I’d slipped out from the ruins just before dawn while Finn was still asleep. His leg had been hurting him again. He’d tried tohide it but I had watched him twisting in silence all night. I was getting worried now. He didn’t look well.
I had to help him.
Food came first. I’d tried the dock markets and the back of Mac’s Deli, but the sentinels were out there too—buying supplies for the King, no less—and had chased me off before I got close. In a lucky twist of fate, when I had ducked in this alley, I’d caught a whiff of day-old bread in the bin beside me. One breath and my stomach had roared in complaint. Loud enough that if old Lady Greymore had been home, she’d have stormed out swinging her broom like last time.
A rat darted past with a scrap of crust in its tiny claws. My stomach twisted.
Please, don’t let it all be spoiled.
I waited another minute, tense, half-expecting the back door to burst open. But no one came. I pinched my nose and tried not to gag at the rank scent of rotted produce wafting from the next bin over.
Before slipping in, I’d seen a couple of sentinels buying pastries. I prayed they hadn’t seen me. I’d managed to lift a coin purse from the shorter one—the one with the dull eyes and too-big boots—but it had held only a few silvers. Barely enough for a single sandwich.
And Finn was so hungry. With his leg shot to hell, he couldn’t run, couldn’t even stand some days. He hadn’t left our hideout in over a week. So, I was the one out scrounging.
Always.
Varrowmere’s sky hadn’t seen sunlight in years, and the thick, unending dusk suited me. The shadows cloaked my wiry frame, made me a ghost. I was twenty-two years old and I knew I looked half that—half-starved and street-worn. If Ihadn’t learned how to melt into the dark, I’d have been in a cell or a grave by now.
I waited in the dark, breathing slow and steady, counting heartbeats until I was sure no one lingered nearby. Only then did I rise—slow and silent.
There it was.
A full loaf, slightly scorched on the bottom, sitting atop the trash like a gift from the Gods. Treasure.
I snatched it up quick, like a striking snake, and clutched it to my chest. Warmth still clung to the crust. My mouth watered at the smell—yeast and char and survival—but I couldn’t bring myself to eat it.
Finn comes first.
I tucked the loaf into the deep pocket of the old denim jacket I’d rescued from the tip, then zipped it tight against the chill. The cold never left Varrowmere. The city crouched under its own shadow, and the air was always damp, always mean.
Towering buildings loomed over me like fortress walls, their windows shuttered tight against our suffering. Concrete and steel watched over the poisoned heart of the outer slums, silent and indifferent. Unfeeling gods in the shape of skyscrapers.
Once, I’d seen a woman die in Malar Square—they had left her bleeding in the street for what felt like days. Her blood pooled like ink beneath her broken body, and no one came. Not until the sentinels got sick of the stench.
The towers have warmth inside, I’d heard. Heating. Air conditioning. Food that waited patiently in cupboards, untouched, unwanted.
I pulled my jacket tighter. Out here, everything had to be earned. Even a scrap of bread.
**
The walk back to the ruins was long and unforgiving. The streets buzzed with uneasy energy—busier than usual.
We’d heard whispers of the celebration for months now. The King’s birthday.
Another excuse for excess. For gilded masks and overflowing goblets while the rest of us fought rats for crumbs.
Whenever the King decided to throw a party, the streets were "cleaned"—neatly, efficiently, without mercy. Anyone sleeping in a doorway, tucked into a cardboard box, or too slow to disappear was cleared away.
Permanently.
Most of us street rats knew better than to be seen on days like this. We became ghosts, melting into shadows, praying not to be noticed.
One wrong turn, one unlucky glance… and we wouldn’t be coming back.
I slipped from shadow to shadow, careful to keep to the cracks between the light.
In the half-dark of Varrowmere’s narrow alleys, the blood-red tunics of the sentinels stood out like open wounds. They roamed in packs of three or four, boots heavy on the cobblestones, laughter loud and cruel. They swaggered with pure arrogance through the streets like kings, full-bellied and confident—untouched by hunger, by fear, by the cold that clung to the rest of us like mould.
