Aria Nightwing's Arc

Chapter 3 of 6

Aria pushed through the market with her wings still open. The crowd did not part. It thickened. People closed in from every side, some shouting her name, some shouting the reward back at her, some just staring at the orange wings like they could not believe them. A man in layered robes grabbed at her shawl. Another stepped into her path. Behind him stood a tight knot of desert people in cloaks and hijabs, faces fixed and cold, watching her like a verdict. Her sword was useless here. She could not swing it through children and grocers. Her wings were too wide to lift in the press. She turned in place and saw no gap. A hand caught her wrist. Hard, fast, low. It pulled her sideways between two stalls before she could brace. Wood scraped her shoulder. Her wings folded against her back on their own from the squeeze. Then she was inside a small wooden stall with a yellow awning, jars and baskets on the shelves, a counter between her and the street. A boy slammed a shutter down behind them and dropped a bar across it. The shouting outside went muffled. He was her age. Tall, dark skin, a blue ball cap, a torn jacket. A mail bag hung off one shoulder. He did not look scared. He looked like he had done this before. "Stay low," he said. "They'll lose interest in a minute. They always do." He crouched behind the counter and waved her down. "I'm Ben. Ben Holt." Aria froze with her hand on her sword. Holt. She studied his face for the man she had drawn a hundred times. He was not him. Too young. Wrong eyes. But the name sat between them like a dropped knife. Ben saw her hand on the hilt and did not flinch. He reached into the mail bag and pulled out a worn paper folder. He set it on the floor between them and opened it. Inside were maps, dates, a sketch of a man she knew at once, and a crumpled receipt with the name Barren Holt printed across the top. "He's my father," Ben said. "I've been tracking him through seven towns. I heard you shout his name." His voice stayed flat. "I want him stopped. You want him dead. That's enough for now." Outside, the crowd thinned. A whistle blew somewhere and feet ran past the stall. Aria let go of the sword. She picked up the receipt and read the date and the town. Three days old. Two towns from here. She looked at Ben. "You know where he was," she said. Ben nodded once. "I know where he's going next." Aria closed the folder and held it against her ribs the way she carried the sketchbook. She had been alone in the crowd. She was not alone now. Whatever Ben Holt was, he was a door, and the door was open.