Six months. One hundred and eighty-three days since blue light had torn his world apart.
Kael sat in his current shelter and counted coins by touch. The storage shed behind Hendrick's Tannery leaked when it rained, but the smell kept others away. Three pence clinked between his fingers. Down from sixty. Down from hope.
How had he survived this long? How did anyone?
Lessons. Hard lessons written in hunger and bruises and near-misses.
Lesson one: Schedule. The baker on Thursdays threw out yesterday's loaves. The butcher on Saturdays discarded scraps "unfit for sale." The grocer every third day. Pattern recognition meant survival.
Lesson two: Invisibility. Never stay in one place more than three nights. Never use your real name. Never tell the truth. Truth sounded like madness.
"Parents died of plague," he'd learned to mumble. Eyes down. Shoulders hunched. "Trying to reach my uncle in Coronsday."
Lesson three: Lies came easier each time. Soon he barely remembered they were lies.
His body had changed. Where had the soft boy gone? The one who'd sketched in warm kitchens? Sharp bones had replaced baby fat. His hands, once suited for charcoal and carving knives, now bore calluses from climbing walls. From fighting for scraps. From becoming what he'd once pitied.
Had he tried for normal? Last week. The carpenter on Miller Street needed an apprentice. Kael had cleaned himself best he could. Practiced his story. Walked in with manufactured confidence...
"How old are you, boy?"
"Fifteen, sir." Another lie. Still fourteen, though he felt ancient.
"Where are your parents?"
"Dead, sir. Plague took them."
"And you survived?" Suspicion in those eyes. Because plague didn't work that way. Plague took whole families or none.
"I was... visiting my grandmother. When I came back..."
"Get out." Not angry. Just certain. "I don't need thieves or liars."
Because that's what he looked like now. What he was. A thief who stole bread and lied about dead parents and imaginary plagues.
The fight. Three days ago? Four? Time blurred when you were hungry. The older vagrant... Garrett? Gerald?... had wanted Kael's shelter. Prime spot. Dry. Hidden.
"Move along, boy." Breath like rotted meat. Three teeth missing. "This is mine now."
"I was here first."
"Don't see your name on it."
The first punch had surprised them both. Kael's fist connecting with jaw. Where had that fury come from? How dare he? How dare anyone try to take anything more?
They'd rolled in the muddy alley. Trading blows. The man was stronger but Kael was desperate. And desperation had teeth. He'd won by biting the man's thumb nearly off. By fighting like the animal he'd become.
Who was he now? He sat counting three pence and tried not to see his reflection in puddles. The boy looking back had his father's eyes but none of his father's gentleness. Had his mother's hands but used them for stealing.
This... was this what became of people? Reduced to base survival? Fighting over scraps?
No. Not yet. He still remembered warm kitchens. His mother's humming. Mira's laugh that sounded like...
Don't think about Mira. Don't think about silver hair on a pillow.
Snow began to fall. First snow of the season. Each flake a small cold promise. Three pence wouldn't buy shelter. Wouldn't buy enough food. Wouldn't buy anything but a day or two more of this half-life.
What skills did he have? Drawing? Nobody paid vagrants for art. Carving? His hands shook too much now. Reading? Writing? Useless. All useless.
His birthmark twinged. It did that sometimes. Usually during full moons. Or when he dreamed of blue light. Of heads tilted at impossible angles. Protected, the thing wearing Mira had said. Protected by what? Some cosmic joke?
If only protection meant warmth. If only it meant food. If only it meant forgetting.
Three pence clinked in his palm. The snow fell harder. Fat flakes that would bury the weak by morning.
Kael pulled his father's coat tighter and tried to remember what hope felt like. The memory wouldn't come. Maybe it had frozen to death. Maybe it was better that way.
Tomorrow he'd check the baker's bins. Tomorrow he'd find new shelter. Tomorrow he'd continue this existence that wasn't quite living but wasn't quite dying either.
Tonight, he'd count three pence and pretend they were enough.