Fire for Joy, page 12
Somewhere near the centre of the spiral, Marin slipped. She cursed, softly, reverently, and Halfa smirked.
“Thessira will forgive you,” he said.
“She better,” Marin muttered. “Or she’s getting a lopsided spiral and a shovel to the ankle. ”
Bilbin overheard and barked a laugh from across the courtyard. “Threaten a goddess again, and I’ll write a hymn about it!”
Someone dropped a lantern. A child shrieked and chased a ribbon into the dusk. Marin laughed. Halfa, tired, covered in dust, did too.
And for a moment, there was no fire in his chest. Just warmth. Real and rooted. The kind that didn’t need to burn to be felt.
As they rested, Marin wiped her brow with the back of her hand and nodded toward the garden wall.
“We’re going to plant something new there,” she said. “Not to forget what burned. Just… so we have something to water. ”
Halfa looked at the wall, blackened at the top, cracked in the middle, but still standing.
He nodded.
“I’ll bring the shovel. ”
They were supposed to clear a condemned building in the Lower Quarry District. It was just a routine walkthrough to ensure no squatters hadn’t broken in again.
Three Watchmen moved ahead, new recruits, laughing too loudly, kicking rubble aside with more swagger than caution. Halfa followed last, eyes sharp, senses bristling. Something felt wrong.
He paused at the threshold.
The air wasn’t stale enough.
The broken window on the second floor wasn’t like that yesterday.
And someone had left a boot print in the soot by the back wall. Fresh. Deep. Wrong size.
Halfa raised a fist. “Hold. ”
The recruits turned, confused.
He stepped forward and knelt by the door. The hinges weren’t rusted like the others. These had been oiled. Recently.
Brannig appeared beside him a moment later, silent as falling gravel. She scanned the frame, then the alley beyond. No words. A quick nod.
She pulled the rookies back. Halfa motioned them behind the cover of a split stone wall.
Brannig tapped once on her badge. Backup signal.
They waited.
Three minutes later, two figures emerged from the rear of the building. Neither were Watch, both armed, one with a crossbow half-raised.
They saw the uniforms too late.
By the time they hit the ground, Brannig was already turning back to Halfa.
“Good call,” she said.
Halfa didn’t reply.
But later, in the mess hall, one recruit passed him a mug of tea without being asked.
And Dot, watching from the shadows near the stairwell, didn’t say a word.
The Lower Market always danced on the edge of chaos.
Copper, not gold, built fortunes there. Dice games in the shadows, cheap wine in leaky bottles, shouting matches over spoiled apples or bent nails. The Watch didn’t always bother unless someone bled.
That night, someone did.
A call came in just past dusk. Brannig and Halfa arrived to find two gamblers shouting, a third already bleeding from the shoulder. The air smelled of smoke, sweat, and old vinegar. One man waved a dagger with the urgency of someone cornered by regret.
Brannig raised her voice. “Grayspire Watch! Weapons down!”
The man spun toward her, blade shaking in his grip.
“Drop it,” Halfa said. Calm. Solid.
The gambler spat. “You can’t tell me what to—”
Halfa looked at him.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t posture.
Just… looked.
The dagger clattered to the cobblestones.
Brannig gave a low whistle. “Told you. Storm cloud. ”
They processed the men quickly, Brannig handling statements while Halfa kept watch. A woman from a nearby stall gave Halfa a chunk of bread as they marched the prisoners off. No words, just a nod.
Back at the Watchhouse, Brannig cornered Halfa near the training yard, rolling her shoulder where a bruise had darkened beneath her armour.
“You know,” she said, “you keep this up, I might recommend lifting your probation early. ”
“I don’t want rank,” Halfa said, sipping water from a barrel scoop.
“Not talking about rank,” she replied. “I’m talking about respect. One’s useful. The other’s a curse. ”
He paused. Thought about that.
Then asked, “You think the others will ever stop looking at me like I might burn the place down?”
Brannig studied him for a long moment.
“They will. One day you’ll bark an order and no one’ll remember why they were nervous. Just that you were the one who didn’t flinch when it mattered. ”
The courtyard was quiet when Halfa arrived. Not the sacred quiet, the kind that meant most of the work had been done for the day. Scaffolding leaned tiredly against the sanctuary’s inner wall, and a wheelbarrow lay tipped on its side like someone had lost an argument with gravity.
Halfa didn’t announce himself. He never did. He picked up the barrow, brushed off the dust, and started moving bricks.
He heard footsteps soon enough, light ones, with a rhythm he recognised. Marin.
“You know we’re not paying you for this,” she called from the edge of the stone path.
“I know. ”
She crossed to him, holding two mugs. One was steaming. The other was probably only called tea out of courtesy. She handed him the first. He took it without a word.
They leaned against the same half-rebuilt wall. Above them, a lantern swung lazily from a beam, its glow catching the dust in the air like fireflies that had forgotten how to leave.
Marin sipped her drink and squinted at the spiral courtyard. “They redid the curve this morning. It’s crooked again. ”
Halfa nodded toward the centre. “That corner’s off. ”
“They say it’s tradition. That the spiral shouldn’t be perfect. ”
He took a long sip. “Or maybe we just keep getting it wrong. ”
Marin shrugged. “Joy’s not straight lines. It’s scrapes and smudges and spilled mortar. ”
A silence settled between them that was not uncomfortable. Just real. They watched as a young acolyte tried to lift a too-heavy bucket near the herb beds and nearly fell over. A second child ran to help, neither of them noticing the scorch mark still faint on the nearby wall.
Halfa watched them for a long moment. “Do they remember?”
Marin followed his gaze. “The kids?”
He nodded.
She tilted her head. “Most of them do. Some of them have already rewritten it. In their version, you were ten feet tall and had fire wings. ”
He almost smiled.
“And Bilbin chased off six men with a flaming ladle,” she added.
He looked down at his tea. “That part might be true. ”
Marin bumped his arm gently. “They remember joy, Halfa. Not just the fire. ”
He didn’t answer. But he watched the children longer. Watched them laugh, tug at ropes, play tug-of-war with Bilbin’s apron when he wasn’t looking.
Eventually, he set his mug aside and stepped back toward the half-collapsed tool shed. The door still leaned on its hinges. It wasn’t part of the official repairs, just an afterthought, too small for lists and too crooked for prayer.
He bent, picked up a hammer, and started adjusting the frame.
“You don’t have to fix everything,” Marin said softly behind him.
“I know. ”
“But you want to. ”
Halfa looked at the misaligned door, at the cracked hinge, at the places where old wood met new.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do. ”
The Watchhouse courtyard was quiet. The lanterns along the stone archway flickered faintly, too tired to ward off the deeper dark. No shouts. No merchants. No drunks singing lies to the sky. Only the creak of Grayspire’s bones settling for the night.
Halfa sat alone on a bench near the outer wall, uniform still dusted with soot from the lower ward. The fabric no longer fought him the way it used to. Either it had softened, or he had.
In his hands, he turned over a small matchbox that was empty save for one last stick. He wasn’t sure why he’d kept it. Perhaps it reminded him of something. Maybe because it hadn’t failed him yet.
He hadn’t heard a word. Not since that night. No sightings or whispers. No revenge killings. Gronk had vanished.
Halfa had walked every block of Blackjaw territory during and after his patrols, boots echoing through alleys that remembered too much. He asked questions without asking, letting pauses hang too long, letting glances say more than words. He lingered near the places Gronk once claimed, stood beneath the soot-stained eaves where orders used to be given, and waited for something, anything, to rise from the cracks.
He wasn’t assigned there. No one had asked him to investigate. He just wanted to find his friend.
But there was nothing.
No rage or grief.
Silence and absence.
And that was worse.
He stood, his legs slow to straighten. Crossed to the alcove where the Watch stored spare patrol lanterns, plain brass things, all function and no poetry. He took one gently, filled it from the oil drum, and returned to the steps.
The match flared against the stone, then touched the wick.
A single flame bloomed.
Halfa watched it for a long time.
He thought of Gronk. Not the man who’d broken jaws and issued orders with a smirk, but the boy who’d once split stolen bread with him in the rain. The boy who laughed too loud and always walked a little ahead, like the world needed him to test the path first.
Maybe that boy was still in there.
Perhaps Halfa had failed him.
Maybe they’d both failed each other.
He placed the lantern on the edge of the steps, beside the Watchhouse threshold. Not hidden. Not announced. Just… there. Facing the street. Letting the city see what it wanted to.
He didn’t speak at first. Just stood.
Then, softly, “So where the hell did you go?”
No answer, of course.
Just flame.
Steady. Small. Alive.
“I looked for you,” Halfa said. “You know that, don’t you?”
The wind didn’t move. The flame didn’t waver.
“I don’t know if I’m supposed to hate you. Or miss you. Or thank you. ”
He touched the lantern’s side briefly. The metal was warm.
“I’m still here,” he said. “I only wish I knew if you were, too. ”
He turned to go.
Then paused, long enough to whisper over his shoulder, half hope, half warning: “Don’t stay gone. ”
He left the lantern burning on the steps, its glow catching in the cracks of the stone like a memory trying to root itself in something solid.
And behind him, the flame held steady.
Watching the street.
Waiting.
There was no ceremony.
No formal parade of words, no brass band, no handshake beneath a flag. Just a cramped office that smelled like pipe smoke and old ink, and a captain with bags under his eyes and a pen gripped like a dagger.
Halfa stood silent while the captain stamped the parchment.
“Probation lifted,” the man muttered. “Competency exceeds expectations. Brannig signs off, I sign off. Try not to burn anything unless you’re told to. ”
He didn’t look up.
Halfa nodded once.
Across the room, Dot leaned against a shelf stacked with ledger books, his arms folded, his mouth a tight line. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t protest. He watched like a man keeping track of a storm on the horizon, knowing it couldn’t be leashed.
The moment the ink dried, Halfa stepped out into the courtyard, the parchment tucked into his belt, the late sun catching the faint shine of his newly issued badge. The uniform was adjusted finally to fit him, and it no longer pinched. It felt… worn in. Like something he could walk in without tripping over what he used to be.
Brannig Barrelshield joined him on the steps. She said nothing for a moment. Stood beside him, hands on her hips, scanning the yard like she expected it to fall apart if she blinked.
“So,” she said at last, voice low. “What’s next, lad?”
Halfa stared ahead at the bustle of the Watchhouse. Officers moving. Recruits shouting. The inaudible murmur of city life pushing up against the walls.
Then, simply, he said: “Steady ground. ”
Brannig gave the smallest smile.
The sun dipped low as Halfa climbed the temple stairs. The bells in the market tower had finished their third chime, early evening. The air smelled of fresh bread and hammered copper, and for once, the city’s noise felt distant. Behind him, his Watch badge caught the last glint of daylight. Ahead, the Temple of Thessira stood rebuilt, not whole, not as it once was, but undeniably alive.
Lanterns lined the entryway. Ribbons hung across the repaired arch, each dyed with clove and rose water, fluttering like breath returning after a long silence. And through the open doors came laughter.
It startled him. Joy always did when it came suddenly.
Inside, the temple had gathered around a low table stacked with offerings, fruit, warm root pies, and spiced tea. Serelion stood near the altar, speaking quietly with a pair of young acolytes. Bilbin barked instructions from the kitchen doorway, his apron freshly stained and his beard still scorched at one corner. Marin darted between guests like a dancing ribbon, barefoot and bright, hair tied back with a twist of temple silk.
Halfa didn’t know who’d organised it. He only knew it wasn’t for the Watch.
It was for him.
As he stepped inside, Marin saw him first. She smiled—not a grin, not something for show, just that small, sideways smile that said I’m glad you’re here.
“Look what the street coughed up,” she said, drifting toward him with a cup of tea in each hand. “Crimson suits you. ”
“You think so?” he muttered.
She handed him the tea. “I think you’re walking like someone who belongs. ”
Before he could answer, Bilbin called from across the room. “Oy! Barrelshield! You still owe me a rematch on onion dice!”
Brannig stood near the threshold, arms folded, armour dusted with flour from an earlier ambush by Bilbin. She didn’t smile, but her presence said enough. She gave Halfa a curt nod.
“You showed up,” he said quietly, stepping over.
“I hate parties,” she replied. “But I came for the pie. ”
A pause. Then: “You earned it. ”
She didn’t stay long. Long enough to share a cup with Serelion, mutter something unintelligible to Bilbin, and clap Halfa once on the shoulder hard enough to remind him she still outranked him.
When she left, the celebration carried on. The music was soft. The stories got louder. At some point, someone lit a small fire bowl in the courtyard, and the light danced across the rebuilt silk hangings. Halfa stood apart for a time, content just to watch.
Later, Marin found him again.
“Come on,” she said, tapping his elbow. “I want to show you something. ”
He followed her up a narrow staircase he hadn’t walked in months—since before the fire. The stairs creaked, but held. At the top, the trapdoor to the rooftop opened without protest. Cool air spilled in.
They rebuilt the rooftop, not exactly as it was, but close. The stone parapet were straighter now, and the boards along the east edge had been reinforced. A blanket lay near the far wall. A lantern sat beside it, already lit.
Marin flopped down onto the blanket, arms behind her head. “They fixed the ladder last week,” she said. “Brannig sent some off-duty Watch to do it. She said we’d need it again. ”
Halfa lowered himself beside her, boots thudding softly against the stone. He didn’t lie back. Sat with his legs drawn up, elbows resting on his knees.
The city stretched before them in all directions. There were domes, towers, and chimneys spitting smoke. It looked endless. But the stars were out tonight, and they blinked through the haze like even they were surprised the city had survived.
“It’s strange,” Marin said, “how something can burn and still be here after. Still be… itself. Just changed. ”
Halfa didn’t speak. But his chest rose and fell with the steadiness of someone listening.
She rolled onto her side to face him. “You’ve changed, too. ”
“Did I lose myself in the flames?” he asked quietly.
She reached out and touched his hand, not grasping, resting her fingers atop his.
“No,” she said. “You stayed. That’s rarer. ”
He turned to look at her.
For a long moment, neither moved.
The lantern flickered between them, and the silence was full, not empty.
Marin smiled. “Don’t go catching feelings on a rooftop. It’s cliché. ”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured. But he didn’t pull his hand away.
They sat like that a while longer, the city humming beneath them, the stars blinking overhead. Two people who were scarred by fire and saved by something softer.
Not a question anymore.
Not a maybe.
But something real.
Something worth staying for.
A Quiet Flame
He tasted copper. Something in his nose was broken. Every breath burned like he’d swallowed smoke.
The cage wasn’t much. Iron bars bolted into the stone beneath a tavern that had died two owners ago. Rust clung to the metal like moss. Blood pooled under his chin.
He didn’t know how long he had been here. Time had blurred in between the beatings.
Boot steps came softly across the stone. Gronk didn’t look up. He didn’t need to.
Valka prowled in. All sharp edges, as usual.
She stopped outside the cage. Silence hung a moment longer than comfort allowed.
“You built me a ladder,” she said. “And now you want to pull it down?”
