Chapter IV Part I

The next day, Papa still isn’t back. I ping him through my wrist comm, reach for him through the Force — nothing. He’s busy. Damn it.

When waiting claws at my chest, there’s only one fix: keep moving.

I shower fast, wolf down warm bread thick with honey, then pull on my orchard gloves and head out. The air bites crisp and sweet as I gather the fallen fruit — not much today, just enough to dump in the distillery. Zeke hovers overhead, whirring softly as he scans the branches for stragglers.

I check the hives next. The bees’ hum settles when I reach out, calming them with the Force. One hive’s ready, so I harvest carefully, frames dripping gold. Zeke records every jar, his lens blinking.

Back inside, I sweep, mop, vacuum — the whole manor freshens up under my boots. The dojo floor gets a good scrub too; the old scuffs vanish one wipe at a time. I polish the training sabers, test their balance, slide them back into place.

Outside, the big tree behind the manor drops leaves like confetti — gold, bronze, fire-red. I rake them up and dump them into the composter by the distillery. Nothing goes to waste, Papa always says.

By midmorning I’m in the greenhouse with Talia, tending her tea bushes and herb rows. The soil’s rich and damp under my nails. We pull carrots, squash, and ripe zucchini — good for Erza’s next puree. Erza squeals on her blanket by the door, tiny fists tangled in her scarlet hair, green eyes flicking shyly at Rebecca nearby. Rebecca just laughs, even when Erza shuffles closer to Talia instead.

IG-22 looms at the doorway, metal limbs locked straight, red sensor fixed on the garden. He’s a sentinel more than company, but I nod to him anyway. I run his diagnostics when we’re done — scrape the sand from his servos, tighten what needs tightening. He stays silent, same as always.

Inside, I fix up SD-4’s glitchy processor, swap the shoulder servos on SD-5. The little droids pat my boot before rolling off — their thank-you, in their own way.

By late morning, I’m wrestling in the yard with Mira and Liz. Their laughter echoes off the orchard walls as I twist and dodge their pounces. Erza watches from Talia’s arms on the porch, squealing when I swing my tail just out of reach.

When they tire out, I slip to the dojo. The battered training remotes spin and fire at me in short, stinging bursts. My training saber hums, deflects, cuts. My braid snaps across my shoulder as I twist and block. Another deflected shot and the final training remote falls to the ground. I lower the hilt, catching my breath. Still no sign of Papa.

By noon, my stomach’s grumbling. Talia presses a lunch basket into my hands — bread, spiced meat, a flask of squeezed apple juice. She shakes her head when I offer to stay. “Rebecca and I have it, sweetheart.” Erza snuggles deeper into her arms, peeking at Rebecca with wary eyes.

So I whistle for Zeke. He chirps and settles on my shoulder. I swing my leg over the speeder bike, the engine’s purr chasing the hush in my chest. The hidden pass opens ahead — the manor slipping away behind me, swallowed by the caldera’s stone walls as the pass closes behind me.

The ride into Arroyo takes just under an hour, the path cutting through golden fields and the low whisper of autumn wind in the trees. I ease into the city gates, showing my Gold-rank guild badge to the guards with a casual flick of my wrist. They wave me through without question — they’ve seen me enough times to know I’m not trouble.

Zeke hovers at my shoulder, his metal shell catching the midday light as we weave past fruit carts and festival stalls going up in preparation for the harvest fair. Arroyo’s always buzzing this time of year — the air thick with the scent of roasted nuts, baked apples, and pine garlands from the north.

I’m just a few blocks away from the Platinum Griffen when something catches my ear — a ripple of laughter, shouts of frustration, the telltale sounds of a crowd forming off to the side. I glance down a narrow alley branching between two tall brick buildings, the shadows pooling thick beyond the sunlit street. A cluster of people are packed tight around something — or someone — and curiosity tugs at me like a thread.

“Zeke,” I say, flicking my fingers. “Hold up.”

The droid chirps and floats into standby, perching just above the alley’s entrance as I slip inside.

It’s narrow — cramped between stone walls that echo every voice tenfold. And there, at the center of the crowd, kneeling beside a crate turned on its side, is a young man. About my age, maybe a little older. He’s dressed in layered leathers dyed dusty brown, his cloak patched in a few places, his bracers weathered from wear. A rogue, clearly — and not a bad-looking one either. Chestnut hair cropped short, a lazy curl across his brow. Hazel-green eyes sparkle with charm as he flashes a grin to the crowd, speaking smoothly over the murmur of the alley.

“Step up, step up,” he calls, flipping a small blue pebble into the air before catching it. “The game is simple.”

He places the pebble on top of the crate, then covers it with one of three wooden cups already positioned upside down. His fingers are quick — too quick. I narrow my eyes.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“One silver coin to play,” he says. “Guess right, and you walk away with three.”

He gives the cups a flick, and suddenly they’re dancing — spinning in tight circles, switching places so fast they blur. Left, right, middle — over and over again. The crowd murmurs, necks craning to follow.

Then he stops, pulling back with a flourish. “Alright,” he says, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Who’s feeling lucky?”

A robed figure steps forward, kneeling before the crate. A mage, by the look of him — long gray-blue robes hemmed in silver thread, a brass focus ring glinting on one hand. His face is young, clean-shaven, and far too calm. He lays a silver coin gently on the crate.

“Very good,” the rogue says, laying out three silver coins beside it. “Now then — which cup holds the stone?”

The mage points to the leftmost cup.

The rogue lifts it.

The blue pebble gleams beneath, still and unmistakable.

The crowd cheers, a ripple of surprised laughter rising around them. The mage gives a slight bow, scoops up his winnings, and vanishes into the crowd like mist.

My ears twitch. That felt… too smooth.

Another player steps up — this time a tall beastfolk man. A harpy. His feathers are a burnished gold and copper, his eyes dark and fierce beneath the crest of his brows. He wears reinforced leather armor over a doublet, a long beaded braid falling over one shoulder — a Valkerie fighter, maybe, from one of the mountain tribes.

He kneels, flipping a coin onto the crate with a quiet clack. The rogue grins, repeats his show, and spins the cups again — fast, fluid, almost hypnotic.

I watch closely this time.

The pebble starts under the middle cup. He spins left, right, twice again — but something’s off. His left hand flicks out — just for a heartbeat — and then back.

The cups stop.

“Go on,” the rogue says, gesturing.

The harpy grunts and taps the center cup.

The rogue lifts it.

Empty.

“Ahhh, tough luck, feathered friend,” he says, lifting the rightmost cup — and there’s the pebble. “Better luck next time.”

The harpy feathers ruffle in annoyance. “Again,” he growls, slapping down another silver coin.

The crowd loves it. People push in tighter, eager for their turn. Some win. Most lose. A few shout, but the rogue’s charm seems to smooth every complaint. Laughter bubbles over tension. Silver keeps flowing.

And then I spot him.

That same mage from earlier — or at least, he thinks he’s clever. Now he’s dressed in a fighter’s leathers, a red scarf around his neck, and a dark wig pulled over his cropped hair. But I see the same boots. Same knife hilt. Same stance.

He kneels, plays. Wins.

Again. Then again.

By the third round, the crowd’s roaring. The rogue beams, playing it up, but I catch it — the twitch of his left fingers, the faint tilt of the cup as he lifts it, the pebble vanishing up his sleeve in a blink.

He’s cheating.

I narrow my eyes, tail flicking in irritation.

Zeke chirps once from the alley entrance, barely audible over the noise.

“What a scoundrel,” I murmur. My fingers curl into a fist. But then a grin starts to tug at my lips.

Alright, let’s turn your little game around.

A night elf steps forward next — dark skin, long white braid, cloak lined in silver feathers. His eyes gleam as he kneels and sets a coin on the crate.

The rogue starts his show again, flipping the pebble, covering it with flair. His hands move, cups spin, the crowd watches.

I reach out — just a whisper through the Force. I feel the pebble, cool and solid, and stop it. Then I slide it into the center cup, just as he finishes his swirl.

“Go on,” the rogue says.

The night elf taps the center.

The rogue smirks, lifts the cup—

And freezes.

The pebble gleams beneath.

The night elf smiles. So do I.

He pockets the winnings without a word. The crowd cheers again. Another player steps up. I keep watching — and when needed, nudging. Letting one or two so it doesn’t seem obvious. But more and more walk away grinning, coins jingling in their pouches.

And the rogue?

He’s sweating now.

Just a little.

Then during a round with a hulking barbarian — shirtless, broad as a wagon, arms tattooed in runes — the rogue spins the cups again. I flick my fingers, just slightly.

And in that flicker, his eyes meet mine.

Hazel-green locked on blue.

He knows.

I tense, heart skipping. I turn away fast, pushing through the edge of the crowd. “Zeke,” I whisper, and the droid darts into motion, zipping ahead.

I don’t run — not yet. But I walk faster, slipping into the bustle of Arroyo’s streets, the scent of roasted chestnuts and cinnamon bread masking my scent as I vanish down a side street.