The first few days were the hardest.
Alsa and Alfon didn't cry as much anymore—not out loud, at least. The sobbing had dulled into silence, the kind that followed children too old for tantrums but too young for grief. They carried it quietly, like a fever, holding each other's hands in that white-knuckled way only twins could. When one moved, the other followed. When one spoke, the other stayed silent, as if taking turns to breathe.
I didn't push them. You don't rush bruises to heal.
Instead, I watched. From the kitchen doorway. From the corner of the courtyard. From the shadows of the market stall. Waiting to see who they would be when the fear ebbed just enough for personality to peek through.
The first to crack was Alfon.
It started with the swords.
Not real ones—our lot couldn't afford even dull training blades. But the boys in the orphanage had carved mock weapons from broken chair legs and scrap wood, wrapping the handles with strips of worn cloth. One morning, Alfon stood at the edge of their game, silent, watching. His hands were clenched in the folds of his tunic, his jaw set.
He didn't ask to join.
He didn't need to.
One of the older boys, Tanno, tossed him a wooden sword without looking up. "You can be the rogue knight," he muttered. "Everyone else already picked sides."
Alfon caught the makeshift blade mid-air with surprising reflexes. I expected him to hesitate—maybe turn back, maybe look for his sister.
But he didn't.
He stepped into the fray, quiet and deadly.
Within minutes, he was dodging swings, parrying with sharp instincts and surprising strength. When he took down two boys with a single spinning move, the yard erupted with hoots and cheers.
He didn't smile. Not really. But his eyes lit up with something like pride. A flicker of it, like embers under ash.
Alsa, however, was more cautious.
She followed her brother around like a shadow at first, rarely speaking unless spoken to. The younger girls tried to pull her into games—clapping chants, hand-drawn board games on stone tiles, weaving flower chains—but she held herself at a distance.
Until she met Mira.
Mira was one of the older girls, barely thirteen, tall for her age, and motherly by necessity. She was the one who handled the little ones when Lysandra or I were busy. It was Mira who finally coaxed Alsa into the craft room, not with words, but with silence, sitting beside her with a pile of fabric scraps and beginning to sew without a single invitation.
Alsa watched. Then mimicked.
By dusk, the two of them were seated side by side, stitching crude dolls from torn pillowcases and stuffing them with dry grass. One of the dolls had a bent arm and a lopsided smile. Alsa named it "Sir Bentley."
The next day, she brought Sir Bentley to the courtyard and introduced him to the girls as their new team captain for hopscotch.
Progress.
They still clung to each other when night came, sharing a bed in the infirmary under heavy quilts. Alfon would lie awake, staring at the ceiling while Alsa whispered to her doll, soft words too quiet to catch. They'd only fall asleep once their fingers found each other beneath the blankets.
We kept their origin quiet, of course. No one outside our walls knew who they were—not yet. To the other children, they were simply "the new ones." No surnames. No titles. No reasons to be curious.
But kids are sharp.
They noticed the way Alfon flinched at loud footsteps. The way Alsa's eyes darted to every new face. They saw how their clothes, though swapped out for simpler garb, still had the faint scent of lavender and something richer underneath—luxury.
Rumors began to swirl, as they always did.
I snuffed them out where I could. Lysandra helped. So did Mira. But children notice things. Even the ones too young to speak in full sentences. And it was only a matter of time before someone outside noticed too.
But for now, they were safe.
They ate well—well enough. They played. They laughed, sometimes. And they helped. Alfon took to helping the boys stack jam crates, testing his strength like he had something to prove. Alsa organized the label station, straightening the papers with almost obsessive precision. One of the boys called her "Little Matron" behind her back. She corrected his spelling later.
Still, beneath the surface, they were watching. Waiting. Braced for the world to shift again.
I knew the signs. I wore them once myself.
One night, I caught Alfon sitting in the hallway outside the infirmary. His knees were drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around them. Just staring at the moon through the window like it might carry news from home.
I sat beside him without a word.
After a long silence, he asked, "Do you think he's coming?"
I didn't pretend not to know who he meant.
"He's trying," I said. "But it's complicated."
"Because of the bad men?"
"Because of politics. Which is just a fancy word for everyone pretending not to know who's lying."
Alfon frowned. "That's stupid."
"It is."
He was quiet again. Then: "If we don't go back… can we stay?"
I turned my head toward him.
"Here?"
He nodded. "I like the jam."
I smiled. "Then you can stay as long as you need."
It wasn't a promise. Promises were dangerous things. But it was hope, offered gently.
He didn't reply. Just leaned slightly against me before getting up and returning to bed.
The end of the week, Vale had said. So we have to make sure the twins are safe until then.
Now it's just a few days away. And the Red Fang is still busy looking for clues on the twins' whereabouts.
Thinking that we're in the clear and that I didn't want the children cooped up like frightened mice during that time, so the next morning, we let them outside for fresh air—under strict watch, of course, I didn't want to take any risk. The garden courtyard was enclosed by high stone walls, and Lysandra and I had eyes on every gate, every shadow, every bird that flinched too fast.
The morning sun was warm but not overbearing. The scent of rosemary and old dust hung in the air, and the children had spilled into the courtyard like a shaken bottle of marbles—loud, colorful, and full of energy.
Alfon had declared himself the "Knight-Captain of the Orphanage Guard" and was marching a gaggle of younger boys through a very uneven set of drills using broomsticks and wildly exaggerated battle cries. Alsa, meanwhile, was kneeling by the herb beds with two other girls, showing them how to twist daisies into lopsided flower crowns.
I watched from the garden archway, leaning against the warm stone, a mug of weak coffee in hand and a dagger tucked at my back—just in case. My eyes stayed on the twins, though I pretended otherwise. I caught a glimpse of Alsa laughing as one of the girls pretended to crown her queen of the weeds, and Alfon nearly fell on his face trying to spin his broom like a sword.
For a heartbeat, I let myself believe the worst was behind us.
Then I saw them.
They were subtle—a figure lingering by the alley's mouth just beyond the wrought iron gate. He wore a faded coat, hood up, and tried too hard to look like they weren't watching. They were waiting for something, could it be !?
"Lysandra," I said sharply.
She stepped out from behind a pillar, hand on the hilt of her knife. "I see them."
"Flank. I'll move in directly."
She gave a small nod, already melting into the shadows of the wall.
I set down my cup slowly and walked across the courtyard, calm, steady, so as not to alarm the children. I didn't want to spook them. Not yet. But my hand drifted to the knife beneath my coat, fingers curling around the hilt like it was an old friend.
By the time I reached the far gate, they were already moving—slipping away from the bars, melting back into the alley like fog.
Too late.
"Alsa! Alfon!" I barked, louder than I meant to. "Inside. Now."
Heads turned. The children froze. Alsa jumped, startled. Alfon's brow furrowed in confusion.
Then—
A shout. From the other side of the garden wall.
A crash.
Many figures vaulted the wall like jungle cats.
Red Fang.
I was already moving.
"Down!" I shouted.
Alfon dropped flat without hesitation—quick for a boy his age. I was already at a run, leaping across the courtyard toward the nearest attacker, a thickset man with a jagged scar across his mouth. He didn't expect resistance. I slammed into him shoulder-first, sending us both to the ground. His dagger clattered out of reach.
Screams erupted around us. The children scattered like birds underfoot. One of the older orphans, a wiry girl named Mira, grabbed two of the little ones by the hands and sprinted for the door. Smart kid.
Lysandra was faster than me. She dropped from the wall behind two intruders like death from above, blade flashing. One went down gurgling. The other spun around, but too late—her boot caught his temple and sent him tumbling.
"Move them inside!" she barked at a passing staff member. "Lock the hall—don't open it until I knock!"
I fought through the chaos, dragging Alsa back from a man who had tried to grab her by the hair. She was crying, but not loudly. Silent, stubborn tears. Good girl. Stay strong. Alfon had scrambled to his feet and picked up a garden spade, swinging it at anyone who got too close to his sister. One of the Red Fang thugs caught the blow across the shoulder and howled, more in surprise than pain.
Three more gang members leapt the wall from the east side. They moved with practiced formation, cutting off the route to the main building. One had a short axe and wore a necklace of what I didn't want to believe were fingers.
We were outnumbered.
I pulled Alsa and Alfon behind me, retreating toward the stone fountain at the courtyard's center. My back was to cold marble now, and I could hear the last of the children being ushered into the orphanage behind me. The doors slammed shut, bolts driving home.
The courtyard was a mess of overturned benches, blood-smudged gravel, and fallen herbs. Lysandra crouched behind the low planter wall to my right, eyes scanning, waiting. She was breathing hard—so was I.
Then came the footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Confident.
They came in from the broken gate, striding across the courtyard with half a dozen others behind them. A Red Fang lieutenant, judging by the crimson wolf pendant at their neck and the gold-threaded sash across their waist. Their eyes swept the scene with cold amusement.
"Well, well," the leader drawled. "Didn't expect you to put up such a fight."
No one spoke. My knife felt too small in my hand.
They stopped a few paces away and smiled, thin and cruel. The other Red Fang thugs fanned out, forming a rough circle around the courtyard. Around us.
"You made it hard for us," the lieutenant continued, tone light but venom underneath. "Hiding them. Smuggling them away. Breaking our friends' noses in back alleys."
Their gaze flicked to the twins behind me.
"But in the end... rats always return to the nest."
One of the others laughed.
I shifted, putting myself between them and the children completely.
The leader grinned wider, revealing too many teeth. Then raised a hand slowly.
The gang behind them drew weapons—knives, clubs, chains that glinted in the sun.
"It's time to punish some naughty kids."