I didn't know it then, but that day would become one of those memories that never truly fade. Not because it was especially dramatic, or because blood was spilled, or because someone died, but because it was the first time I learned that intent meant very little once consequences decided to exist.
It started, as many things did, with boredom.
Ayer was loud in its own way. Not the refined noise of the capital, where sounds were filtered through stone halls and measured steps, but a rougher, more honest kind. Metal rang against metal. Boots struck dirt. Voices argued, laughed, cursed. Even the wind seemed sharper there, carrying dust and the scent of iron with it.
Roosevelt had taken me out earlier that morning, saying something about "letting a child breathe." That was his way of saying he didn't want me cooped up in the castle all day. We walked through streets I was slowly becoming familiar with, past the inn where I'd first met Krystoff and Valkyrie, past vendors who already recognized me as "the young lord," though they never bowed too deeply. Ayer didn't like excess reverence.
That afternoon, however, I wasn't with Roosevelt.
I was with them.
Krystoff walked a step ahead of the group, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed in a way that made it look like the world owed him nothing and everything at the same time. He wasn't loud, but he didn't need to be. When he glanced back, Supremo was already grinning, Val was pretending not to care, Jucelis was quietly explaining something under his breath, and Nibbo looked unimpressed as always.
Joen walked close to me. Too close, maybe, but I didn't mind. He always did that when he was nervous.
"So," Supremo said, spinning a thin stick between his fingers, "we all agree, yeah? Just a scare."
"Just a scare," Krystoff echoed, nodding. "Nothing broken. Nothing stolen. He runs off, embarrassed, and we laugh about it later."
Val stopped walking.
Everyone stopped.
She turned slowly, eyes sharp. "You always say that."
Kris shrugged. "And most of the time, I'm right."
Nibbo snorted. "Most of the time you're lucky."
Jucelis raised a hand, calm as ever. "The plan is sound. The execution matters. We don't touch anything valuable. We don't stay longer than needed."
I didn't say anything. I was still learning when to speak and when to observe. This felt like an observing moment.
The building stood at the edge of one of Ayer's inner districts, a storage house, half workshop, half supply depot. Thick wooden walls reinforced with iron bands, a wide door usually left unlocked during the day. It belonged to a man who dealt in tools and materials for the duchy's craftsmen. Not noble, but respected.
"That's the place," Kris said.
"Private property," Val reminded him.
"Relax," he replied. "We're not burning it down."
I remember thinking how strange that sentence sounded, as if there were many degrees between harmless fun and fire.
The older teen was inside. We could hear himhumming, maybe, or talking to himself while sorting crates. He was bigger than us, older by several years, and had a habit of mocking anyone younger who got in his way. Not cruel, exactly, but careless with his words.
The prank itself was simple.
A rope tied to a latch. A stack of empty crates positioned just right. When the door opened too fast, the latch would slip, the crates would fall, making noise and dust. Nothing heavy. Nothing dangerous.
"That's it," Jucelis whispered after laying out the final adjustments. "Once it happens, we leave. No lingering."
Kris grinned. "You worry too much."
Val crossed her arms. "That's because you don't worry at all."
Supremo stifled a laugh. Joen swallowed hard.
The moment came faster than I expected.
The door swung open.
The latch slipped.
The first crate fell exactly as planned.
Then the second one didn't.
The sound changed.
It wasn't the hollow thud of wood on wood. It was sharper. Denser. Something cracked, not loudly, but enough.
Time stretched.
I remember seeing Kris's grin falter.
One crate knocked into a shelf.
The shelf tilted.
Someone inside shouted.
Barrels rolled.
A metallic clang rang out as tools spilled, striking the floor, striking each other, striking more shelves.
"Shit!" Supremo started.
The cascade didn't stop.
Something burst. I smelled it before I saw it, oil, maybe, or some treated resin. Liquid splashed across the floor, spreading fast.
"Move!" Jucelis snapped.
We backed away instinctively as the interior of the building collapsed into chaos. Dust filled the air. The older teen scrambled out, coughing, eyes wide, staring back at the wreckage like he didn't understand how the world had betrayed him so suddenly.
He didn't even look at us. He just ran.
Silence followed.
Not the peaceful kind. The heavy kind.
We stood there, staring at the open doorway. Inside, shelves lay broken. Crates shattered. Materials soaked and ruined. The smell of oil grew stronger.
Joen's hands were shaking.
"This… wasn't supposed to," Supremo muttered, but no one finished the thought.
Kris took a step forward. Then another.
"What are you doing?" Val asked sharply.
"Fixing it," he said.
"With what?" Nibbo replied flatly. "Your hands?"
Kris ignored him and stepped inside, trying to lift a fallen beam. It didn't budge. He tried again, teeth clenched. His shoulder scraped against splintered wood.
"Stop," Jucelis said. "You'll make it worse."
Kris froze. For a moment, I thought he might snap back. Instead, he let go.
The oil was spreading toward another stack of materials, dry ones.
My chest tightened.
"If it reaches that corner," I said quietly, surprising myself, "someone could light a lantern later. It would"
They all looked at me.
"it would burn," I finished.
Jucelis swore under his breath. "We need to block it."
They moved quickly then. Cloth torn from cloaks. Dirt kicked over the spill. Not elegant. Not heroic. But it slowed the spread.
It didn't undo anything.
Footsteps echoed outside.
Voices followed.
The owner arrived with two guards.
No one ran.
That was Kris's doing. He stood at the front, shoulders squared, jaw set.
"I did it," he said when asked.
Val stepped beside him. "We all did."
The man's face twisted, not in rage, but disbelief. He looked at the damage, then at us. Children. Just children.
"This place feeds families," he said quietly.
No one answered.
Later, when it was over, when promises were made, when names were taken, when consequences were laid out like weights we couldn't yet lift, we walked back separately.
Kris stayed behind.
I didn't look back.
That night, lying in my bed, I stared at the ceiling and thought about how easy it had been to start. A rope. A laugh. A moment.
And how hard it was to stop once things decided to move on their own.
I understood something then, though I didn't yet have the words for it.
The intent is polite.
Consequences are not.