared just enough to look like something Violet would actually wear.

  “You made this for me?”

  Amaryn nodded. “I know you like to look good when you work. And I figured… if you’re going to carry Morgan’s gun, you might as well look like you were born to wear it.”

  Violet gave a short, breathy laugh, then stood and stepped into the skirt, adjusting the belt until it sat just right on her hips. She holstered Morgan’s Mercy in a smooth, instinctive motion, the weight of it settling against her side like it belonged there.

  She looked down, gave herself a once-over, then looked back at Amaryn.

  “Thank you, Amaryn,” she said, her voice low but firm. “I mean it.”

  A quiet beat passed between them, the breeze tugging gently at Violet’s hair and the hem of the skirt.

  “I gotta show Riza this fucking thing,” Violet said with a wide grin. “She’s gonna lose her mind.”

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