Chapter 89: In the alley
The marketplace was crowded, loud, and busy. Vendors shouted prices. Metal clanged as coins exchanged hands. The smell of bread, meat, and oil hung in the air. People pushed past one another without apology. Children ran between stalls, laughing, dodging adults who barely noticed them.
Near a stone well at the edge of the market, four young wolves sat on the ground in a loose circle. They were between five and seven years old. Their clothes were worn and patched. Small stones were arranged in careful lines on the dirt between them. They were playing an old game taught to them by elders and travelers. The goal was simple: outthink the other players and claim the last piece.
A boy with short dark hair and scraped knees made the final move. He stared at the stones for a second, then placed one down.
"I win," he said.
The other children leaned forward. A small piece of bread, wrapped in brown paper, lay beside the stones. It had been the prize, agreed upon before they started.
"That’s not right," said another boy, slightly taller, about six years old. "You moved two stones."
"I didn’t," the first boy said quickly. He grabbed the bread before anyone could stop him.
"You cheated!" the taller boy shouted. He lunged forward and grabbed the other boy’s arm.
The winner shoved him hard. The taller boy fell backward into the dirt.
Before anyone could react, the winning boy turned and ran.
"Thief!" one of the girls yelled as she stood up.
The others followed, shouting as they chased him through the market. People glanced down but didn’t intervene. Children fought over food often enough.
The boy ran past the tavern, dodging a drunk man who cursed at him. He slipped between two stalls and turned into an alley that cut behind the storage buildings. The alley was narrow and shadowed even during the day. At night, no one went there unless they had to.
He stopped suddenly. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat.
A body lay twisted against the wall. One arm bent at an angle that didn’t look right. The legs were uneven. Dark veins spread across the skin like stains. Black, dried blood ran from the eyes and mouth. A knife was buried deep in the chest.
The boy stared. The bread slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. Then he screamed. The sound was sharp and high. His body locked up. Liquid spread through his trousers as fear took over. He didn’t move. He couldn’t.
The other children reached him seconds later. They froze when they saw what he was looking at.
"There’s a dead body!" one of them screamed.
The oldest boy, about seven, grabbed the younger one by the arm. "Don’t look," he shouted. "Run!"
He dragged the shaking boy away as the others scattered, screaming and crying as they ran back toward the market.
Their shouts drew attention immediately.
"What happened?"
"Why are they screaming?"
People turned. Some followed the sound. Others tried to pull the children back to safety.
"There’s a dead man in the alley!" one child shouted.
A group of adults rushed toward the alley. A few men pushed ahead, forcing space through the crowd.
Someone gasped loudly when they saw the body.
A tough-looking man with broad shoulders and scarred hands pushed through the gathering people. His face hardened as soon as he saw the corpse.
"It’s Strega," he said.
The name spread quickly.
"What?"
"No..."
"Not Strega."
The man crouched beside the body. He reached out and gently closed the dead man’s eyes.
Murmurs broke out around them.
"What happened to him?"
"He was fine yesterday."
"Who would do this?"
Everyone in the market knew Strega. He was the village drunk. Loud, rude, and often smelling of ale. Merchants chased him away, but the children loved him. He told them stories. He taught them letters and numbers scratched into dirt. He spoke of history, of laws, of things noble children learned in private halls.
"He didn’t deserve this," a woman said quietly.
Another woman began to cry. "Look at his veins."
"This isn’t normal," someone said.
"His blood is black," another added.
A man backed away, fear on his face. "That’s how the Wanderers kill. They drain essence."
That word caused panic.
"No."
"You shouldn’t say that."
"I heard it’s how they leave bodies."
"They are already in Lycanthria. Strega mentioned it at the tavern."
People started talking over one another.
"The royal house said we were safe."
"They lied."
"Didn’t you hear about the bonding ceremony?"
"They said something went wrong."
"I heard soldiers died."
"This is punishment."
A woman screamed suddenly. "Truly a monster did this!"
The word monster spread quickly. People began to shout. Some grabbed their children and pulled them close. Others argued loudly.
"Where are the guards?"
"Why isn’t the palace protecting us?"
"The king sits in comfort while we die in the streets!"
The noise grew louder until a new sound cut through it.
Boots. Heavy and steady.
People turned as a line of soldiers marched into the market. They wore armor marked with royal symbols. At their front was a young, broad-faced general, his expression controlled.
He raised his hand. "Clear a path," he said.
The crowd parted reluctantly.
"News from the palace," the general announced.
A woman pointed frantically. "There’s a dead man!"
The general nodded and walked toward the alley. He crouched beside the body, scrutinizing it. He didn’t flinch.
"This area needs to be cleared," he said. "Move back. All of you."
Some resisted, but soldiers stepped forward, pushing people away.
The general stood. "Pack the body, we are taking him to the palace." He ordered.
Several people protested.
"Why the palace?"
"What will they do with him?"
"He deserves burial."
"You’re hiding something!"
The general turned back to them. "This is an order," he said. "Now move."
Reluctantly, the crowd backed away as soldiers lifted Strega’s body onto a cloth-covered frame.
The general faced the people again. "News from the king," he said.
The crowd quieted.
"The king has ordered increased protection across the city. Soldiers will now be stationed in the marketplace at all times."
Some people nodded. Others crossed their arms.
"The king is concerned," the general continued. "He is taking steps to ensure your safety."
A man shouted, "Easy to say from behind palace walls!"
Another added, "The royal family lives in luxury while we bleed!"
The general raised his voice. "The royal house is not at rest. The king and his family face threats you do not see."
"That’s what you always say," a woman snapped.
The general’s jaw tightened. "The rise of the Wanderers is known. We are addressing it."
Murmurs followed.
"But hear this," he said firmly. "There is no cause for panic. Panic will only cause harm."
He paused, then added, "Anyone found aiding the Wanderers, hiding them, or sharing information with them will face the king’s full punishment."
The crowd went quiet. As the general spoke, his eyes scanned the people. Near the edge of the market, he noticed movement.
A figure in a green hood was walking away, head down, slipping between people.
The general frowned. "Hold," he muttered.
But the crowd was dense. People shifted, blocking the view. By the time soldiers tried to move, the hooded figure was gone.
The general turned back to the crowd.
"Return to your stalls," he ordered. "The market will continue under protection."
Slowly, people dispersed. But fear stayed. Parents held their children tighter. Vendors spoke in hushed voices. Eyes kept darting toward the alley.
