*COMPLETE* There are whispers across the kingdoms that the Paragon, that strangely gifted person who can wield all four Skills, has been found.
They're wrong, of course. No one has caught the Paragon. Allayria should know: she's it.
But Allayr...
"Here we are, fire girl," Iaves whispers. "Can you spot him?"
Allayria peers out of the open door, over the balcony and down into the market. Heads of bakers, farmers, shopkeepers, and patrons bob in and out of view as she studies each in turn. Iaves hangs back, keeping out of sight in the shadows of the apartment, and she knows he has an ear out for the owner's return.
She slowly begins to eliminate suspects: first, those in service, with the flour-caked aprons and thread-bare sleeves.
Who is a master? she considers, surveying the perusing men in turn. Who moves with skill and care?
There is a broad-shouldered man with a broken nose and a brooding glower, considering a stall of gooseberries; a thin, shifting man observing different cuts of meat; a graying man contemplating a row of cabbages; and a medium-height, plain-faced man inspecting a knick-knack stall of trinkets, holding a small pocket-watchup to the light.
"Him," she answers, pointing to the plain-faced man.
"Wrong."
Allayria looks up at Iaves.
"Him," she tries again, pointing at the thin one.
"Wrong again." Iaves raises a finger and then bends it toward...
Allayria looks down and then back up at him and Iaves laughs. She turns back, observing the gray-haired man, thick set around the middle and heavy-footed, clumsily searching through the pile of cabbage, much to the distress of the merchant.
"Really?" she blurts.
"Really. That's old Ruben," Iaves says, peeking around the doorframe again before leaning back into the shadows. "Don't underestimate him."
"Have you fought him?"
"Not yet," he admits, "but I know someone who has."
Allayria leans forward onto the balcony, watching the man. He drops some coins into the merchant's handthen seems to halt at a small sketch hung on the stall. It's of a boy and Allayria,squinting, deciphers the word "Missing" printed below the picture. A distant memory tugs in the back of her mind, and she recalls another man, thinner and shouting, holding something in his hands—a shirt? No, a jacket. He was missing a child too.
The old man—Ruben—says something to the merchant, and then drops two more coins into his hands.
Having paid for his selection, Ruben wanders in a slow, hunched gait toward the northern section of the city.
"What are we going to do about him?"
Iaves glances over at her.
"Keep an eye on him, keep our ears open and some palms greased. He has nothing on us, and there's nothing he can do until he does. Until then, he's something to monitor, not fight."
Allayria nods, keeping her eyes trained on the dwindling back, a breeze pulling through her hair.
"You know, I kind of owe you an apology."
She turns back, brow furrowed.
"I underestimated you," he explains, folding his arms, the afternoon sunlight creeping across his torso. "I had doubts that you could do what we do. I was wrong."
"Don't apologize," she answers, looking back down at the market, drumming her fingers against the rail as her eyes find the picture of the small boy again.
You were right to doubt.
But she says: "We have to be suspicious of everyone."
He sighs.
"That's the worst part of it all: the constant distrust and pretense. I think I'd go ballistic if it was just me."
Her fingers twitch on the rail and then close around it in a tight fist.
"I wouldn't be able to bear it," she says.
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Note: A full view of the header art can be found on my deviantart account here: http://asimsluvr.deviantart.com/art/Iaves-658285947
