When Darian awoke, excitement carried him through breakfast and morning chores.

Today began his job at the family’s bakery—months of kneading, baking, until his father’s keen eyes saw perfection. Long hours spent memorizing recipes, being tested by his mother. The smile on his face, the skip in his step, said it all.

His parents left early, as they usually did. They told him to wait at Gram's shop to meet up. Their bakery was well-known in Wickmere, despite neither being rich nor destitute. It did keep them busy.

While on the way to Gram’s shop, he bumped into a man.

He was taller than his father—lanky with a slightly muscular frame. What terrified the young boy was the scar stretching from the man’s ear to his collarbone.

There had been warnings about men like this. Now he was too scared to speak. A smile made Darian want to shrink away.

The morning streets weren’t busy, yet no one around seemed interested in what was happening.

“’Ello, boy. Apologize, won’t ya?”

Darian couldn’t respond. The frown on the man’s face sent a shiver down his spine.

“Rude one, aren’t ya? ’Ave yer paren’s not taught ya man’ers?”

The tension thickened. The man snarled. The boy’s head lowered.

“Sorry, sir,” Darian said.

“Ya do got man’ers. Tha’s good.”

“My parents taught me, sir.”

“Good. Ya sayin’ ‘sir.’ Folks in Wickmere don’t teach that these days.”

Darian nodded. The man smiled.

“Can ya help me out, boy? Just ne’d a bit o’ coin fer tha road.”

“I don’t have any money.”

The man frowned, stepped closer. Darian backed away. Looked around. No help.

“Bullshit, boy. Dre’sed nice an’ out early? Ya got coin ta spare, I know.”

“I—I don’t.”

“Ya bein’ stingy?”

“N-No, sir.”

“Fuck tha’, ya stingy. Par’nts didn’t teach ya to help others?”

"They—"

"Course they didn’t. Fuckin’ stingy bastard."

Darian didn’t know what to do. No one was coming to help.

"I can teach ya. Ohoho, like my pa taught me."

A sword slashed across his face. Darian stood frozen. A warmth spread down his leg. The man laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

"This how pa taught ya, know?"

“Wait...” Darian squeaked.

"Learn—blurrrgh."

Blood splattered across his face, his clothes. Then came blackness. He felt the sense of movement, trying to wiggle free, but the grip restricted his movement.

“Stop unless you want to see your breakfast.”

Then he saw, an older man, hair grizzled, skin swarthy, a face of regret. He took a knee toward Darian, who remembered watching the man die. He puked.

A continuous gentle pat on his back ended once his stomach was finally emptied.

The guard took him away from the growing puddle of blood and others were coming to clean up the mess. The boy felt too conscious of the stunned gawkers, their eyes latched onto the disturbed boy whom nobody heeded to help.

“If you people have enough time to gawk, you all best go about your business or else knowing what steel feels like will be familiar,” the guard roared. A ferocity made them all run like deer who heard the sound of a predator. The guard walked with him for a while until the young boy stopped shaking, the tears and snot dried up. They found a bench place, near the park. Darian’s frightened face stared at the cobblestone. He wanted his mother and father.

“I… No, honesty is best now. You will remember this for the rest of your life, for a while it will haunt your dreams. I cannot say there’s regret in taking the man’s life,” he said and then stopped. The young boy didn’t speak, unable to fathom a response to what happened.

“The duty of a guard is fraught with blood. The bast—man I killed. We kept watch on him, it was only a matter of time before one of us took him out. I regret someone young as you witnessed it.”

A hand patted his back, scared dark brown eyes looked to the older man, though there was an edge matching his rough facial features and straight lips; Darian saw something, beneath the years spent wielding a blade—he saw kindness. The guard nodded. Something inside the boy was born, but he didn’t know it yet.

“Thank you… I think,” Darian said.

“You’re alive is my thanks. Now your parents should be here soon. Your mother is no stranger to the guards. Just know I needed to comfort a lone boy who saw violence today. Maybe there’s naivety in me, I hope you’ll overcome this one day. Don’t let the city’s darkness get you like it has many of us. Good day, boy.”

As the guard finished speaking, Darian’s parents arrived. The boy leapt from the bench, ran into their arms. All three cried for a while. A younger guard placed a pail of water and cloth on the bench. The guards went back to their patrol.

EPILOGUE

The sun arose across the city of Wickmere, the smell of bread wafted through the city and out of a door came a man in his late thirties. The city guard’s uniform fitted him just right. He stretched away the last of the fatigue and let out a yawn, dispelling any lingering sleep, a smile formed across his lips. He watched as the streets grew into a crowd, but he specifically pointed out the lone children and shady-looking adults. He tapped the hilt of his sword and knew it was time to carry on the mission that was born on the bench all those years ago, to protect the children of Wickmere from the darkness. It’s why he gained the nickname, the Guardsman of Wickmere’s Children. He looked to his wife, a Black woman concentrated on finishing up the last batch of bread. He looked to the sign reading Aissur Fine Bread, his family bakery of four generations. A smile formed for his departed parents. Now he marched into the thickening throng, ready to defend the children.

—END—

When Darian awoke, excitement carried him through breakfast and morning chores.

Today began his job at the family’s bakery—months of kneading, baking, until his father’s keen eyes saw perfection. Long hours spent memorizing recipes, being tested by his mother. The smile on his face, the skip in his step, said it all.

His parents left early, as they usually did. They told him to wait at Gram's shop to meet up. Their bakery was well-known in Wickmere, despite neither being rich nor destitute. It did keep them busy.

While on the way to Gram’s shop, he bumped into a man.

He was taller than his father—lanky with a slightly muscular frame. What terrified the young boy was the scar stretching from the man’s ear to his collarbone.

There had been warnings about men like this. Now he was too scared to speak. A smile made Darian want to shrink away.

The morning streets weren’t busy, yet no one around seemed interested in what was happening.

“’Ello, boy. Apologize, won’t ya?”

Darian couldn’t respond. The frown on the man’s face sent a shiver down his spine.

“Rude one, aren’t ya? ’Ave yer paren’s not taught ya man’ers?”

The tension thickened. The man snarled. The boy’s head lowered.

“Sorry, sir,” Darian said.

“Ya do got man’ers. Tha’s good.”

“My parents taught me, sir.”

“Good. Ya sayin’ ‘sir.’ Folks in Wickmere don’t teach that these days.”

Darian nodded. The man smiled.

“Can ya help me out, boy? Just ne’d a bit o’ coin fer tha road.”

“I don’t have any money.”

The man frowned, stepped closer. Darian backed away. Looked around. No help.

“Bullshit, boy. Dre’sed nice an’ out early? Ya got coin ta spare, I know.”

“I—I don’t.”

“Ya bein’ stingy?”

“N-No, sir.”

“Fuck tha’, ya stingy. Par’nts didn’t teach ya to help others?”

"They—"

"Course they didn’t. Fuckin’ stingy bastard."

Darian didn’t know what to do. No one was coming to help.

"I can teach ya. Ohoho, like my pa taught me."

A sword slashed across his face. Darian stood frozen. A warmth spread down his leg. The man laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

"This how pa taught ya, know?"

“Wait...” Darian squeaked.

"Learn—blurrrgh."

Blood splattered across his face, his clothes. Then came blackness. He felt the sense of movement, trying to wiggle free, but the grip restricted his movement.

“Stop unless you want to see your breakfast.”

Then he saw, an older man, hair grizzled, skin swarthy, a face of regret. He took a knee toward Darian, who remembered watching the man die. He puked.

A continuous gentle pat on his back ended once his stomach was finally emptied.

The guard took him away from the growing puddle of blood and others were coming to clean up the mess. The boy felt too conscious of the stunned gawkers, their eyes latched onto the disturbed boy whom nobody heeded to help.

“If you people have enough time to gawk, you all best go about your business or else knowing what steel feels like will be familiar,” the guard roared. A ferocity made them all run like deer who heard the sound of a predator. The guard walked with him for a while until the young boy stopped shaking, the tears and snot dried up. They found a bench place, near the park. Darian’s frightened face stared at the cobblestone. He wanted his mother and father.

“I… No, honesty is best now. You will remember this for the rest of your life, for a while it will haunt your dreams. I cannot say there’s regret in taking the man’s life,” he said and then stopped. The young boy didn’t speak, unable to fathom a response to what happened.

“The duty of a guard is fraught with blood. The bast—man I killed. We kept watch on him, it was only a matter of time before one of us took him out. I regret someone young as you witnessed it.”

A hand patted his back, scared dark brown eyes looked to the older man, though there was an edge matching his rough facial features and straight lips; Darian saw something, beneath the years spent wielding a blade—he saw kindness. The guard nodded. Something inside the boy was born, but he didn’t know it yet.

“Thank you… I think,” Darian said.

“You’re alive is my thanks. Now your parents should be here soon. Your mother is no stranger to the guards. Just know I needed to comfort a lone boy who saw violence today. Maybe there’s naivety in me, I hope you’ll overcome this one day. Don’t let the city’s darkness get you like it has many of us. Good day, boy.”

As the guard finished speaking, Darian’s parents arrived. The boy leapt from the bench, ran into their arms. All three cried for a while. A younger guard placed a pail of water and cloth on the bench. The guards went back to their patrol.

EPILOGUE

The sun arose across the city of Wickmere, the smell of bread wafted through the city and out of a door came a man in his late thirties. The city guard’s uniform fitted him just right. He stretched away the last of the fatigue and let out a yawn, dispelling any lingering sleep, a smile formed across his lips. He watched as the streets grew into a crowd, but he specifically pointed out the lone children and shady-looking adults. He tapped the hilt of his sword and knew it was time to carry on the mission that was born on the bench all those years ago, to protect the children of Wickmere from the darkness. It’s why he gained the nickname, the Guardsman of Wickmere’s Children. He looked to his wife, a Black woman concentrated on finishing up the last batch of bread. He looked to the sign reading Aissur Fine Bread, his family bakery of four generations. A smile formed for his departed parents. Now he marched into the thickening throng, ready to defend the children.

—END—