Lantern light always made the communal zone feel warmer than it was.

  It was a cheap trick, glass jars with candles burning low inside them. The light didn't beat back the cold. It didn't change the fact that frost had settled into the ground.

  But it made the dark look less permanent.

  Dane stood at the edge of the square for a moment, hands in his pockets, watching people move through the glow. Families drifted between the hall and the kitchens with bowls covered in cloth. Kids chased each other in circles, their laughter sharp enough to cut through the night. A couple of the older men had dragged a dead branch into the center of the square and leaned it upright against a post, as if it were a tree, hanging strips of green cloth from its limbs and little loops of wire that caught the light as they swayed.

  It wasn't much.

  But it was Christmas.

  No system had told them to celebrate. No quest had appeared to demand it. There was no reward for pretending things were normal.

  They did it anyway.

  Rebecca had called it perfect when she'd seen the tree earlier, her voice soft with something Dane hadn't heard much since they'd come to the communal zone.

  "It's stupid," she'd said, smiling even as she said it. "And I love it."

  Dane had pretended not to care. He'd made a noise like he was too tired to have opinions. He'd let her tease him for being a grouch. He'd let the warmth of it settle over him, then shoved it down and went about his day.

  He'd been doing that a lot lately. Accepting small moments and then hiding them like contraband.

  The communal zone had rules. Hard ones. It had too many people, too little food, too many grudges carried in from the world outside. The elves watched everything. The guards weren't professionals; they were volunteers with bad tempers and not enough sleep.

  But tonight, with the lanterns up and the tree leaning crooked, even they seemed to be in better spirits.

  He started walking.

  The air smelled like woodsmoke and boiled roots. Someone had managed to get their hands on cinnamon, real cinnamon, and the scent of it drifted from the hall in a way that made Dane's stomach ache for burnt French toast. When he was younger, his mother had burned it in a pan every Christmas morning and laughed as if the smoke were part of the tradition. Dane could almost hear it if he let himself.

  Rebecca was near the hall entrance, talking with Elena and an older woman Dane had seen in the gardens. She had her hair pulled back, and her sleeves rolled up, hands stained with something dark—soil, maybe, or dye. Rebecca's face was lit by the lantern above them, her cheeks flushed from the cold and from whatever story she was telling.

  Dane slowed without meaning to.

  Rebecca looked up as if she felt his gaze.

  Her expression softened.

  "Go," Elena said, nudging Rebecca's arm. "Your brooding prince is hovering."

  Rebecca's eyes narrowed. "Gross, that's my brother."

  "That doesn't mean he is not a prince," Mara insisted, her grin widening, and she began to cackle.

  Dane kept walking before Rebecca could decide she was going to come over and drag him into conversation.

  The supply sheds sat on the far side of the square, half-shadowed, with the outer wall of the communal zone stretching behind them. That wall was older than the settlement itself, salvaged concrete, welded steel, sections of chain-link reinforced with scavenged plating. It wasn't beautiful, but it worked.

  Most nights, the sheds were quiet. People didn't linger there unless they had a reason.

  Tonight, Dane heard laughter that didn't belong.

  It wasn't happy.

  Dane's steps slowed.

  He didn't draw anything; he left his rapier back home and couldn't even if he wanted to. The only weapon he had was a stone that he picked up from the ground.

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  "Come on," a man said. "It's Christmas. Don't be stingy."

  Another voice, higher, young. "That's not mine to give you."

  "Then who's it for?"

  There was a pause, and Dane heard the faint rustle of fabric, like someone's pack being tugged.

  "My sister," the boy said. "She's sick. That's..."

  "That's what everyone says," the first man replied, voice bored. "Everyone's got a sister. Everyone's got a sick kid. Everyone's got a reason they're special."

  Dane rounded the corner of the supply shed.

  Three men had a boy pinned against the wall.

  The boy couldn't have been older than sixteen or seventeen. His coat was too thin for the cold, patched at the elbows with a different fabric. His face had some old bruises, yellow at the edges, and there was a fresh red mark on his cheek like someone had slapped him hard enough to leave a print.

  One of the men had his hand in the boy's pack, rummaging. The other two stood close, blocking escape. Dane saw the shape of a pipe under one man's coat, and the way the tallest one's hands flexed, as if he liked using them.

  Bullies. The communal zone had them like it had everything else, like a quiet rot that grew in corners.

  The tall one turned first. His eyes narrowed when he saw Dane. He didn't look afraid. He looked annoyed.

  "What are you looking at?" he asked.

  Dane's gaze stayed on the boy. "Let him go."

  The man with his hand in the pack snorted. "Who the hell are you?"

  "Someone who's telling you to stop," Dane said.

  The tall man stepped forward, just a half-step, trying to own the space. "This isn't your business."

  "It is now."

  The boy's eyes flicked between them, wide and desperate. He didn't beg. He didn't cry.

  He just looked like someone who'd learned those things didn't help.

  The tall man smiled like he'd been given permission to be ugly.

  "You think you're going to play hero tonight?" he asked.

  Dane didn't answer. He watched the man walk slowly toward him. The tall man shoved him.

  Dane let it happen.

  He took a step back, heel crunching on frozen dirt, and caught himself without stumbling. The shove wasn't that hard. It wasn't meant to hurt.

  "You're not a guard," the tall man said, as if that settled it. "Walk away."

  Dane could have. He could have turned and gone back to the square. He could have told himself it wasn't worth it, that Christmas would be the same. One boy's rations weren't worth starting trouble.

  He could have done all of that.

  Instead, he spoke quietly.

  "It's Christmas," Dane said. "Give it back."

  The man laughed again, and the sound made Dane's skin crawl. "You're stupid," he said. "That's what you are. Stupid and brave."

  The second shove came harder.

  Dane caught the man's wrist as it hit his chest.

  He stepped in, closing the distance so the tall man couldn't swing wide, and twisted the wrist just enough to make pain flare. The tall man's eyes widened, surprise cutting through arrogance.

  Dane didn't waste the opening. He shifted his weight, hooked a leg behind the man's ankle, and drove his shoulder into the man's chest. The tall man went down hard, back hitting frozen ground with a grunt that sounded more like anger than pain.

  The man with the pack lurched forward, swinging a fist.

  Dane chucked the rock; he felt the impact as the rock struck the man's eyebrow with a wet thud. He grabbed the man's sleeve, used momentum, and threw him sideways into the shed wall.

  The third man moved then, pulling the pipe from under his coat.

  Dane saw it and didn't flinch. He looked at the man instead.

  "Don't," he said.

  The pipe wavered. It wasn't fear that stopped him. It was uncertainty. The kind that came when you realized the thing you were used to doing wasn't going the way it usually did.

  The tall man scrambled up, furious. He lunged at Dane. He caught the man's collar, slammed him back against the wall beside the boy, and held him there with enough pressure that the man's breath hitched.

  Dane leaned in close, voice low.

  "You want to be tough?" he murmured. "Pick someone your own size."

  The tall man spat near Dane's boots. "You think you're better than us?"

  "No," Dane said. "I think you're pathetic."

  The word landed harder than a fist.

  For a heartbeat, the tall man's rage flared, and Dane felt it like heat.

  Then the man's eyes flicked past Dane.

  Toward the lanterns. Toward the people. Toward the fact that tonight, more eyes were out than usual.

  The tall man's jaw worked.

  He made a choice.

  He shoved Dane's arm away, not hard enough to start the fight back up.

  "Whatever," he muttered. "Keep your damn food."

  The man with the pack shoved it back into the boy's chest. The third man tucked the pipe away. They backed off, muttering under their breath, and melted into the shadows behind the sheds like rats fleeing light.

  Dane waited until they were gone before he exhaled.

  His forearm throbbed where he'd taken a punch.

  The boy stared at Dane like he didn't know what to do with him.

  "You okay?" Dane asked.

  The boy nodded quickly, then hesitated. "Why… why did you do that?"

  Dane looked toward the square.

  The lanterns swayed in the wind. The tree leaned crooked, cloth strips fluttering. Laughter drifted from the hall again, fragile as glass.

  "I don't know, someone had to," Dane said simply.

  The boy blinked. "That's it?"

  Dane shrugged. The boy hugged his pack tight, as if someone might retake it if he loosened his grip. "Thank you," he said.

  Dane nodded once. "Go. Get inside."

  The boy didn't argue. He moved fast, disappearing around the corner toward the light.

  Dane stood alone for a moment, listening to the wind.

  He didn't feel like a hero. He felt tired.

  Footsteps crunched behind him.

  Dane turned.

  Rebecca stood there, arms crossed, scarf wrapped around her neck. Her expression was caught between exasperation and relief, like she'd been worried and angry about it at the same time.

  "You're bleeding?" she asked.

  Dane glanced down at his knuckles. He hadn't noticed. "It's not bad."

  Rebecca sighed and stepped closer, reaching for his hand before he could dodge. She inspected it as if she were checking a tool for damage.

  "You don't always need to fight," she said.

  Dane didn't answer.

  Rebecca's gaze lifted to his face. "Was it worth it?"

  Dane looked past her, toward the supply sheds. He imagined the boy's face when the pack had been taken. The way he'd said my sister. The way the bullies had laughed like that meant nothing.

  "Yes," Dane said finally.