The man with the promising chain took one step with Edmund’s pinky still hooked. He gave the offending hand a bruising-hard smack before turning, pen rolling away on the ground but notebook still clutched open. Dark, sharp eyes landed on the young man who stood just a touch above his own height.

Immediately, he felt regret for slapping a child. Stepped back and raised his hands in faux surrender – which should have been the extent of it. This kid looked lost, and Aslan was one of the farthest things he’d find from safe harbor.

“Coburn there,” he said with a nod toward the constable who was intently homing in on the loud man, “will beat you to a pulp if he sees you pull that.”

His accent sounded similar to the rest of the region – very similar, actually, to the people shouting throughout the market – not a fishmonger, but perhaps one of their neighbors in another trade.