Page 2 of War Hour

Steeling my nerves, I hurry deeper into the plaza. I could be in and out of the market in ten minutes if I don’t stumble into trouble. With only two stops in the maze of stalls, I’ll have enough stale bread, potatoes, and dried meat to last Thoman and me a couple of weeks.

Stocked up on supplies, we won’t have to risk the market until tensions ease.

At the end of the ninth row, tucked into the corner beneath the broken clock tower, is my first stop: Doireann. A friendly face—if there is such a thing in Falland.

Strolling up to her stall, head on a swivel, I watch people huddle around the older woman’s cart before stepping up. When Doireann catches sight of me dawdling in her shrinking line, her face brightens. The beginnings of a smile chase away the frown permanently curving her lips.

“Anything new today, Doireann?” I ask, cringing at how awkward the pleasantry sounds coming from me.

She nods with a knowing gaze, a teasing smile growing in jest.

I’m no fan of small talk and its inconsequential conversation. The streets aren’t the place to linger, but I indulge the elderly woman anyway, and she knows it.

“Same as usual, I suppose,” Doireann says, a crease deepening between her brows. “It’s been a while since you and Thoman have been around. Keeping out of trouble?”

Her voice is casual as she asks, but her strangling grip on the medallion hanging from her neck betrays her.

I reach out to still her twisting fingers. My gaze softens when I attempt to deliver a reassuring tone. “Not more than we can handle, but I’ll be sure to tell Thoman he needs to take his turn coming here.”

While the worry in her eyes doesn’t ease, she nods stiffly in acceptance.

Trouble isn’t avoidable on the streets, especially in times like these, but Doireann would single-handedly worry about every kid she knows of—probably even the ones she doesn’t.

Most children on the streets are orphans because of Trialing, their parents taken and never returned. What makes it worse is not finding out if they’d died during the deadly test or if they’d succeeded and for whatever reason couldn’t come back for them.

Neither is an easy truth to swallow. I think it’s better off not knowing.

But Doireann, with her wrinkled skin and a few missing teeth, has been there for many of the street kids. Providing them with manageable tasks for food. Small jobs, such as sweeping around her cart or organizing the items lining her shelves.

I met Doireann as a starving twelve-year-old who nicked some bread from a vendor, and a member of the Guard was watching.

My older sister, Cenna, had been sick from lack of food. We’d gotten by just fine off pity scraps from passersby on the streets but then Lord Drytas had outlawed panhandling, and we couldn’t risk it any longer.

Having seen me sprint down the street, Doireann had ushered me behind her stall, hiding me well after the guards had passed.

They couldn’t have Trialed me yet, since the Trial doors won’t open for anyone under fourteen, but that wouldn’t have stopped them from finding another punishment for me.

For three years after, Doireann had given me meals for running her deliveries across the city. Her busted knee made it difficult for her to walk distances, so our arrangement worked for us. I didn’t mind the work when my stomach was full at the end of the night, even if the exhaustion of the day always seeped into the next.

Eventually, I passed the job to someone who needed it more, and now Market Day is my only chance to check in on Doireann.

A crash down the street compels us to whip around, and I step in front of Doireann’s tiny frame. I flinch toward my hip, where my dagger lay hidden beneath layers of cloth and leather. Fingers flexing in anticipation, I scan the plaza for the source of the commotion.

A wooden crate lay broken on the cobblestone, an array of vegetables rolling away from the scene. The owner of the cart stoops to pick up the scattered items, shaking his head, and the tension eases from my stiffened muscles.

I drop my hand from my side, the weight of the weapon comforting, despite the danger of possessing it.

Turning back to Doireann, I open my mouth to continue but stop when I see her gaze has landed on my hip. The clack of teeth is audible as my jaw snaps shut.

Weapons are forbidden for Untrialed in Falland.

Having stepped back, I force myself to regain the space I vacated. Doireann tilts her head to the side, a worried frown growing on her face.

If the Guard catches me with the weapon, it would mean certain Trialing.

Excuses and explanations flicker across the front of my mind, but my lips refuse to form words. I can’t lie to her.

Shaking her head, Doireann avoids the topic, instead pushing a large bag into my hands, the contents shifting as I grip the burlap.

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