There is a story that is passed down in my family from father to son since time immemorial. That we were once knights, vassals of some great king and held title to land from the Caucasus to the Danube. I've never believed it, to be honest. I never liked fairy tales and fanciful thoughts, it distracted from the necessities in life. Maybe it was a trait that I developed in response to my mother who loved the stories of the Old World. She was always enthralled by those bedtime stories that father recited. Of God and of kings, of brotherly betrayal and patricide. It was romantic, that's for sure. But it was childish. Life is short, there isn't time to be playing pretend.

The world is a harsh place. Both my father and mother are long gone, taken by the plague. All I have left of them is our storefront, a little wooden shack set on the main road. The living quarters were upstairs, and it was comfortable enough for three or four, but it was far too large for a single person.

I spend most of my nights in the storefront anyway.

I checked the time. Quarter past seven. It's almost time to open. I get up from my seat and walk toward the door. The wood beneath me creaks with each step. I have to put in a work order with the Guild to have the floors redone. I swing open the door and put the store sign up on it's rack.

"General Store," it said. The wood and iron worn by wind, the paint faded from sun and salt. It still looked good enough. I didn't have to have it touched up yet.

The sun had just broken over the crest of the mountains and its resplendent light filled the cobblestone streets, wooden buildings, and frosted glass of the town square. I took a breath. As much as I wanted to be a cynical realist, the cool fresh air of the morning definitely felt magical. It carried the smell of the sea and forest, the morning dew on the hills of amber grass. It carried the smell of wet stone, drying mortar, and baking bread. I tightened my apron and rolled up my sleeves. I looked at them and smiled. The scars and burns on my forearms reminded me of old dreams. Some children are born to be knights, to be kings, to be heroes. Others are born to be commoners. These scars were a reminder of the ambivalence of reality.

I was content here, in my family shop, in this small town by the sea. There was fish, game, greens and livestock. We never wanted for much of anything in this town. Excitement maybe, but nothing important.

The bells of the church rang to signal the start of morning prayers. I'll leave God's praises for those without a store to tend.

"Shopkeep!" A sweet voice cut through the peace of the morning. I turned and saw a young woman jogging toward me, curly black hair bobbing up and down above her shoulders like some kind of tanglevine. She grinned, "Not going to church today either?"

"I have a store to tend." My answer was automatic, rehearsed. I tried my best to smile back though. "Church is that way you know, shouldn't you be heading there yourself?" I pointed behind her at the tolling bells over the hill.

She shook her head, "The Father will take my head off if I show up after what happened last week."

"What happened?" Strange. I usually hear enough gossip to know the happenings in the town.

She walked into the store with her arms resting behind her head. "I asked the Father why we we're refusing quarter to the refugees when they believed in God too."

I couldn't help but smile. She was too smart for her own good sometimes, "And what did he say?"

"He said, 'we should not question the plan of God, for he is all knowing,'" she answered, mimicking the Father's nasally voice, "and so then I said, 'ain't it a damned thing that God's all knowing but he can't even protect his own people from themselves.'" She turned around, grinning, but her eyes were sad.

I had the feeling that the Father wasn't so much mad at her as she was mad at the Father. I didn't want to put anymore pressure on the poor girl anyhow, if I recalled correctly, she had been through a pretty difficult year. "What can I do for you then, Medea."

"I need a weapon."

Now what's a girl her age need a weapon for. "Come again," I said. I wasn't asking, but I needed to know if she was going to backpedal on this.

"I need a weapon," she repeated. Her voice was firm.

"Why in high heaven would you come to a general store if you're looking for a weapon? Go to the Smithy," I rubbed my hands together. A stiff breeze blew through the door and the chimes hanging from the ceiling rang like falling rain.

"Do you really think the Smithy would sell a sixteen year-old girl a weapon?" Medea crossed her arms and leaned against my desk.

I shook my head, "There aren't any weapons in a general store either. Especially not for a sixteen year-old girl."

"I'm not asking you as the general store manager, Shopkeep. I'm asking you as a son of old Rhodes."

I shook my head. A fairy tale. A fairy tale. A fairy tale. "There are no more knights here than there are men in Lesbos." I feel for Medea, I really do. She lost both her parents to fighting in the East. They were real heroes, not the silly knights in the legends and stories. But I don't suppose Medea really understood what they were fighting for. I didn't understand what they were fighting for. "What in the world do you need a weapon for anyway? Are you thinking of chasing after the bodies of your parents? Is that it?"

"No," her voice cut through the air like steel. "But you know where I live don't you? It's near the crossroads. It's just me and my brother in that homestead and my brother grows weaker with each passing day. Soon it will be just me. I need a weapon that isn't licensed and tracked. Something I can use without interference. I hear them at night, they're foraging up near my homestead, the exiled ones. They're starving because the church won't give them quarter. It's only a matter of time."

"I am in no business of dealing black market weapons," I scoffed, "I pity you, but do not ask for the impossible."

"Everyone has a price," she said aggressively. She stepped forward, eyes glued to mine. "Four hundred drachmas, six hundred drachmas, a thousand drachmas. Two thousand drachmas. If money doesn't move you, then maybe you want something else from me?"

I put my hand on her head and brushed the mess of black hair from her face. "Your will is strong, that's for sure. But you're but a child." I shook my head. The world is a cruel place. A terrifying place. But life is short, there isn't time to be playing pretend. "I know you see yourself as some kind of knight, a hero of justice, and someone who lives up to your namesake. But life doesn't work that way."

I knelt down and held her by the shoulders. She felt so thin and small in my hands. I could see the fire of her dark eyes. They were glimmering not only with desperation but also hope. She had strong desires, she had strong dreams. She had faith, charisma, prowess, and cunning. She had everything that could make her a Joan of Arc, a hero.

But it was a fairy tale. She was enthralled by the romance, the adventure, the pride, and the honor of the Old World. But we weren't in the Old World. The world was a cruel place, a terrifying place. There wasn't room for honor or loyalty or romance anymore. "If you're scared, you and your brother can stay here Medea." The war probably wasn't going to reach our shores, but... this was different from a child making a mountain out of molehills. I knew this fear, this helplessness.

The bells tolled.

"It won't be for free. You can help me run the store as your living fee," I tried my best to smile, "It's safer here than at the crossroads at least."

The bells tolled.

A quarter to eight. Mass wasn't supposed to be out yet.

The bells tolled.

I stood up. There was a sinking feeling in my stomach. There was something wrong. Medea was silent. Maybe she was still thinking about what I said. Outside the air was stale and filled with the acrid stench of false flame. I closed the door behind me as I moved further outside.

The bells tolled.

Smoke. Smoke everywhere. It had come rolling up from the shore, carried by the sea winds. I had not heard it happen, but the refugee camps were ablaze. A ship was limping toward the port, massive and covered in black scars. Falling stars came down from the clouds above like lightning. They struck along the shore throwing sand and stone high into the air as they coated the waterline with fire.

The bells tolled.

I could see in the blue sky above wings of white steel. Unfeeling arbiters of death commanded from half a world away. The world was a harsh place. There is no more room for stories of knights and heroes. There is no honor, no pride, no romance of the Old World.

There was no more room for people like Medea and me.