Fire for joy, p.1
Fire for Joy, page 1
Copyright © 2025 by Hal Rowan
Edited by Penny Tsallos
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means whether they be electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Contents
Chapter
Part 1 - Born of Stone and Flame
1. Rivals in the Gutter
2. Shadows of the Same Shape
3. Fire and Joy
4. The Cost of Peace
5. When Joy Burns
6. The Fire We Choose
7. The Fire Goes Out
Part 2 - What Survives the Flame
8. The Spark Beneath
9. A Quiet Flame
10. Smoked Out
11. Embers
12. The Shape of Smoke
13. Beneath the Surface
14. Brothers in Ash
Part 3 - Without a Match
15. Embers in the Stone
16. Untold Truths
17. The Ash and the Oath
18. Strike and Silence
19. What We Let Burn
20. The Line in the Sand
21. The Spark and the Storm
22. Embers and Ascension
23. The Ash and the Ember
Epilogue - One Good Wall
Acknowledgements
From the Next Book in the Halfaverse
To those who taught me that joy is worth chasing, and that anyone can be anything they set their mind to, no matter your origin.
Part 1 - Born of Stone and Flame
Rivals in the Gutter
A rock struck Halfa between the shoulders, hard enough to stagger him. He grunted but kept moving, the battered crate digging into his ribs. Another stone clattered against the wall to his right, sending flecks of mortar into the muck. Behind him, laughter rose, sharp and hungry, too thin to be anything but boys.
“Drop it, stonehead!” someone jeered. “Leave it and run!”
Halfa said nothing. Words only made you a target in the Dock Ward.
He shifted the crate higher, feeling the slick wood scrape against his bruised palms, and pushed forward through the rain-slicked alley. His boots slipped once on a patch of fish guts, but he caught himself before he could fall before they noticed him falter.
Another boy darted ahead, cutting him off. Halfa lowered his shoulder and barrelled through, sending the smaller body skidding across the cobbles. The boy cursed but didn’t rise.
The others didn’t follow.
By the time Halfa crossed the open market, the laughter had thinned into silence. Only the gulls screamed now, wheeling overhead like they smelled blood.
The merchant glanced at him. Grunted. Tossed a copper into the mud at Halfa’s feet. No thanks. No respect. Just transaction.
Halfa stooped, picked up the coin, and tucked it away. He turned without a word, boots squelching through the filth, and disappeared into the alleys again.
Halfa Schoona had learned to fight before he learned to speak in full sentences.
Not because he liked it. Because the Dock Ward didn’t want for words.
The city’s filthiest corner had no patience for the slow-tongued or soft-hearted. Its streets were a language of fists and elbows, of knowing when to duck and when to bite. Halfa’s words always came late. They were too thick in his throat, too big for his mouth. Fists were faster and fists got you fed.
Grayspire was built on stone and regret. Every brick had blood under it, and every alley remembered things best left forgotten. The city didn’t creak; it groaned. Still adjusting to the gravity of its deeds.
By the time he was eight, Halfa had earned a reputation. Not for cruelty or for winning. Just for surviving.
Halfa didn’t want to hurt people. Not really. He just didn’t know what else to do with the part of him that kept breaking things. No one had ever taught him how to build.
He was tall as a man by ten, shoulders wide as a cart axle, with calloused palms and a stare that could stop a dog mid-charge. No one knew where he’d come from. No one asked. Rumours filled in the blanks. Some said he was half-ogre. Others swore they saw him eat a rat whole. Most people pointed and whispered at him as he passed, as if he were scraped off a ship’s hull.
He was a Goliath, though no one in the Dock Ward used that word. Too fancy. Too foreign. To them, he was just “that big bastard” or “the stone kid. ” His skin was pale, not sickly but weathered like sun-bleached granite, with faint speckles like lichen across his shoulders. Most days, he looked like he’d stepped out of a mountain, slab-muscle and silent fury. No one in Grayspire had seen many or any Goliaths, and even fewer had seen one that didn’t come swinging first.
Most Goliaths didn’t live in cities. They didn’t kneel, didn’t bargain, didn’t bow. Those who stayed in Grayspire were usually exiles, mercenaries, or wanderers who never made it back up the mountain. People said they were proud. Halfa knew better. They were heavy. Heavy with silence, memory, and things they couldn’t name.
The truth was simpler. And lonelier.
Halfa had no parents. No real name. Just the one he’d given himself.
Halfa, always seen as “half” by people. Half-man. Half-wit. Half-monster. Never whole. Never enough.
The second name came later, scrawled by a drunk dock clerk into a shipping ledger. The man had slurred “Schooner” into “Schoona,” then shoved the boy a job chit and told him not to lose it.
Halfa liked the way it sounded. Schoona. Heavy. Solid. Like something that didn’t move unless it wanted to.
He kept the name and the job.
Halfa’s bed was a pile of damp cloth stolen from washing lines, stashed in a half-collapsed tenement wedged between a fish smokehouse and an abandoned chapel. The floor sagged, the roof leaked, and the whole place reeked of brine and rot. He slept with his back to the wall and his hands curled into fists. He shared it with no one and fought to keep it that way.
The Dock Ward had no mercy for boys like him. Salt clung to every surface, doors, crates, skin, and dreams. Fish guts choked the gutters. Gull cries split the morning air like war horns. The smell of blood never quite washed away, no matter how much rain fell. It rained incessantly, offering no relief.
Halfa made coin where possible. Carrying crates. Hauling barrels. Sweeping up broken glass after tavern brawls. Starting a few brawls himself, when the price was right. His size got him noticed. His silence earned trust.
“Big lad. Don’t talk. Does what he’s told. ” That was enough to be useful.
Being useful meant fewer kicks. Fewer cuffs. Sometimes, it meant bread.
Sometimes.
But being noticed came at a cost. Every coin job meant someone else went hungry. Every fistfight meant someone held a grudge. And every night, when the sun slid behind the masts and the streets turned meaner, Halfa wondered if he’d wake up with a knife in his ribs.
He didn’t fear dying. He feared dying without ever having mattered.
He didn’t know what he wanted from life. His life lacked purpose.
And yet, day after day, he kept moving, silent and stone-faced. A question in broad shoulders and broken boots, the kind no one wanted to answer. A shadow the Dock Ward learned not to chase.
Then, one morning, the tide shifted.
And Halfa met someone who didn’t flinch when he looked him in the eyes.
It started like any other muddy morning in the Dock Ward.
The sky hung low and grey, like the gods had rolled over in their sleep and pulled the clouds down with them. Rain had come and gone in the night, leaving the cobbles slick with fish oil and yesterday’s piss. Halfa was already at the docks before the shouting began, his shoulders aching from hauling rope spools for a crooked merchant who paid in dried eel and insults.
A wagon rolled in, creaking, spice crates stacked high and swaying, fresh off a cutter from Dreskar. The air changed. Even the gulls noticed. A dozen dockhands circled like sharks around bleeding chum, eyes fixed on the foreman shouting for workers.
Halfa moved. Fast. Direct. He always did.
But someone else moved too.
A shadow split the crowd. It was leaner than Halfa, but with the same unmistakable bulk of a Goliath. Pale stone skin with a bluish undertone, jaw too broad for his grin, and eyes that sparkled like someone who liked the damage he caused. Another Goliath. Halfa had never seen another one up close before, only heard whispers of their kin. Yet here stood one and he was just as big, just as sharp, but smiling as if he owned the street.
Halfa stopped.
So did the other boy.
In the Dock Ward, Goliaths were rare. Two was a problem. It meant people started locking doors and counting coins. It meant something was about to break.
The dockmaster, who was balding, red-faced, and soaked in fish stink, looked between them his face looked like he’d walked through vomit.
“Only need one of you,” he muttered. “Ain’t runnin’ no bloody circus. ”
Halfa said nothing; just raised his hand.
The other boy stepped forward, cocky as a prince. “I’ll do it. ”
His voice flowed rhyth mically. Smooth, confident. Like he enjoyed hearing himself speak. He turned, just enough to flash a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
Halfa’s jaw tightened.
The dockmaster didn’t care. He’d already lost interest. “Sort it out, then,” he grumbled, waddling off.
The moment he was out of earshot, the boy turned to Halfa and smirked.
“Didn’t know there were two of us in this hole,” he said. “You got a name, or should I just call you Boulder?”
Halfa shrugged, unmoved.
The boy stepped closer, unafraid. He wasn’t as tall. Not as broad. But he carried himself like someone who’d never lost a fight badly enough to learn humility.
“Not a talker, huh?” He studied Halfa like a smith sizing up a stubborn piece of ore. “Alright then, Boulder. Let’s see who wants it more. ”
He dropped into a fighting stance, feet apart, fists up. There was no proper technique, just familiarity. This wasn’t a bluff.
Halfa didn’t respond.
The boy raised an eyebrow, lips twisting into something halfway between a smirk and a sneer. “You gonna fight, or stare at me till I fall asleep?”
Still, Halfa didn’t move.
Then, just as the boy turned away, dismissive, Halfa stepped forward.
No warning. No words. Just weight, rage and silence.
He tackled the boy into a stack of spice crates.
Wood cracked. Spices exploded into the air. Cinnamon, pepper, and salt, mixed with sweat. The scent hit like a punch to the face, dizzying and sharp.
They hit the cobbles in a tangle of limbs and fists.
They fought like they’d been waiting their whole lives for this.
No opening shouts. No circle drawn. Just limbs flying, bodies crashing, breath coming in harsh, wet bursts.
The crates shattered beneath them, splintering across the dock. A sack of saffron burst open, dyeing the air gold and bitter. Cinnamon mixed with salt. Blood with sweat. Spice with fury.
Halfa swung first, wide, heavy, unforgiving. Like a tree learning how to fall.
Gronk ducked it and drove a fist into Halfa’s ribs, then another to the side of his jaw. Fast. Wild. Laughing as he moved.
The noise brought a crowd. Not a big one, the usual mess of kids, dockhands, gull-feathered fishwives, and old men with nothing better to do than watch two titans knock the silt out of each other. Fights weren’t rare in the Dock Ward. But this? This was worth pausing for.
Halfa didn’t notice the onlookers. He barely noticed the pain.
There was no rage in him. No heat. Just the cold rhythm of movement.
Step in. Swing. Absorb. Repeat.
He took a jab to the cheek, then rammed his forehead into Gronk’s with a sickening crack. The other boy staggered back, grinning even as blood ran from his lip.
“You hit like a mule,” Gronk spat, circling. “Statue-boy’s got legs after all. ”
Halfa blinked, breathing hard.
This wasn’t like other fights. This wasn’t about coin, food, or survival.
This was… something else.
He didn’t know what.
They traded blows again. Halfa’s fists were like anvils, Gronk’s like knives. The wood beneath them creaked with every shuffle. Shouts rang out. People placed bets in muttered tones. Somewhere, someone started playing a tin whistle in rhythm with the fight, because, of course they, did.
Gronk ducked low, drove a shoulder into Halfa’s gut, and pushed him back toward the seawall. Halfa slid, boots scraping across the fish-slick stone.
“Thought you were stronger,” Gronk teased, panting. “You look like a damn statue, but you hit like a drunk dwarf. ”
Halfa stepped back into the fight, grunting as another punch clipped his temple. Then he landed a left hook that spun Gronk sideways into a stack of rope coils.
The crowd roared.
Blood now dripped from Halfa’s eyebrow. Gronk’s eye was swelling. Every inch of them ached. Still, neither stopped.
The blows slowed. Not from a lack of will, but from wear, like blacksmiths hammering cooled iron. Still determined. Still locked in rhythm. But burning out.
Then, between jabs, Gronk let out a breathless laugh.
“This is fun. ”
Halfa froze. Not from pain. From confusion.
No one ever called fighting fun.
Gronk grinned, even with blood on his teeth. “Name’s Gronk,” he said, swinging again. “You ever figured out how to talk?”
Halfa caught the next blow on his forearm. Grunted. “Halfa. ”
Gronk blinked, almost impressed. “Halfa? Half of what?”
The answer came as a left hook that almost dropped him to his knees.
He coughed, spat blood, and laughed again. “Yeah, alright. I like you. ”
Halfa didn’t respond. His knuckles were raw. His head throbbed. He didn’t like this. He didn’t hate it either. It just was—a rhythm he understood better than sleep.
Pain and silence. Fists and breath. Something to do with his hands.
Sensing no winner would come soon, the crowd peeled away, shaking heads, and muttered curses about broken spice and wasted time. No knives had come out. No one was dead. Just two boys hammering out a question neither could phrase.
That’s when the dockmaster came storming back.
“Oi! What the hell is this mess?! Get gone, both of you, ‘fore I call the Watch!”
Gronk wiped his chin and spat a streak of red into the gutter. “Guess we’re not getting the job. ”
Halfa didn’t move.
Gronk turned to walk away, paused after a few steps, tossing a look over his shoulder.
“You coming, Halfa or whatever? There’s a bakery on Fish Street that throws out day-old loaves if you ask real nice or look real scary. ”
Halfa stood there for a long second, jaw clenched, blood trickling into one eye.
Then followed.
They talked a little on the walk to Fish Street.
The Dock Ward was waking up around them, slow and sullen. Vendors were unlocking carts, grumbling over crates of spoiled shellfish and wilted leeks. Gull cries pierced the air like thrown knives. Laundry lines snapped above narrow alleys, heavy with last night’s rain.
Halfa’s lip was split and swollen. Gronk’s right eye had puffed up into a fat purple bruise. They looked like they’d brawled their way through a tavern. In a way, they had. The entire city was a tavern if you looked at it sideways.
They didn’t walk side by side. Not exactly. But neither walked behind.
Time and weather had beaten the bakery, which was tucked into a crooked alley and leaned as if punched repeatedly. Its chimney already belched smoke into the sky, coughing it between the eaves like an old man with a grudge.
The sign above the door had rotted through, leaving no name, no symbol, only a warped scrap of wood swinging on one chain. But the smell of bread didn’t care about names. It filled the street like a promise. Warm. Yeasty. Alive.
Gronk approached like he owned the place.
He banged on the back door three times, sharp knuckles on older wood, and then leaned against the frame like a boy with no cares, like someone who hadn’t bled on the cobblestones minutes ago. He looked over at Halfa with that same cocky grin.
“You’re gonna like this,” he said. “Old lady’s got the heart of a salted slug, but she hates waste more than she hates us. ”
The door creaked open. An old halfling woman squinted up at them. She wore a flour-dusted apron and had forearms like rolling pins.
“You again,” she said.
“Me again,” Gronk chirped, all mock-innocence. “Looking my best, too. ”
Her eyes shifted to Halfa. “This one new?”
“Barely,” Gronk replied. “Hits like a carthorse. Doesn’t talk much. ”
Halfa didn’t blink.
She stared at him a beat longer, then huffed and vanished into the shadows of the bakery. A few moments later, she returned with two thick, lopsided loaves that were still warm. The cracked crust whispered steam into the morning air.
“Only ‘cause I hate waste,” she muttered, shoving them into Gronk’s arms.
He winked. “You love me. ”
She slammed the door.
They sat on the stoop beside the bakery, backs to the brick wall, bread in their hands, bruises on their faces, silence between them.
