Aster looked different at night.

Not worse. Just… softer.

The lanterns strung along the streets cast warm pools of light against the stone, blurring sharp edges and turning familiar alleys into something gentler.

Fritz walked his route at an easy pace, sword resting on his hips, boots tapping on a steady rhythm against the ground.

Nothing ever happened on this stretch.

Which was good.

"Fritz!"

He glanced up just in time to see one of the senior guards jogging toward him, helmet tucked under his arm and armor only half-fastened.

Fritz slowed. "Please tell me you're not about to ask me for something."

The man laughed. "You know me too well."

"Mm."

"There's an event tonight," the senior said, lowering his voice like it was some great secret.

"Over in the nearby district. Music, food, lights—you know how it is."

Fritz stopped walking.

"…You want me to take your shift."

"Just for tonight!" the man said quickly. "You're already out here anyway."

Fritz tilted his head back slightly, staring up at the lantern above them. The warm glow made the metal fittings shine, soft and dull instead of sharp.

He thought about his feet. About how his shoulders ached. About the simple comfort of sitting down somewhere quiet and not having to stay alert.

He sighed.

"Fine," Fritz said. "Go. Before I change my mind."

The senior's face lit up. "You're a saint."

"I really am not."

The man was already halfway down the street by the time Fritz adjusted his grip on his sword and turned back toward the route.

Same streets. Same lamps.

Just a little longer.

Fritz rolled his shoulders and continued on, eyes moving slowly, not searching for trouble, just present enough to notice it if it came.

Someone had to be.

The route curved toward the market streets after that.

At this hour, most stalls were shuttered, their canvas covers drawn tight and tied down. A few vendors lingered, packing up crates or counting coin beneath lanternlight. The air smelled faintly of oil and warm bread from somewhere deeper in the district.

Fritz passed them with a nod. Some nodded back. Others didn't notice him at all.

That was fine.

He liked patrols like this—quiet enough to think, busy enough that he didn't drift. His thoughts stayed small. What he'd eat when he got back. Whether his boots would finally give in and need replacing. How much longer before the next bell.

A voice cut through the street.

Then, more voices.

Fritz slowed, attention pulling him toward a narrow side street where lanternlight spilled unevenly across stone.

A small crowd had formed.

Not a proper one. Just a knot of people standing close enough to feel threatening.

At the center was a boy.

He couldn't have been older than ten. Thin, shoulders hunched inward, clutching something to his chest with both hands. A loaf of bread, half-wrapped and already torn where fingers had dug in too hard.

Four men stood around him.

Not guards nor merchants. Locals with rolled sleeves, the kind of people who knew exactly how much force they could get away with using. One of them had already grabbed the boy by the collar, lifting him just enough that his feet scraped against the ground.

"Thought you were slick, huh?" one of them said.

"Little rat's been circling the stalls all night," another added.

The boy shook his head, words tumbling out too fast to make sense.

Fritz stepped in.

"Hey."

It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.

All four of them turned.

One of the men looked him up and down, then scoffed. "This doesn't concern you."

Fritz glanced at the bread. At the boy's shoes, worn thin, toes nearly showing.

"It does now," Fritz said.

The man holding the boy laughed and shoved him back against the wall. "Kid steals, he learns. That's how it works."

Another stepped closer. "You planning to stop us?"

Fritz didn't answer.

He moved instead.

One step forward. Then another. He slipped an arm around the boy's shoulders and pulled him in, turning his body sideways, then fully around—putting his back to the men and lowering his stance instinctively.

The boy froze.

Fritz tightened his grip, one arm braced over the kid's head.

"Don't move," he said quietly.

There was a beat of silence.

Then someone laughed.

"You serious?" one of them said. "You think that's gonna work?"

The first strike came from the side—something hard slamming into Fritz's shoulder. Pain flashed sharp and immediate, knocking the breath from his chest.

He leaned down further, curling around the boy.

Another hit landed, then another.

Someone kicked his leg out from behind, and Fritz staggered but didn't fall.

He could end this.

The thought surfaced, steady and clear. He knew how to fight. Knew exactly how much force it would take to put them down—how fast it would be.

But it wouldn't be right.

Not like this.

Fritz stayed where he was, knees bent, arms locked around the boy, back screaming in dull, spreading pain. He waited until the silence stretched just long enough to be uncomfortable.

The blows slowed, spacing out as breath grew heavier.

Someone grunted. Another cursed under their breath.

Fritz finally turned and spoke.

"Had your fill yet?"

His voice was rougher than before, but steady.

There was a pause.

One of the men shifted. Another took a step back, squinting at Fritz's shoulder—at the strap crossing his chest. At the metal clasp half-hidden beneath his cloak.

"…Wait," someone said.

A hand reached out and tugged the fabric aside just enough.

The insignia caught the lanternlight.

Guard.

The air changed immediately.

"Shit," one of them muttered.

Another let out a short, humorless laugh. "You didn't say he was a guard."

Fritz exhaled slowly and straightened, just enough to make the point. He didn't turn around. Didn't threaten or reach for his weapon.

He didn't need to.

"Leave," he said.

The word wasn't loud. It didn't have to be.

The men backed off, irritation replacing confidence. One spat on the stones. Another shook his head like this was an inconvenience rather than a mistake.

"Kid's lucky," someone muttered as they drifted away.

The street emptied quickly after that.

Fritz loosened his grip.

The boy was still shaking.

"…You can go," Fritz said quietly.

The kid hesitated, then nodded, clutching the bread tighter before darting off into the alley without looking back.

Fritz watched until he was gone.

Only then did he roll his shoulder, a sharp hiss slipping through his teeth before he could stop it.

It hurt.

He settled his cloak back into place, adjusted his sword sheath, and continued down the patrol.

The streets thinned as Fritz moved on.

His pace slowed despite himself, each step sending a dull reminder through his ribs and shoulder. He ignored it. Pain had a way of fading if he didn't give it too much attention.

The lanterns grew brighter as the road opened up.

Aster's main square stretched out before him, wide stone paving worn smooth through generations.

At its center stood the statue.

Asteris.

The First Hero.

Carved from pale stone, the figure rose tall and steady, cloak drawn back, one hand resting on the pommel of a sword while the other extended forward.

Fritz slowed to a stop at the edge of the square.

He hadn't meant to come this way. His route didn't pass through here.

Still, he lingered.

The statue didn't look imposing up close. It wasn't triumphant. It simply stood, watching over the city in silence, unchanged no matter how many arguments people had about what it meant to be a Hero.

Fritz shifted his weight and winced.

He wondered, briefly, if it had ever hurt like this.

The thought came and went without ceremony.

Fritz straightened, adjusted his cloak, and continued across the square, footsteps echoing softly against the stone.

Above him, the First Hero stood watch—over those beginning the Hero's Ideals from very different places.

One, bruised and anonymous, walking it without knowing its name.

The other, far from the square, trying to guide someone else onto that path to begin with.

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