Her Commander

______________________________ The day had been long and enduring. Hunched over from the sac of coal balanced precariously over her shoulder, Micah grit her teeth, mumbling under her breath the price for coals Kit had seared into her consciousness from the moment she left the cottage. “Fifty a handful… no more no less… but we cain’ negotiate… how ’bout that fresh bread you always sell on weekends? Hm…” she repeated the words over and over, her feet dragging sluggishly through the murk of swampy water on the shore. It was raining—a light drizzle misting from the dark heavens, falling onto her curly hair and sticking to her gaunt cheeks, sharp with the edges of hunger. The chill had slowly seeped into her bones from the morning’s work, hours spent sifting through the drifting pieces of wood and garbage washed ashore on the riverbanks. Each piece was a potential treasure, trinkets and baubles that might fetch a fine penny or two at the marketplace. “Fifty a handful… no more, no less…” she muttered again, then added with a sly smile, “but I might be feelin’ mighty generous today… could throw in some bolts and nuts in exchange for…” Her small nose wrinkled at the memory of the ghost scent of fresh bread, lingering from a stall she’d passed the night before. “... that fresh bread.” Her sharp blue eyes flitted over the waves foaming around her boots, scanning intently. Searching, always searching. She had grown up scavenging, trained to see treasure in what others discarded. To survive meant to master the art of finding value where others saw waste. Today was no different. At the first gray hints of dawn, Micah had woken with a scratch in her throat and thrown on her patchwork layers. The early birds catches the fattest worm, Kit would drone on… not that worms was on her menu. But she wasn’t about to let the other scavengers beat her to the best finds. “Bread… bread… bread…” she whispered under her breath, crafting a makeshift song to fill the void of the long, gray afternoon. “Bread for breakfast… bread for lunch… bread for supper… yummy-yummy-yum.” She snickered softly, then stopped to stretch, rolling her shoulders to ease the relentless ache. A day hunched beneath the weight of her sac left knots in her back that no amount of rest seemed to fix. Pushing her damp curls away from her face, she glanced upward, squinting against the rain. Her gaze wandered from the heavy clouds to the endless stretch of gray sand and foamy waves. Other scavengers dotted the horizon, their figures hunched and intent. Each moved with purpose, their forms weaving in and out of view like ghosts against the dull landscape. To her right, the towering wall separating the riverbank from the kingdom loomed, its shadow falling like a quiet threat. Atop its gray stone heights, guards stood vigilant. Their silhouettes were broken by the monstrous forms of lycanthropes prowling along the wall. Hulking and grotesque, the beasts moved with an unsettling fluidity, their claws glinting in the dim light. Pricked ears swiveled back and forth, ever alert for any disturbance. Micah’s gaze lingered on one particularly massive lycanthrope, its wolfish snout sniffing the air. A chill rippled through her despite the humidity. She absently rubbed at the faint scar on her wrist, her fingers tracing the thin line. A reminder of the day a lycanthrope had grabbed her while she was still young and foolish, caught stealing scraps from a guard’s bowl. She hadn’t seen the creature lurking in the shadows, and its claws had lashed out faster than she could react. “Bread… bread… bread…” she murmured again, her voice soft and empty, her attention shifting back to the river. The wall, the guards, the lycanthropes—those were all distant threats, things she had learned to ignore for the sake of survival. The kingdom was ruled by beasts, both figuratively and literally. The king, patriarch of all lycanthropes, maintained his iron grip on the land with the help of his elite commander—a figure spoken of in hushed tones. No one dared to speak his name, and even fewer could claim to have seen his face. Shaking the thought away, Micah swung the sac higher on her back and resumed her scavenging. Her gloved fingers, worn through at the tips, sifted methodically through chunks of debris, separating worthless scraps from hidden treasures. As dusk crept in, painting the sky in streaks of red and orange, Micah trudged into the marketplace. The bustling crowd pressed around her, a chaotic sea of voices and movement. She moved through it like a shadow, weaving between the throngs with practiced ease. Her chin tucked low, her blue eyes scanned the path ahead, bright and alert. The sac clinked noisily against her back, pressing into the sharp shoulder blades which protruded that jagged mountaintops from her back. She licked the salt from her lips, running a thoughtful tongue over each tooth sleek with remnants of food from the previous night. She reached the stall of a merchant known as Bull. The man was as solid and stubborn as his nickname suggested, with a broad frame and a perpetual scowl. Sparse strands of hair clung to his blotchy scalp, and his beady eyes peered intently through a magnifying glass at a wristwatch. Micah approached with feigned confidence, squaring her shoulders and adding a subtle bounce to her step. She swung the sac onto the table with a thud and leaned back, crossing her arms with casual grace. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen you take a day off.” The man grunted leaning forward on folded arms to peer at her bag curiously. Micah shrugged, her eyes darting briefly to the side then at him. “I’m not tired.” “Yeah?” She could feel his eyes flicker across her worn countenance. The shadows like crescents pressed beneath her eyes, sleep lines which betrayed her casual nap taken under the bridge during the afternoon, forehead pressed to forearm. His eyes drifted back to her face with an arched eyebrow. Got a few good things today,” she said, her tone light and casual. Bull snorted, not bothering to look up. “You say that every day.” Micah’s jaw tightened, but she forced a grin. “This time’s different.” “Sure it is.” “Go on, take a look.” She gestured at the sac, her voice taking on a playful edge. “Bet you ain’t seen nothin’ like this before.” Bull sighed and opened the sac, poking at its contents with a practiced hand. Dirt and grime clung to the items, their potential hidden beneath layers of muck. Micah shifted nervously as he sifted through bolts, tarnished rings, and other odds and ends. After a moment, he pulled out a small handful of items—a few bolts and a single ring. The rest he dumped unceremoniously back into the sac. “I’ll take these,” he said, tossing a few coins onto the table. Micah stared at the coins, her mouth opening and closing in disbelief. “Ten cents? That’s it? It’s supposed to be fifty for a handful!” Bull didn’t even blink. “Fifty ain’t worth it if you don’t bring me anything good.” Her eyes darted to the ring, her voice rising. “That ring—do you know where I found it? In the depths of the river! I nearly drowned—” “Ten,” he interrupted, his tone final. Micah’s fists clenched at her sides, but she knew better than to argue. Grabbing the coins, she shoved them into her pocket and hoisted the sac back onto her shoulder. “Man this aint even fair,” she muttered, her voice low and fierce, “someday I’ll be rich enough to buy your stall, and you’ll be the one trading with me.” But Bull had already turned away, his attention on the next customer. Micah stood a moment longer, her eyes narrowed into futile glares before turning away from him with a few invectives. Melting back into the crowd she found the path back to the cottage, thumbing the coins in her pocket and making a mental tally on what could be bought. Potato soup. A night’s rest. She walked on, careful and wary. Occasionally kicking a pebble from her path while muttering to herself, “Ten cents my butt… bet he wouldn’t even have no stall if it weren’t for scavengers… this is explosions–” is that what Kit called it? Explosions or exploits? It didn’t matter. Finding the path that gently veered from the market and onto the outskirts, drifting towards the poorer sides of the kingdom, she walked without looking up, her mind heavy and her ego wounded. The wall loomed at a distance. She felt it, saw it. But failed to notice the lycanthrope standing in the thick of the darkness watching her. His large figure, cloaked in shadows. His silhouette was sharp and commanding, the faint flow of amber eyes piercing the gloom. The commander watched her silently, his presence hidden from view. After a moment his hand lifted to the collar leash around his throat, bronze and beaten to a thick circle binding him. He thumbed it gently, feeling its power thrum pulse quietly, summoning him back to the palace like a master would its dog. But for the first time, he stood a moment longer. And watched the girl disappear into the mist, her form swallowed by the dark.