The marketplace of Windket was alive with joy that morning 5 years ago.
Vendors shouted over each other. Smoke curled up from cooking stalls, thick with the smell of roasted meat and spice.
And wading through the crowd, Amara Hale walked with her son, her hand wrapped around his smaller one.
The clothes she wore were simple, just a cream blouse tucked into a brown skirt, sandals scuffed from years of wear.
But the red scarf around her neck made her stand out.
It wasn't silk or fine cloth, just clean and carefully kept. The one bright color she owned.
"Two skewers," she said, passing a coin to a stall keeper.
"Three," Arlen corrected from beside her, grinning.
She gave him a mock glare. "You will not be able to eat all that."
"You said that yesterday, too."
"And I was right."
He laughed, and a beat later, she did too.
Then her smile faltered.
Across the market, seated under a shaded awning outside the tavern, Chief Vale watched them.
His chair leaned back lazily, one arm slung over the rest as a tankard hung loosely from his other hand.
The moment he caught her gaze, his grin widened.
That grin, she had seen it before.
The same grin he wore every time he decided to "visit" her home under whatever excuse he could think of.
Her fingers tightened around Arlen's hand.
"Sweetheart," she said softly, keeping her tone light, "why don't you grab some more skewers? The spicy ones I like."
He frowned a little. "But we just…"
"I'm hungry," she said quickly. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Go on, before they sell out."
Arlen shrugged before taking the coins she pressed into his hand and walked off toward the vendor down the row.
Far enough that he wouldn't hear the footsteps closing in behind her.
Vale rose from his chair, his lieutenants following with smirks carved into their faces.
The chief's steps were slow and deliberate, each one clinking faintly against the cobblestones.
"Well, well," he said when he reached her, voice slurred with drink. "If it isn't the prettiest widow in Windket."
Amara straightened. "Good morning, Chief Vale."
"Morning indeed," he said, eyes dragging over her. "You always wear that scarf? It's… distracting. Pretty though... Red suits you. Red always suits a woman like you."
She kept her chin high. "If you'll excuse me, I have errands."
"Oh come now," he chuckled, stepping closer until the smell of ale and sweat invaded her breath. "Errands can wait. You've been avoiding me for months. I thought maybe you were shy. But I realize now…"
He leaned in closer, whispering in her ear with "You like being chased."
Her stomach twisted from putrid ale breath, but she didn't step back. "I've told you before, Chief. I'm not interested. Please- "
"Please?" He laughed, low and coarse. "You know how many women in this village would kill to be standing where you are?"
"I'm not one of them."
He cocked his head. "You think you're better than them?"
"I think I have dignity."
That broke his grin for a moment. His eyes flickered in a quick, mean flash of something brittle.
Behind him, the captain chuckled. "Careful, chief. This one bites."
Vale smirked again. "That's what I like about her."
He took another step forward, too close now.
Amara flinched, and he noticed it as his smile widened.
"Do you really mean to live like this?" he said softly. "Alone, scraping by in that shack, pretending you're above help? I could make it easier for you. For your boy too. You just have to stop pretending you don't want this."
"I mean to live exactly like this. You keep your riches… and let me keep my dignity."
Her voice cracked through the noise of the market like a whip.
Even the vendors nearby went quiet, pretending not to hear.
Vale's jaw tightened. His hand twitched at his side before curling into a fist.
The two men behind him shifted, exchanging glances that were all laughter and teeth.
"Dignity, huh?" Vale repeated, his smile gone. "You think sleeping on my bed is beneath your dignity… After everything I've offered? You think because I've been patient-"
His words cut off as she lifted her chin again, eyes blazing.
"Your patience means nothing to me," she said. "You shame this village every time you breathe."
Something broke in him.
He lunged.
The crowd gasped as his hand shot out, seizing her by the arm, spinning her around. The movement wasn't graceful; it was wild, clumsy, and drunk.
"Let go!" she shouted, twisting against his grip.
Vale's face turned red with veins standing out along his temple. "You think you can humiliate me? In front of them?"
"Chief…" one of his men started, uncertain now.
But Amara moved first. She lunged forward and bit down, her teeth sinking deep into the hand that gripped her wrist.
Vale's scream ripped through the square.
He staggered back, clutching his bleeding hand.
"You bitch! You bit me!" he roared, voice cracking from the pain.
"You touched me."
Her reply was low, shaking, but her eyes didn't waver.
And that was what broke him.
His hand flew to the hilt at his waist.
And before Amara Hale could even blink, the chief had already swung.
The scream of his mana flooding into the blade tore through the square, and not even a beat later, it set into motion something that would eventually go down in history as the greatest trail of ruin and blasphemy.
Her cry never came.
It was swallowed by the wet sound of steel meeting flesh.
The blade cleaved through her shoulder, shredding her halfway through her waist while blood sprayed in an arc across the cobblestones.
Amara Hale's red scarf fluttered down first, carried by the wind, landing beside her feet before her body followed.
The market froze.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Vale stood over her with a face covered in her blood, chest heaving, and a blade dripping red.
Behind him, the captain muttered, "Chief… what did you- "
Vale's eyes flicked to the crowd, then to the woman at his feet, and a cruel grin came on his face.
"She attacked me," he barked. "She reached for my knife. You all saw it! Even after I tried to give her a life she could only dream about!"
No one answered for a beat before a trembling and terrified voice came from the crowd, "Y–yeah… I saw it."
"Me too…" joined another.
And then more.
Like insects drawn to rot, more voices began to echo in the lie, each louder than the last.
And soon the market filled with the sound of cowardice.
A whispering chorus of people convincing themselves it wasn't their fault.
Amara Hale lay in the dirt while her red scarf was soaking dark with her own blood.
Her hand twitched one last time before going still.
And from the edge of the crowd, a small voice broke through.
"…Ma?"
Every head turned.
Arlen stood frozen, skewers fallen from his hands, eyes wide as he took in the scene.
The blood.
The sword.
The crowd.
And his mother.
"MAA!"
The shrill scream tore out of him, breaking through the wall of murmurs like shattered glass.
He ran.
People stepped aside, not out of pity, but out of fear, like the boy himself carried something contagious.
He stumbled, nearly fell, then dropped to his knees beside her.
"Ma…? Ma, wake up…"
His trembling hands pressed against her still-attached shoulder, then her cheek, then the wound as if he could hold the blood in with his fingers.
"Ma… please…"
He shook her again.
"Please… you'll be okay! Just-"
Her head tilted slightly as her lips were parted, but there was no breath.
And a beat later, Arlen's world blurred.
The shouts, the whispers, the footsteps… they all fell away until there was nothing but the sound of his heartbeat, thudding wildly in his ears.
He looked down at her one last time, then slowly lifted his head.
And saw him.
Roland Vale stood above them, sword still wet, face composed, and a spray of wet blood on his face.
His expression wasn't guilt. It wasn't even anger.
Just… indifference.
As though he had just swatted a fly.
Watching him just stand there… broke something inside Arlen.
"You… you killed her," he whispered in tremors as he slowly stood on his feet.
Then louder.
"You killed her!"
He lunged.
"YOU - !"
But before the words could finish, a heavy boot slammed into his face.
The blow hit with a crack, lifting him clean off the ground.
The world spun once, twice… and then darkness swallowed everything.
The Captain, Brann, stood where the boy had been, lowering his leg with a sneer.
"Should've taught the brat manners," he muttered.
While Vale sheathed his sword slowly.
And when he spoke, his voice was calm.
"Anyone," he said, turning to the crowd, "who so much as looks at this wretch again will share his and this whore's fate."
For a second, no one moved… until a head bowed before more joined in.
And soon the entire square had its head bowed to the man standing over a near-half-split widow and her son.
Chief Vale glanced around once more, satisfied with their silence.
Then he turned, stepping over the fallen scarf without a single glance back.
When the square finally emptied, all that remained were…
The scent of blood wafting in the marketplace.
And a red scarf fluttering weakly in the dust beside a boy lying motionless beside his dead mother.
By the time the sun was setting, the lie had spread throughout the entirety of Windket in low, nervous murmurs twisting into safety.
She attacked first. He had no choice. It was tragic. It was justified.