The shopping district of Laksandria unfolded in a cascade of colored awnings and hanging lanterns, the streets narrow enough that the calls of vendors bounced from wall to wall, layering over each other until the air itself hummed with commerce. The smell of fried dough and spiced meat drifted from food stalls, competing with the sharper scent of new leather from a shop two doors down and the floral perfume that spilled from an open doorway where a woman arranged bouquets of orchids the color of a sunset.
Charlie walked with his hands clasped behind his back, his pith helmet straight, his satchel secure, his eyes scanning the storefronts with the focused attention of a scholar approaching a new archive. He found the bookstore wedged between a tailor's shop and a tea house, its windows cluttered with volumes stacked so high they blocked half the light from the street. A sign above the door, painted in gold leaf that had faded to the color of old honey, read: THE BOUND PAGE—RARE TEXTS, MAPS, AND CHRONICLES.
He pushed the door open. A bell chimed somewhere in the depths of the shop, a sound like a single drop of water falling into still darkness.
The interior was a maze of shelves that rose to the ceiling, their surfaces covered in books stacked two and three deep, leaning against each other for support, spilling across the floor in piles that had become furniture. The air was thick with dust and the particular weight of old paper—a smell like pressed flowers and forgotten afternoons. Behind a counter cluttered with ledgers and loose pages sat a man with wire-rimmed glasses and the expression of someone who had been interrupted in the middle of something he had already forgotten.
Charlie approached the counter, his hands already reaching for the nearest stack. "I am looking for comprehensive histories of the North Blue. Specifically, records predating the current cartographic standards established by the World Government."
The shopkeeper blinked at him. His glasses caught the light from the window, obscuring his eyes. "We have several volumes on North Blue history. The shelf to your left, third row, anything with a blue spine."
Charlie was already moving, his fingers finding the books, his eyes scanning titles, his lips moving silently as he read. He pulled three volumes from the shelf, carried them to the counter, and opened the first with the reverence of a man handling something sacred.
His brow furrowed. He turned a page. His lips pressed together.
"This is incorrect."
The shopkeeper looked up from his ledger. "I beg your pardon?"
Charlie pointed at the page, his finger tapping the text with increasing force. "The migration patterns of the early settlers. This account places the first arrivals in the North Blue approximately two hundred years after the Poneglyphs were—" He stopped. He cleared his throat. "Ahem. The timeline is inconsistent with established archaeological evidence."
The shopkeeper's expression shifted from confusion to the particular flatness of a man who had dealt with difficult customers before. "That volume was published by the Marine Cartographic Society. It is the standard text used in academies across the North Blue."
Charlie pulled another book from the stack, flipped to a different page, and his frown deepened. "This section on the distribution of Seastone deposits in the Calm Belt region contradicts the findings published in the Journal of Marine Geology from—" He paused, his eyes scanning the text again, his finger tracing a line. "This is not merely inaccurate. This is willfully misleading. The author claims that Seastone was first discovered by Marine surveyors in 1472, but the Poneglyphs on the Seabound Isles describe its properties in language that predates that by—"
The shopkeeper held up his hand. "Sir. This is a bookshop. I sell the books. I do not write them."
Charlie blinked at him, his mouth still open, his finger still pressed to the page. "But the information is inaccurate. Surely you have a responsibility to—"
"I have a responsibility to pay my rent." The shopkeeper pushed his glasses up his nose and returned to his ledger. "If you do not wish to purchase the books, you are welcome to browse. But I cannot help you with historical debates. I sell paper and ink, not truth."
Charlie stared at him for a long moment, his face caught between outrage and the dawning realization that he had, perhaps, been arguing with the wrong person. He opened his mouth to respond, thought better of it, and turned back to the shelves with a huff that sent dust spiraling into the light.
---
Three streets away, in a courtyard where the buildings opened to let the sun fall on a cluster of stalls, Monster sat on his haunches beneath a sign that read MASKS & PARTY FAVORS—CLOSED FOR LUNCH, BACK IN LITTLE WHILE. The stall was a riot of color—paper masks with feathers and painted faces, streamers coiled like sleeping snakes, noisemakers in every shape and size, all of it draped across tables and hung from the awning in cascading waves of red and gold and blue.
Jelly floated beside Monster, his translucent body wobbling with each shift of his attention. His eyes were fixed on the lantern that hung at the corner of the stall, its flame attracting a swarm of small insects that danced in the amber light. He did not move. He did not breathe. He was a predator in the shape of a wobbling puddle of blue, and the bugs had no idea.
Monster's hand drifted toward the table. His fingers found a party blower—a slender tube of painted paper with a feathered end, the kind that unrolled with a sound like a goose being stepped on. He lifted it to his lips and blew.
The blower extended with a sharp fweeeeep that cut through the courtyard noise, its paper tail unfurling in a spray of red fringe. Monster's eyes went wide. His topknot bobbed as he pulled the blower from his mouth, stared at it, and blew again. Fweeeeep. His face split into a grin. He blew again, harder, and the sound rose to a shriek that made a woman at the next stall drop her basket of fruit.
Jelly did not notice. He was still watching the bugs, his body quivering with the effort of holding still. The swarm shifted, dipped, rose again, and Jelly's mouth opened in a silent O of anticipation.
---
In the dressing room of a boutique three doors down from the ice cream shop, Sanza stood before a mirror that stretched from floor to ceiling, its brass frame tarnished at the edges, its glass holding his reflection with the clarity of truth. He wore a shirt the color of the sky after rain, and on its front, printed in bold white lines, was a Gundam robot—its arms raised, its chest armor gleaming, its visor a slash of red that caught the light from the window. His shorts were cargo green, their pockets deep enough to hold a small library, their fabric stiff with newness. On his feet, open-toed sandals with leather straps that wrapped around his ankles, their soles thick, their grip solid.
He wiggled his toes. The sandals did not pinch. They did not slip. He could feel the floor beneath his feet, the texture of the wood, the cool air moving across his skin. He looked at his reflection and grinned.
"Your footwear recommendation is very liberating." He pulled the curtain back, his foot lifting, his toes spreading to show off their new freedom. "Look. I can wiggle all my toes."
Hongo stood outside the dressing room, his arms full of the clothes Sanza had rejected—two other shirts, a jacket with too many buttons, a pair of boots that had made Sanza's feet look like boats. His face was the face of a man who had not signed up for this, who had been told to escort a child to a bookstore and had somehow ended up holding rejected clothing while said child debated the merits of open-toed footwear.
He blinked. "Yeah. That's great, kid."
He jerked his head toward the front of the store, where the light from the street spilled across the polished floor. "I'm going to pay for all this." He lifted the clothes draped over his arm. "Wait for me outside."
Sanza nodded, already turning toward the window. His eyes found the ice cream shop across the street, its striped awning bright in the afternoon light, its windows steamed with the warmth of bodies and the cold of the freezers within. "I will be by that ice cream establishment." He pointed, his finger pressing against the glass.
Hongo groaned. "Whatever."
They separated—Hongo toward the counter where a woman with silver hair and a measuring tape around her neck was waiting, Sanza toward the door, his sandals slapping against the wood, his shirt bright, his pockets empty and waiting to be filled.
---
The door closed behind him with a soft chime. The street was busy now, the afternoon crowd thicker than it had been when they arrived, women with baskets, men with crates, children weaving between the adults with the focused chaos of small things in motion. Sanza made his way toward the ice cream shop, his steps quick, his head high, his new sandals gripping the stone.
The door of the ice cream shop swung open, and three boys emerged, their faces flushed with sugar, their fingers sticky, their voices loud. Sanza stepped in front of them, his hand raised, his expression the particular confidence of someone who had never been told no by anyone who mattered.
"Does the ice cream shop have strawberry flavor ice cream? And is it any good?" He did not wait for an answer. His mouth was already moving, his words tumbling out in the rush of someone who had been thinking about this for the entire walk from the boutique. "The strawberry ice cream in Mary Geoise is by far the best. The cream is from the highland dairies, and the strawberries are grown in the terraced gardens of the Celestial—"
One of the boys cut him off. His voice was flat, his eyes narrow. "Did you say Mary Geoise?"
Sanza stood a little taller. His shoulders squared. His chin lifted. "Yes, I did. If you like—"
Another boy stepped forward, his face lit with something that was not curiosity. "Isn't that where the Celestial Dragons live?"
Sanza nodded, his beam returning, his confidence swelling. "Yes. That is my homeland. And we are indeed the Celestial Dragons."
The third boy laughed. It was not a kind sound. "You are not a Celestial Dragon."
Sanza's beam faltered. His chin lifted higher. "Yes, I am. I am going to be the Supreme Commander of the Holy Knights."
"Supreme Commander." The first boy scoffed, his mouth twisting. "You're too scrawny to command anything."
He stepped forward, and Sanza had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes. The boy was taller, broader, his shadow falling across Sanza's face like a door closing.
Sanza glared. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
The second boy circled around, his voice a sing-song mockery. "My baby sister isn't as scrawny as you."
Sanza's face flushed red. "Are you calling me a baby!"
The first boy grinned. "I'm calling you a supreme baby."
The other boys laughed. They were closer now, their bodies forming a loose circle, their shoulders blocking the light from the street. Sanza's fists tightened. His breath came faster. The laughter rang in his ears, bouncing off the walls of the shops, filling the space between the buildings.
"What are you going to do about it, supreme baby?"
Sanza growled. The sound came from somewhere deep in his chest, from the place where his father's dismissals lived, where the memory of being left behind festered. "I'm not a baby."
He shoved the boy. His hands were small, his arms thin, but the shove was solid, born of weeks of running, of climbing, of keeping up with people who moved faster than he did. The boy stumbled back a step, his eyes widening, and then his face hardened.
He shoved back.
Sanza hit the ground. His palms scraped the stone, his knee cracking against the edge of a raised cobble, his new shirt pulling at the seams. He pushed himself up, his face burning, his eyes wet with something that was not pain, and the boy was already there, his hands grabbing Sanza's collar, lifting him, shoving him against the wall.
The other boys closed in. Fists found his ribs, his arms, his shoulders. He threw his hands up, tried to push back, tried to find space, but there was no space, only the press of bodies and the sound of laughter and the taste of blood where his lip had split against his teeth.
He kicked. He swung. He caught one boy in the shin, another in the stomach, and for a moment there was a gap, a breath of air, and then they were on him again.
---
Hongo stepped out of the boutique, the bags looped over his wrist, his hand reaching for the coins in his pocket. He looked up. He saw the knot of boys, heard the laughter, caught the flash of red hair in the center of it all.
"Hey!"
He was moving before he thought about it, his legs carrying him across the street, his voice cutting through the noise. The boys looked up. Their faces shifted—from triumph to alarm to the particular panic of children caught at something they knew was wrong. They scattered, their feet slapping against the stone, their laughter replaced by the sharp sound of escape.
Hongo dropped the bags. He knelt beside Sanza, his hands finding the boy's shoulders, turning him, lifting him. Sanza's face was a map of damage—a cut on his cheek, dirt ground into the wound, a bruise already blooming around his eye, his lip swollen, his knee scraped raw through the torn fabric of his new shorts.
"What the hell, kid." Hongo's voice was rough, his hands gentle. "I only let you out of my sight for a few moments."
Sanza wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. His fingers came away red. "They called me a baby." His voice cracked on the word. "And—"
Hongo chuckled. It was not a laugh of amusement. It was the sound of a man who had seen too much to be surprised by anything, who had patched up too many fights to pretend this one was special. He shook his head, his hands finding Sanza's chin, tilting his face to the light, inspecting the cut, the bruise, the knee that was already scabbing over.
"Well." He let Sanza's face go, sat back on his heels, and sighed. "I think you'll live. But if you're going to stand up to someone, you need to make sure you can hold your own against them. Otherwise, this will keep happening."
Sanza blinked. The words landed somewhere inside him, settling into a space he had not known was empty. "I had only just started my training when I had to go."
Hongo stood, his knees popping, his hand reaching down to pull Sanza to his feet. "You don't think anyone on your crew would help you learn to fight for yourself?"
Sanza thought about it. His eyes moved across the street, toward the ice cream shop, toward the alley where the boys had disappeared, toward the sky where the clouds were breaking apart and reforming in shapes he could not name. He shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't think to ask."
Hongo raised an eyebrow. It was the only expression of surprise he allowed himself. "Maybe you should."
Sanza sniffled. His hand came up again, wiping his cheek, his nose, the mess of blood and dirt that was turning his face into something his mother would not have recognized. He opened his mouth to say something—he was not sure what—when Charlie appeared at his elbow, a book in his hand, his pith helmet straight, his expression the particular cloud of disappointment that followed him when the world failed to meet his expectations.
"This was a disappointing outing." Charlie flipped a page, scanned it, and closed the book with a snap. "The materials available for purchase were not as current as what I have become accustomed to."
He looked up. His eyes found Sanza's face. He blinked.
"Did you fall?"
Hongo opened his mouth. The scream cut him off.
It came from the direction of the courtyard, a woman's voice, high and sharp, the kind of sound that stops conversations and turns heads. They turned. A woman stood at the entrance to the souvenir stall, a broom in her hands, her face the color of a ripe tomato. She was screaming. She was also chasing.
Monster bounded past them, his arms full of streamers, a paper mask balanced on his head, a party blower in each hand. Jelly bounced beside him, his body a blur of blue, his laughter a series of high, clear notes that echoed off the buildings.
The woman's broom swung. Monster dodged. Jelly bounced higher. A mask flew free, spinning through the air like a lost bird, and landed in the lap of a man who had been eating noodles at a street-side table. He looked up, his face covered in sauce, and added his voice to the chaos.
Hongo looked at Charlie. Charlie looked at Sanza. Sanza's face, bruised and bleeding and filthy, split into a grin that reached his eyes and pushed the pain aside.
"That is our cue to run," Hongo said, and he was already moving, already grabbing the bags, already pulling Sanza forward.
They ran.
Monster fell in beside them, his feet slapping the stone, his topknot bouncing, his face a mask of pure, uncomplicated joy. Jelly bounced between them, his body catching the light, his laughter a music that came from everywhere at once. Sanza's sandals gripped the cobblestones, his lungs filled with air, his new shirt flapped against his chest, and he was laughing—laughing with the taste of blood still in his mouth, laughing with the sting of his cuts still fresh, laughing because they were running and the world was falling away behind them and for this moment, this single moment, nothing could catch them.
Charlie ran behind them, his book clutched to his chest, his hat askew, his dignity in tatters. "This is not—" He gasped, his legs pumping, his satchel bouncing against his hip. "This is not the proper way to—"
A streamer came loose from Monster's collection, wrapped itself around Charlie's face, and muffled the rest of his objections.
Sanza looked back. The woman with the broom had stopped at the end of the street, her hands on her knees, her breath gone, her scream spent. The boys who had knocked him down were nowhere to be seen. The afternoon light slanted across the buildings, painting the cobblestones gold, and somewhere ahead, Hongo was laughing, and Monster was howling, and Jelly was bouncing so high he almost touched the lanterns that hung across the street.
Sanza ran faster. His feet barely touched the ground.
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