One week. Seven days of walking, hiding, stealing. Three silver coins left. Seven copper.
Kael stood at Ashenmoor's gates and counted the queue. Two hundred meters of bodies pressing forward. Merchants with loaded carts. Farmers with produce baskets. Travelers with proper papers. Him with nothing but stolen clothes and a burned birthmark.
Should he risk the guards? No. Questions meant death. Or worse... the camps Martha's ravings had summoned the black coats for.
This... the drainage grate caught his eye. Iron bars wide enough for a starved boy. The stench of sewage wafted up. Better than questions. Better than black coats with their spirit-lights searching, searching, always searching.
He waited. The guard shift changed at sixth bell. Seven minutes of confusion while new posted. Now.
The grate lifted with a squeal. He dropped down, landed knee-deep in flowing filth. His stomach clenched. Don't vomit. Can't afford to lose the morning's stolen bread. He pressed forward through the tunnel, counting steps. Fifty. One hundred. Two hundred and seven.
Light ahead. Another grate. He pushed up, emerged behind a tannery. The chemical stench actually improved on sewage. His clothes dripped brown water. First order of business? Find new clothes. Second? Find shelter. Third...
What was third? Survive another day? Find answers about spirits? Both seemed impossible.
The tannery district gave way to cooper shops. Then bakers. Then... ah. An alley between two buildings. Narrow enough that rain wouldn't reach. Deep enough for shadows. He squeezed in, exhausted.
Just rest a moment. Then find food. Then...
"Fresh meat."
Three shapes blocked the alley mouth. Street thugs. Of course. Why had he expected different? The leader stepped forward, knife glinting. Scarred face. Missing teeth. Dead eyes.
"Toll for sleeping here is everything you got."
Should he run? The alley dead-ended behind him. Should he fight? Three against one, and him half-starved.
"I have nothing." Truth, mostly. The coins hid in his shoe.
"Then you pay in blood."
They circled. Kael pressed his back against brick. His birthmark tingled. Warning? Or just fear? The first punch caught his ribs. He doubled over. Boot to his stomach. Face met alley floor.
Fight back? With what strength?
They kicked methodically. Ribs. Kidneys. Not the head though. Experienced. They wanted him conscious for the lesson. His vision spotted black. Red. Black again.
This... this was how he'd die? Not to spirits but common thugs?
"Check his shoes." The leader's voice. "Always hide coins there."
No. No no no. His last money. Hands grabbed his ankle. He thrashed weakly. The shoe came off. Coins spilled.
"Three silver! Lying piece of..." Another kick. "Leave him breathing. Barely."
Footsteps faded. Kael lay still. Everything hurt. Breathe in. Pain. Breathe out. More pain. But breathing meant living. Living meant...
What? What did it mean anymore?
"Still breathing? Tougher than you look."
A girl's voice. Young. Maybe his age? He cracked one eye open. Red hair hung in tangled curtains around a thin face. She crouched just out of reach, studying him like a interesting insect.
"Got anything left?" She reached for his pocket.
"Already... took it all."
"Hmm." Her hand found his last apple, stolen yesterday. She bit into it, juice running down her chin. "First night in Ashenmoor?"
He tried to nod. Mistake. The alley spun.
"First lesson free: Never sleep where they dumped you." She stood, still eating his apple. "Second lesson costs food."
"That... was my food."
"Was." She grinned. "I'm Mya. You coming or bleeding out here?"
Come where? With what strength? But lying here meant death. Certain, slow death. He forced himself up. One hand. One knee. Standing took three tries.
"This way." She walked without checking if he followed.
What choice did he have?
The warehouse district stretched forever. Or maybe pain made it seem that way. Abandoned buildings lined empty streets. She ducked into one. Soap factory, by the faded sign. He followed, each step agony.
Inside, shapes moved in shadows. Children. All children. They watched him with feral wariness.
"Fresh stray," Mya announced. "Tom, meet..."
"Kael." Why give his real name? Too tired to lie.
A boy stepped forward. Twelve? Thirteen? Hard to tell through the dirt. "He's bleeding on our floor."
"Floors were already ruined." Mya shrugged. "Sara, got any rags?"
A girl, maybe fourteen, tossed a bundle. She didn't speak. Pointed to her throat and shook her head. Mute? Or worse?
"That's Silent Sara." Mya pressed rags against Kael's worst cuts. "She doesn't talk. Tom doesn't shut up. And that's Patches."
An eleven-year-old waved from a corner. Patches of different fabric covered his clothes like scales.
"We share food," Mya explained, wrapping his ribs. "Share watch. Share survival. But you got three days to prove useful. Otherwise..."
"Otherwise we kick you out." Tom's arms crossed. "Bet he runs first night."
Would he? The warehouse felt safer than the alley. But safe was relative. Safe meant walls. Safe meant not alone.
"I won't run."
"Everyone says that." Tom turned away. "Then they see real Ashenmoor. Then they run."
Mya finished the bandages. "Corner over there is free. Blanket's got mold but it's warm. First watch is Tom's. Try to sleep."
Sleep? With everything screaming pain? But he crawled to the corner. The blanket did stink of mold. Also rat droppings. Still better than sewage.
"Why?" He had to ask. "Why help me?"
Mya paused at her own bedroll. "I collect strays. Bad habit. Makes Tom crazy." She grinned. "Plus, you didn't cry when they kicked you. Means you might survive long enough to be useful."
Useful how? Steal for them? Die for them? Questions for tomorrow. Tonight, just breathing took all his focus.
The warehouse settled into night sounds. Whispered conversations. Someone's cough. Rats in the walls. Tom took position by a boarded window, watching the street.
Should he trust them? No. Trust died with his family. But cooperation? Maybe. Just until he healed. Just until...
Until what? He had no plan. No goal except survival. And now, no money.
Ah... the birthmark throbbed. Different than before. Not warning but... recognition? Like it sensed something. Or someone.
"Bad dreams already?" Mya's voice, soft in darkness.
How did she know? He hadn't moved. Hadn't spoken.
"We all get them. Part of the life." Her shadow shifted. "Try to sleep. Tomorrow I'll show you how to steal proper. Quick hands need quick thinking first."
Tomorrow. He'd made it to tomorrow. That had to count for something.
Didn't it?