Mills had expected more people, and he’d also expected less. In the morning, as the sun rose, people came into Tress’ shop. Many of them were familiar faces for Mills. Davitch, the sculptor, showed up early with a paper sack of donuts.

  “I’m early?” Davitch looked just as Mills remembered–the same white hair pulled into a tight ponytail, the same heavy steel mustache over his lips. Davitch saw Mills, and his little round eyes widened, then he grinned.

  “Mills!” Davitch wrapped him in an iron hug. Mills returned the gesture.

  “When Tress said you were back in town, I thought she was might be losing her mind. Good it see you’re really here.” Davitch said. “Unless I’m also losing my mind.”

  “It’s a good time to do it,” Mills said.

  Davitch guffawed.

  “With relics coming to our door, we gotta keep all our wits about us,” Davitch said.

  Mills smiled. When he’d left Cheau, he hadn’t just left Tress behind. He left Davitch, and a whole host of other friends. He’d abandoned his life for a new one. It had seemed like a good decision at the time. Now, Mills wasn’t so sure. He hadn’t connected with anyone at Camp 33 like he had with Davitch.

  A few more familiar faces came, along with people Mills didn’t know. One poor woman wondered in with a dress and the hope Tress would tailor it.

  “You don’t understand; this is for the festival. It needs to be done now!” The woman shouted.

  “I do understand, and I wouldn’t refuse this request if something more important wasn’t happening,” Tress answered.

  The woman huffed, and stormed out without waiting for an explanation. It was probably best that the woman didn’t get an explanation; she would either laugh it off, or race to announce that the world was ending. The first would lower morale, and the second would likely get Mills booted out of the city.

  “I apologize for that,” Tress said.

  “You do happen to be a shop,” Mills said.

  “The sign says I’m closed.”

  “That’s stopped nobody.”

  Tress frowned at the group. There were fifteen people crowded in the shop. With Mills and Tress, that made seventeen total defenders.

  “Was anyone else supposed to join us?” Mills asked.

  Tress glanced over the group again, counting, trying to make another body magically appear in the mix. Tress had expected more people, or at the very least, she wanted to see more people.

  Mills raised a hand, intending to give Tress a reassuring shoulder clap, then he pulled back.

  “This will work,” Mills whispered.

  Tress gave Mills a skeptical look.

  Mills stepped forward, and cleared his throat. This was his party, and he wasn’t gonna let anyone else take center stage.

  “You all know why you’re here,” Mills said, “and it’s not to get your dresses tailored.”

  That one got some polite chuckles, as Mills expected.

  “I have a list of vantage points across the city. Our jobs for the next few days is to watch outside the walls to see if relics from the Abyss are coming,” Mills said. “If we see anything, we raise the alarm with the town guards, and we fight the relics with them.”

  Mills paused, and let his words settle into the group.

  “Is anyone here a painter?” Mills asked.

  Five hands came up. Mills recognized three people, but the other two were unknowns.

  “Okay, you three will be split up one per vantage point. I need you to have a pink firework painted–that’s gonna be our signal,” Mills said. “It won’t alert the guards, but it will alert the rest of us. If you see a signal, use your judgement to determine what to do. And carry a weapon with you.”

  After the speech, Mills separated people into teams. He made sure each group had one painter with them, then he sent them to a post. He made swift progress until Tress stepped forward in the line. She had a rapier hanging from her belt.

  “No, you stay here. You’re command,” Mills said.

  “You need all the people you can use,” Tress countered.

  “Tress, this could get very dangerous. You could get hurt,” Mills said.

  “Everyone knows that,” Tress said.

  Mills glanced to the rapier again. She hadn’t had a weapon when Mills was with her, and she hadn’t seem inclined to buy one.

  “I’ve studied how to use a rapier for two years.” Tress’ voice turned razor-sharp.

  Mills sighed.

  “Okay,” he said.

  Mills placed Tress with Davitch and one of the painters, then assigned them to the southern clocktower. That was where the Burned Gardens were. If the relics attacked, Mills was certain they wouldn’t come through the Gardens. Tress scowled at the order–she was thinking the same thing–but she didn’t argue against it. She left her shop with Davitch and the painter in tow.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Mills finished up the last few assignments, careful to leave one for himself. He had a flare if he needed to signal, and he’d be able to summon guards on his own. Plus, being alone would give Mills more time to organize his thoughts. He finished assigning the last group to a clocktower and readied himself to leave, but when these people walked away, there was someone behind them.

  The man was short, which was why Mills hadn’t seen him behind the others. He was young, maybe in his early twenties. His dark, feathery hair fell messy around his eyes, and he had wore grim expression. He carried a bag of painted canvases.

  “You’re a painter?” Mills asked.

  “Yeah.” The man had a soft voice. “I came in a little late, I think.”

  “Well…” Mills glanced around. This man was the only one left.

  “It’s good you’re here, because I’m also on lookout duty, and I need a buddy.” Mills smiled.

  The man shifted his expression. It wasn’t a smile, not even close, but Mills got the feeling the man was happy to be included.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” the man said.

  “It happens,” Mills shrugged. “Also, I don’t know your name. I’m Mills, the guy organizing this little militia.”

  “Baz.”

  “Nice to meet you, Baz.” Mills said. “Let’s get to our post.”

  Mills and his new friend walked through the cobblestone streets. The morning had brought many people out, and the pair had to squeeze their way through crowds. In the square, artists worked on their latest. A sculptor danced with her marble statue. A painter swiped a few quick brushstrokes on a canvas, then summoned his creation to life. The summon only lasted a few seconds, but the painter’s speed was extraordinary. Mills could see the guy doing lightning requests for an audience. From everything Mills saw, this Artist Appreciation Week was going to be a good one.

  Baz walked with his shoulders slumped, and his eyes mostly on the ground, sometimes flicking up to catch some movement. The canvases in his bag jostled, giving Mills only brief glimpses of the work.

  “What kind of paintings do you do?” Mills asked.

  Baz snapped his gaze to Mills like he’d been spotted by a tiger.

  “Animals, mostly,” Baz mumbled.

  “Animals.” Mills nodded.

  The pair found their clocktower, and climbed to the top. They had a small balcony under the bell, where they could watch the western part of Cheau. They also had a good vantage of Main Street. It was the size of a rice grain, but even then, Mills saw movement. The festival had likely already started.

  Mills pulled himself away from the sight, and focused on his section of Cheau. The wind whistled in Mills’ ear and tugged at his coat. Baz was wearing an apron over a sleeveless shirt, and the wind made his skin raise. He kept a straight face, though. He wanted to look tough.

  The forest didn’t move. But it would eventually. At some point, relics were going to spill out from that gloom. Mills would shoot his flare up, and run to the closest guards to warn them–Cheau is going to be attacked. Everyone would gather up, and the relics would be pushed out.

  There was no movement from the forest.

  There was a chance the relics would come from another direction. They might march in from the Burned Gardens, despite Mills’ predictions. Tress would be on the front lines against a tidal wave of relics. She might come face-to-face with the reaver. Mills fished his blank cards from his pocket. He wouldn’t be able to stop the relics from invading, not without some serious consequences, but what about redirecting them to another entry point?

  The day passed, though Mills didn’t write on his card. Baz was quiet as the sun went up. By noon, Mills’ stomach was rumbling. A few artists who’d come to Tress’ shop had brought paper sacks with them, likely containing sandwiches. Mills wished he’d brought a sandwich.

  “Did you bring lunch?” Mills asked.

  Baz blinked, and looked at Mills.

  “I didn’t,” he said.

  “It’s getting time. I’m thinking of going down for a little bit and grabbing something quick. You want anything?” Mills asked.

  Baz shook his head, then focused back on the outskirts of the city.

  Mills climbed down the clocktower, and went to the nearby square. A good chunk of people had cleared out, likely headed for Main Street. Still, Mills found a few open shops, and he bought a loaf of bread, a cold cut sausage, and a hunk of cheese. It was more than he could eat on his own, so Baz could take something if he wanted it.

  Mills headed back up to the clocktower, and found Baz still leaned against the balcony. Mills took his lunch to the stone railing, and ate while he looked out. Baz glanced over once, then quickly looked away. He didn’t want Mills to notice, but Mills had.

  The hours trudged on. Mills took a seat, and an hour later, Baz did the same. The relics might not strike that night. They might not come to Cheau at all. The sun came down, and stars came out. Fireworks screamed into the sky, then boomed like thunder as they spread colors across the sky.

  Mills’ focus slipped from the forest to the fireworks. He pulled the remains of his lunch close, and unwrapped them. The relics could still march through, but at that moment, Mills was certain nothing would happen that day.

  He tore off a hunk of bread, and held it to his open mouth. Baz was in the corner of his vision.

  “Are you sure you don’t want anything?” Mills asked. “You haven’t eaten at all, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  Baz stared at the food.

  “I’ll be okay,” he said. “Thanks, though.”

  Another firework exploded across the sky and bathed Cheau in a green light. Mills stuffed the bread in his mouth. Another firework burst.

  Mills swallowed his bread, and wiped his lips with the back of his glove.

  “You know, we’ve spent an entire day in the same place and we don’t know shit about each other,” Mills said.

  Baz shrugged.

  “You’re Mills. You’re a writer,” he said.

  “And you’re Baz, and you paint. Animals, specifically,” Mills said. “Care to tell me more about your work?”

  Baz glanced to Mills, to his bag, then back to Mills. He reached into his bag, and pulled out a larger canvas. As promised, it was an animal. The painting was of a snarling tiger, sketched with flowing brushstrokes that brought the animal to life.

  “I made some paintings in case the relics came,” Baz said.

  “Wait, this was just for tonight?” Mills asked.

  Baz nodded.

  A firework lit the world green.

  Baz would have only had less than a day paint such a lively piece; he was a master of his craft. That tiger, when summoned, would be powerful.

  Another firework went off, and dread pooled in Mills’ stomach. Baz was young, and he was talented, but he was on guard duty instead of summoning animals to prance around Main Street. If Mayor Price found out that one of his artists left the festival to help Mills…

  “You were supposed to be in the festival, weren’t you?” Mills asked.

  Baz shook his head.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure,” Baz hissed through his teeth. “I’m here because I’m not in the festival.”

  “Why?” Mills shouldn’t have pushed things, and he knew he shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t help it.

  “I wasn’t selected to join,” Baz muttered.

  “That’s…” Mills was going to say the selection process was bullshit and Baz deserved to be on Main Street, but Baz would already know that.

  “Your work’s good,” Mills said. “And I’m glad you can be here. It might not seem like it right now, but this is important work.”

  Baz nodded.

  More fireworks popped in the sky.

  “May I ask you a question now?” Baz said.

  “Of course.” Mills sat up straighter.

  “I was curious about writing. The magic behind it,” Baz said.

  Mills nodded. There weren’t a lot of writers in the world, and the skill and magic behind it was wrapped up in mystery. It wouldn’t hurt to explain a little bit of information about the craft.

  Mills opened his mouth.

  Then an explosion went off.