Melrose had always been a peaceful city. I would like to claim it was because of the character of its people, their warmth and civility. But the truth was simpler and far less romantic: peace endured in Melrose because of the ever-watchful presence of the Red Post.

  The Red Post began humbly, as little more than an anti-poaching mercenary band. Over the years they swelled into a militia, then into an official guard, and at last into the most renowned policing force in all of Middle Lindor. And Melrose was their seat of power.

  Their headquarters stood nestled against the inner wall of the city—a massive edifice known as the Red Post Manor. It was not the largest structure in Melrose, for Bruno Tilden’s cathedrals dwarfed it, casting long shadows like elder siblings. Yet the Manor carried its own majesty, a harmony of stone and strength, adorned in the colors of the Post: red, black, and gold. Its walls gleamed with pride, and there was a sense of weight about it, as though the building itself stood guard over the streets.

  The Manor had been completed the year I was born, after nearly seven years of construction. It had not been without controversy. Another city had once vied to claim the headquarters, and though Melrose won the bid, the quarrel left political bruises that lingered for years. My father would scoff at the very mention of the Red Post, dismissing them as overpaid babysitters more concerned with politics than service. “Soldiers in uniforms with too much coin in their pockets,” he would say. “More clerks than warriors.” And, in truth, he was not wrong—few Postmen ever saw real battle. Most spent their days tending ledgers, patrolling quiet streets, or performing odd jobs about the city.

  Still, they trained like soldiers, and their ranks drew all kinds. Humans, dwarves, elves, and even the occasional lizardfolk walked the streets in the same red and black, and to a child’s eyes they were a living toy chest. I imagined them like soldiers carved from wood and paint, marching dutifully by day only to be stacked neatly into their great manor at night.

  That morning I looked up at the building, my eyes wide. My father’s disdain for the Post never softened his business sense. He supplied them as he supplied anyone with coin, and deliveries to the Manor were routine. Today was no exception. A bundle of meat pies rested in a basket held by my mother and father, destined for the commanders’ tables.

  It was only the first stop in a day my mother had carefully mapped out. “We’ll stop at Zelda’s for tea,” she explained as we stood in front of the manor. “Your father will head to the gardens for supplies, and you and I will fetch Sandra Lynn. Then we’ll shop until he returns, and we’ll all share an early supper in town.”

  The plan alone made my head spin with joy. Tea at a restaurant, shopping in the market, a meal out in the city—it was unheard of. My parents were not poor, not truly, but my father refused to indulge in extravagance. He never spent coin carelessly, and though my mother longed for finer comforts, she rarely pressed him, as though she feared overstepping.

  Yet here it was: an entire day set aside for small luxuries. To me, it felt like three celebrations rolled into one—my birthday, Yuletide, and a surprise visit from Uncle Zain, all wrapped into a single morning. I was not about to let such a chance slip by.

  My father rejoined us, muttering beneath his bushy mustache about the Red Post—something about “overfed watchdogs” Yet when he caught my eager stare, he softened, raising his brows as though proposing a grand adventure.

  “To Zelda’s?” he asked, half a smile tugging at his lips.

  My mother gave a nod of agreement, and I, unable to contain myself, gave a little hop of delight. We set off together, hand in hand, threading through the narrower lanes of Melrose until we emerged onto the broad stoneway that wound into the heart of the market.

  Father greeted neighbors and patrons as we went, offering nods, handshakes, and brief words. Normally he could lose himself for hours in chatter about trade, grain, and sweets, but today he was curt. He kept our pace brisk, polite but hurried, as though the day itself might vanish if he let it linger too long. I found it strange—Father was never one to rush business—but the thrill of the day ahead quickly swept away my curiosity.

  We passed the great stone path that led toward Father Bruno Tilden’s cathedral. Its spires rose high, cutting into the morning sky. My thoughts turned to my Grandpa Prosic.

  “Do you think Grandpa Prosic is already there?” I asked. “Maybe he’d like to have tea with us?”

  My father’s eyes stayed fixed ahead. His voice was calm, though there was a weight beneath it. “I think it’s best for us to have some family time today. You’ll see him tonight.”

  His hand tightened gently around mine. I looked down at our joined fingers, and for a moment my heart sank. The faint, ugly mark was still there on my skin, glaring back at me like a secret I did not understand. Many boys my age carried scars from foolish games—scraped knees, burns from carelessness, the pride of daring. But this was different. This mark had not been earned. It had appeared. A danger uninvited.

  Before I could summon the question burning in my throat, my gaze was caught by a painted sign swinging above the next corner. Coffee’s: by Zelda, the words proclaimed in bold blue strokes across a wooden board. Beneath it rose a sturdy red-brick building, cheerful in its simplicity. The smell reached us first—the warm, bitter tang of roasted beans mingled with the sweet promise of cream and sugar. A few tables stood empty outside, awaiting customers who wanted to sip their drinks beneath the open sky.

  Through the wide glass windows I glimpsed trays of pastries glistening in the morning light, tempting and golden. Yet my eyes were drawn to a different detail: a small paper notice taped to the corner of the glass. The letters PW were scrawled across it, struck through with a heavy black cross. I had seen that mark before, here and there about the city, but never asked its meaning. My lips parted to do so now—

  But at that moment, a figure appeared inside. A plump half-elf woman, nearly a head shorter than my mother, bustled to the window. Her round face broke into a smile as she waved warmly, beckoning us in.

  Without hesitation, we accepted the invitation. The bell above the door chimed as we stepped into Zelda’s shop, and it was as though the very air had been sweetened. Sugar drifted like perfume through the room, light pinks and pale blues swirling in faint, enchanting patterns. Half a dozen tables were scattered neatly across the floor, each one tucked beneath its chairs. A trio of Red Postmen sat huddled at a bright-pink table near the door, murmuring to one another over steaming cups, while across the room an elderly couple shared a quiet booth. The old man broke a biscuit in half, sliding the larger piece onto his wife’s plate, adjusting his spectacles with the careful reverence of age. I caught myself wondering, as children do, what my own parents would be like when they grew gray and fragile.

  Behind the counter, Zelda herself awaited us. A row of glass containers stretched out before her, glowing faintly with an unnatural golden light that shimmered across her wares. Candies, sandwiches, even bubbling stews—all kept hot in small cauldrons perched on miniature flames of enchantment. It was a clever trick, equal parts magic and showmanship, but it made her shop feel alive with possibility.

  Zelda was unlike any elf I had ever known. Where most of her kind were lean and delicate, she was round and jolly, every inch of her radiating warmth. Her blonde hair, streaked with white, was pinned in a net at the back of her head, and her green eyes sparkled with the kind of welcome that made you want to leap across the counter and hug her. She was short, almost a head below my mother, and every laugh seemed to rumble straight from her belly.

  Her eyes lit the moment she saw me. “Little Benson, out in town, is it?” she said, her voice colored by a curious accent—something not quite elvish, almost rural, with a dwarven roll to its consonants. “Well then, we’d best make sure today’s a memory worth keeping. Take a look, my dear. Whatever you want—it’s all yours. I’ve put in a bit of extra care since I heard you’d be coming!”

  She said it as though I were royalty, though it was far from the first time I had crossed her threshold. Zelda was a friend of my father’s, and I had tagged along with him often enough that she had become as familiar to me as an aunt. But still, the way she looked at me—eyes shining as if I were something extraordinary—made me flush with pride.

  I turned to my parents, silently asking permission. Their smiles and nods gave me the answer I wanted. The glass cases glittered with choices—sugary towers, candied fruits, pastries both flaky and thick. But I had already decided long before we arrived.

  Zelda chuckled knowingly as I pressed my finger against the glass. “Ah, I should have guessed,” she laughed, reaching for the tray. With a flourish, she produced a small biscuit sandwich, setting it before me like a treasure.

  The Fairy Tale Biscuit.

  I knew the name because I had given it myself. Years ago, when Zelda had come to visit my father with a basket of experiments for his opinion, she had let me taste one. I had loved it instantly and had insisted it deserved a proper name. She had agreed, and the Fairy Tale Biscuit had been mine ever since.

  It was no ordinary sandwich. The biscuit dough was laced with powdered sugar that gave it a gentle sweetness without overwhelming its buttery heart. The dough was dipped in yolk and cream, fried lightly on all sides until it gleamed golden. Between its halves rested two thin slices of ham, marinated in birch-bark reduction and grilled until tart and sweet in equal measure. A slice of thick mozzarella melted into its folds, fresh mint cutting through the richness, and a tiny quail egg scrambled soft and folded in the center. The birch reduction returned once more, whipped with sweet cream and brushed lovingly across the biscuit’s inner sides.

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  And then, Zelda’s final touch. With a flick of her fingers, she layered the sandwich in magic. Tiny translucent wings sprouted from its back, shimmering faintly, fluttering as though the biscuit itself might take flight.

  I gasped as always, transfixed by the wonder of it. Zelda’s grin widened at my delight.

  “Thank you, Zelda!” I said breathlessly, reaching for the treat.

  “Of course, Benson,” she replied, her tone softening as her eyes flicked briefly to my mother, as though she had almost spoken something else. For a moment, there was a silent exchange between them—a hesitation, a glance, my mother answering with the faintest nod and smile before sliding an arm protectively around me.

  I knew the reason well enough, even then. My name was Benethasia Plad. Yet few outside my parents ever called me that. When I was four or five, my uncle and aunt had visited often, always with my cousin Olympus in tow. Olympus was dear to me, but as a child he struggled terribly with his speech. Words stumbled and stuck in his throat, and he would invent sounds to replace the ones that betrayed him. My name, long and winding, was a battlefield he never won.

  At first, he tried “Benny.” My mother hated it. But Olympus persisted, experimenting until finally “Benson” slipped out. Somehow, it stuck. My mother tolerated it because it was at least unisex and less clumsy than “Benny,” but she never intended for it to spread. Yet spread it did. For five years she had fought a losing war, scolding friends and neighbors to use my proper name. But I never minded. I loved both names, but Benson felt freer—less formal, less bound by duty. It was the name of adventure.

  And as I held my Fairy Tale Biscuit with its tiny magical wings, I believed, with all my heart, that anything was possible.

  Alongside the Fairy Tale Biscuit, I was treated to a twisted sourdough pretzel, warm and soft, with a small bowl of caramel dipping sauce. I hadn’t noticed it at first, but as soon as I tasted it, I caught the faintest hint of birch bark threaded through the sweetness—a little love-note of flavor, slipped in by Zelda as though she had crafted it just for me.

  But it was the drink that captured me most: a Fjordlyn Cocoa. Peculiar, and very popular in the north, it was part drink, part performance. At first glance it was simple enough—rich cocoa crowned with a thick layer of whipped cream. But atop that rested a thin sheet of real ice, sealing the cup like a frosted lid.

  With a flick of her wrist, Zelda summoned a tiny ice pick into existence, the thing shimmering as it hovered above my cup. My eyes widened as it dipped, chipping gently at the frozen crust. Tiny shards broke loose, bouncing in the air before dissolving into mist. The pick carved a neat hole on one side of the cup, then danced to the other, chiseling a larger opening with playful precision.

  “There, my dear,” Zelda said, winking. “The big hole is for drinking.”

  I giggled, leaning in to sip. The first taste was a strange miracle—cold, hot, and sweet all at once. The cocoa slid warm across my tongue, while the melting ice kissed it with crisp coolness. Whipped cream clung stubbornly to my lip, and I licked it away, awestruck by the little magic of it.

  Meanwhile, my parents made their choices.

  Mother chose a simple tea and a small fruit tart. Its custard gleamed pale white and golden yellow, the glaze shining beneath a crown of berries. I guessed it was lemon—sharp and sweet—and though her choices were simple, the way her eyes softened as she took the first bite told me it was enough.

  Father, of course, took far more time. He prodded Zelda with a dozen questions about her offerings, his baker’s curiosity impossible to restrain. To her credit, Zelda answered every one with patience and good humor, even as the line behind us began to grow. At last he made his selections: a cup of mutton curry spiced with imports from the far-off Gerdelli Wastes, a desert continent known for both its heat and its harshness. To accompany it, he ordered a toffee cookie, a black coffee, and, almost pointedly, a plain cheese sandwich.

  Zelda arched a brow, her lips quirking into a knowing smile. She understood the test for what it was. My father was not only eating—he was measuring her, weighing her skill the way he might his own. And Zelda, confident in her craft, played along with cheerful grace.

  “Sit yourselves down,” she said, collecting their dishes. “I’ll bring these out, and once I’ve seen to the others, I’ll join you for a spell.”

  She gestured to a table near the wall. My mother and I slid into the booth with our backs to the stone, while my father sat across from us, his chair square, his posture steady, as though even at rest he remained the quiet sentinel of our little family.

  For a while, the air was filled only with the murmur of the shop, the clink of plates, and the low conversations of strangers. But I remember the moment vividly—the warmth of cocoa in my hands, the shimmer of sugar in the air, and the sense, so rare and so fleeting, that all was exactly as it should be.

  We lingered at our table, savoring the last crumbs of tart and biscuit, the final sips of cocoa and tea. The shop had filled quickly around us, each table alive with conversation. The air buzzed with chatter, laughter, and the clinking of spoons against porcelain. Zelda, tireless and smiling, made her rounds until at last only one customer remained at the counter.

  He was a young Red Postman—too young, perhaps, for the weight of the uniform he wore. His hair was a dusty blond, his eyes clear and blue, his jawline already sharp though his frame still held the boyishness of someone who had not quite grown into his shoulders. The uniform fit him, but only just, as though he were a child donning his father’s coat.

  What struck me most, however, were the medals. His chest glittered with them—badges, pins, tokens of merit—so many that, in my child’s mind, he seemed almost a parody of an elderly general. Yet he wore them with confidence, standing tall, his posture stiff with pride.

  He passed Zelda a sealed letter and a small purse heavy with coin. Her hands accepted them, but her eyes hesitated. She glanced toward our table, her gaze catching mine. For the briefest instant her face betrayed something raw—sadness, worry, a sharp edge of concern. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. She turned back to the young Postman with a grin so broad it seemed to chase the shadow away.

  They exchanged a few words I could not catch. At last, the boy stiffened, planting his feet. He raised his hand in a sharp salute.

  The sound escaped me before I could stop it. A bubbling laugh burst from my lips, loud and unrestrained. It wasn’t the salute itself that struck me, but how awkward he looked performing it—like one of my painted wooden soldiers trying to mimic life. The sound drew silence across the shop, heads turning toward me in curiosity.

  Zelda, to her credit, did not falter. Without missing a beat she lifted her chin and said, “I’m a cook, boy—not a captain!” Her words rang bright, and she threw her laughter onto the fire of mine until the room itself warmed with it.

  For a moment, everyone seemed suspended between joining in or simply staring at the spectacle. My parents smiled politely, caught between amusement and unease. The young Postman, still rigid, seemed to twist in place under so many eyes. His arm dropped at last, his face flushed.

  “Thank you, Madame Zelda. Good day!” he stammered, and with that he turned on his heel, fleeing the shop as quickly as dignity would allow.

  The door swung shut behind him with a faint chime of the bell, leaving behind only the scent of cocoa and caramel, and a ripple of laughter that slowly died back into conversation.

  Zelda finished tending the counter, poured herself what looked like a glass of lemonade, and waddled toward our table. I could never tell if her uneven gait came from an old injury or if age was simply catching up to her, but if it bothered her she never let it show. She lowered herself beside us with practiced ease, setting the glass down before flicking her wrist. Ice cubes bloomed up through the drink like tiny icebergs breaking the surface of a sea.

  “Well,” she said, smiling at us as she settled into her chair, “that was amusing.”

  “Was he a new recruit?” my mother asked lightly.

  Zelda snorted. “No. That was Lieutenant Jupiter Nouns. I know his name and rank because he mentioned them three times in the space of a minute. I’ve seen him around. Good lad. Just a little in over his head.”

  “Are the Post recruiting out of nurseries now?” my father muttered, eyebrows lowering.

  Zelda’s smile thinned but didn’t vanish. “Most Postmen take the job for the coin, the roof, the food,” she said, “but there are those who join to make a difference. Or…” she paused, her eyes softening as she looked at me, “…to help others.”

  She reached out and pinched my cheek gently. I beamed back at her.

  My father’s tone sharpened. “What was he here for? You didn’t give him anything.”

  For a moment, Zelda held his gaze. It was a look not of defiance but of someone trying to speak without words. Then she said carefully, “He was putting in an order for Bruno Tilden’s… event tonight.” Her eyes flicked between my mother and father.

  I sat up straighter, my mind leaping instantly to visions of trays of Zelda’s confections. I opened my mouth to ask—but my father’s raised hand silenced me before the question could escape. His face had gone taut.

  I had seen that look before.

  It came back to me in a rush: the time, years ago, when I’d knocked over two buckets of peeled apples and pears—a full day’s work lost in an instant. I had run upstairs, hiding behind my closet door. I remembered peering through the crack as he came up after me, footsteps like drumbeats on the stairs. He had sat on my bed and waited. His eyes had been calm, but his silence heavier than any shout.

  “Benethasia,” he had said at last. “Come out.”

  I had obeyed, kicking a slipper as I shuffled forward. He’d pointed to the bed, his voice steady but stern. Sit. And then he had scolded me, not with anger but with patience sharpened into a blade—explaining care, explaining consequence, explaining time and money as though they were living things. I had barely spoken. Only once had I tried to, suggesting Uncle Zain might help us.

  The change had been instant. My father’s face had gone pale, his eyes hollow, his voice a low, chilling thing. “He is not helping me with anything.” His hand had clenched as he breathed out, as though purging something vile. “There will be apples downstairs in thirty minutes. You will peel every one. I’ll do the pears. Your room had better be clean before I get back. And yes—I’ll be telling your mother what just happened.”

  I had never mentioned Uncle Zain helping us again.

  The memory flickered and faded, leaving me sitting in Zelda’s shop with my cocoa cooling at my elbow. Why had it surfaced now? Did Zelda do something wrong? Why was Father angry?

  I listened hard.

  “Why did they come to me?” Father muttered. “They know I would have done anything they—”

  “You know exactly why, Arturo,” Zelda said firmly, cutting him off. “And it’s not the matter now.” She darted a glance at my mother, who stared emptily into her tea. “Besides,” Zelda added with exaggerated cheer, “shouldn’t you be telling me how great my sourdough recipe is?”

  There was a beat of silence. Then my father sighed, shoulders softening. “Unfortunately, it was spectacular, as usual, Zelda.”

  My mother forced a smile, nodding faintly. Zelda’s personality was infectious; she made it hard to hold onto tension for long. Soon they were chatting again—arguing over sourdough resting times, debating which shops had the best bargains. Zelda told a story about her travels in the Fjordlands, about a village perched on plateaus and guarded by ghosts. I sat enraptured, sipping my cocoa, imagining translucent spirits drifting over jagged cliffs.

  Eventually the shop grew busy again. Zelda rose to her feet with a little groan, excused herself, and drifted back to her counter. We lingered a moment longer before standing. Father held the door, ready to leave.

  “Wait!” Zelda called. She bustled toward us, wobbling quickly around a table until she knelt before me. The smile she gave me was as broad as ever, but her eyes were glassy, on the brink of tears.

  She pulled me into a hug—warm, tight, familiar. When she pulled back, she brushed a tear from her cheek. “I’ll have some Fairy Tale Biscuits ready for you tonight,” she whispered, winking. “Until next time, Benson.”

  I smiled back, though confusion crept at the edges. My mother’s voice cracked softly. “Say goodbye, Benethasia,” she urged.

  I did. Zelda nodded, turned, and returned to her patrons.

  My father laid his palm on my head, tilting it toward his. “If you have any more sweets today,” he murmured with mock severity, “you’re going to be turned into a cupcake and drafted into the cupcake army.”

  I scrunched my face in disapproval, knowing one of his white lies. “Yeah? Well, you’re going to be in the breadstick jail.”

  We glared at each other, mock warriors preparing to pounce, until my mother broke the moment. “And you’ll both be in real jail if we don’t stick to the plan,” she said, smiling.

  Father glanced at her and broke into a grin.

  “I won!” I proclaimed triumphantly.

  “For now,” he said. “But your mother’s right. I’ll go to the gardens. You go get Sandra Lynn and head to the market. I’ll meet you for dinner.”

  He bent, scooping me up and twirling me once in the air. “Oh no, all those sweets are getting to you already,” he groaned, feigning a back sprain as he set me down.

  He looked at my mother then, smiling, “I love you, Benethasia.” And in that moment the mask of cheer cracked. His eyes glazed over—just like Zelda’s.

  I opened my mouth to ask what was wrong, but he was already striding away, leaving me alone with my mother at the edge of the market square.

  “Sandra Lynn is waiting, Benethasia,” she said, looking down at me. “Let’s not keep her waiting.”

  I smiled up at her as we joined hands and walked off. She spoke under her breath, so softly I almost didn’t hear:

  “Hopefully I won’t need to get a leash for her.”