“There’s nothing reasonable about threatening a woman,” he said, stepping toward the group.

“Woman?” the balding man on the left snorted. “Check your eyes, I just see me a pervert in a dress.”

Rayan’s hands bunched into fists.

“My eyes see three brutes up to no good. Now leave her be, lest things come to violence.”

The crossed-woman tried to step past the three harassers.

“It’s fine,” she muttered to no one in particular. “I’m going, it’s fine.”

“Oh no, you’re not.” One of the three grabbed her by the hair and pulled with such viciousness, it’d have broken her neck if the hair weren’t a wig. The woman screamed and turned, and despite her smaller size, she heaved her weight against him and reached for the wig. A split lip from a backhand was her reward.

Rayan stepped closer, and the practiced, polite smile left his face. Others nearby were watching, but none intervened. The indifference was a fuel upon the fire growing in his chest. Not long ago, such disgusting violence would have had the trio chased out of the market. Now it was ignored.

“I didn’t seek blood,” he said. “But you’ve spilled it first, so allow me to spill it last.”

Rayan lacked a sword and shield, but certain fundamentals of combat remained the same. His fighting style had been passed down through generations of paladins, supposedly from the first men and women to take up service in Lycaena’s honor. Quick, steady movements, like the opening and closing of the wings of a butterfly. Step into a stance, arms positioned in a block, attack, or parry. Step out, avoiding a hit, blocking a blow, or merely stealing a quick breath to steady oneself for the fight ahead. These men were big, but weight didn’t mean muscle. They outnumbered Rayan, but that didn’t mean proper coordination.

Rayan had crossed blades with paragons. Three ignorant blowhards were like children compared to them.

He stepped into their center, his left arm up as if he wore a shield, his right punching in a mimicry of a thrust. It struck the gut of the nearest man, and his gasp confirmed him unprepared for actual combat. The tallest of the three swung for Rayan’s head, but it was clumsy and high, and Rayan’s steady slide backward made it an easy dodge. Back in, an elbow to a man’s throat, a punch to the face. Out, avoiding a frantic tackle. In, both fists together to crack across a man’s nose. He wasn’t fast, but he moved through them with ease, sensing their attacks before they made them and responding in a way that left them always grasping at nothing.