A homeless man sat hunched inside his crudely built hut, his bony fingers resting limply on his knees, dog ears sagging. His lips were cracked, his skin stretched taut over his cheekbones, and his breath came slow and shallow. Hunger gnawed at his insides, a dull ache that had long since become familiar.
A sharp sting on his finger jolted him from his stupor. His dull eyes gleamed with faint awareness as he lifted his hand, watching an ant sink its mandibles into his flesh. The pain was fleeting, insignificant compared to the agony of an empty stomach. With a sluggish motion, he flicked the tiny scavenger away.
Then he heard a faint sound being carried on the wind.
It was music.
His head tilted as he listened. It was unlike anything he usually heard in the slums where the air was thick with misery and the occasional brawl. The melody was soft, almost soothing, like a whisper of something foreign—something hopeful.
Shouts followed. He turned his head just as a group of slum dwellers rushed past his hut, their urgency snapping him to full attention.
"At the plaza!" someone called. "A priest is addressing the people of the slums!"
Another man, pausing just long enough to relay the news, clapped a friend on the shoulder. "A priest from the Zepharion Church! Hurry!"
Crawling out of his dwelling like a skittish marsupial, the homeless man blinked in astonishment as more people flooded the narrow alleys of the slums. The usual sluggishness of the wretched quarter had vanished, replaced by an almost frantic energy. Even the children—those sharp-eyed street rats who served as messengers and informants—were darting about, spreading the word.
"To the square!" one of them cried. "There's gonna be a gathering!"
Still half-dazed, the man pushed himself up and trailed after the crowd with tempered expectation, weaving through the broken streets. His ribs ached with every breath, but curiosity carried him forward.
When he reached the plaza, he lingered in the shadows of a crumbling building, his wary gaze sweeping over the scene. A massive crowd had gathered—men, women, children, the elderly—most of them of demi-human descent. Their faces bore the same hunger and exhaustion as his own, yet at the moment, something else flickered within their eyes.
Hope.
A makeshift stage had been set up in the center of the square. On it, a small group of musicians played, their instruments filling the air with solemn, stirring notes. Before them stood a figure draped in immaculate white robes, his arms outstretched in welcome.
The priest's expression was warm, his smile gentle as he swept his gaze over the huddled masses. When the flow of new arrivals slowed, he lifted his arms higher like the wings of an Eagleowl, the fabric billowing slightly.
The square fell into a hush.
"Brothers and sisters," he called, his voice ringing clear and bright. "I thank you for coming here today, for opening your hearts to the words of the Goddess."
The homeless man tensed.
"I am Father Alvian, a humble servant of the Zepharion Church, and I bring with me tidings of hope and grace."
His sharp, knowing eyes traveled across the gathered crowd, drinking in the weary, hollow faces. "You have been abandoned. Forgotten by those who live in gilded halls, who feast while you starve, who warm themselves while you shiver in the cold."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The man watching from the shadows felt his chest tighten.
"But the Goddess has not forgotten you," Father Alvian continued, his voice swelling with fervor. "She sees you. She knows your suffering, your struggles. While the world turns its back, She holds you close, for you are Her children."
Some among the crowd lowered their heads, clutching their rags as if the words alone could shield them from the cold. Others raised their gazes, eyes shimmering with the desperate desire to believe.
"The palace has heard the holy decree," Alvian declared, his voice rich with satisfaction. "They have recognized their error. And so, in honor of the Goddess's mercy, a grand tribute shall be held in your name!"
A stunned silence followed. Then, hesitant whispers.
"Tomorrow," the priest continued, his smile widening, "you will be welcomed with open arms. You will be fed, clothed, and treated with the dignity you deserve. A feast has been prepared, a day of rest and comfort, to thank you for the unseen contributions you have made to this city—contributions that others have been ungrateful for."
A hushed excitement spread through the crowd. Some gasped. Others clasped their hands together, mothers hugged their children, eyes glistening with emotion.
"I implore you, my brothers and sisters," Alvian pressed, his voice thick with devotion, "come and bask in the grace of the Goddess. Let Her light fill the darkness that surrounds you. For She is merciful. She is kind. And She will never forsake you."
A single voice cried out from the crowd—soft at first, then joined by another, and another. Cheers broke out, faint and uncertain at first, but growing stronger, swelling into a chorus of gratitude and praise.
From his place in the shadows, the homeless man did not cheer. His gaunt face remained still, his hazy eyes sharpening as he watched the priest; watched the reaction of the crowd.
His lips pressed into a thin line.
A familiar feline shared the man's suspicion.
Midnight sat in the dormer of an abandoned building overlooking the square, his curious gaze scouring the scene. His olive-green eyes slitted when he spied a familiar man neighboring the musicians.
He was wrapped in a long, travel-worn coat, a satchel slung over one shoulder, and the rim of his hat cast concealing shadows across his villainous face.
The feline licked his paw with intrigue when the man inconspicuously slipped his satchel to the owner of a well-known apothecary before melting into the shadows.
***
DING~
The bell above the door chimed softly as Zurrel stepped into the apothecary through the rear entrance.
"Zurrel, honey? Is that you?" Lefahne's voice floated from one of the workrooms deeper inside.
"It's me," he called back, quickly stashing a small bag into a cupboard before he could be seen.
"You're later than usual," she went on, the sound of clinking glass and scribbling accompanying her words. "Is everything alright? Were you able to get everything?"
"I did," Zurrel replied smoothly as he stepped into the room. He placed a small basket filled with the requested ingredients onto the workstation, then leaned in and claimed his wife's lips with a gentle kiss. Stepping back, he bowed with exaggerated flair. "Your grocery list, delivered to perfection, milady."
Lefahne giggled, her cheeks warming. "You dummy," she teased, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him into another kiss. "What am I going to do with you?"
"If we keep kissing like this, I'm sure you'll figure it out," he murmured with a roguish grin.
She pressed a finger to his lips, halting his advance. "Tempting… but we've got work to finish."
Zurrel stilled.
"Now that Silvie's safe and we've stabilized the medicine to counter the effects of pixie crystals, we can't afford to delay the other elixir any longer," Lefahne said firmly. "It's been sitting on the shelf for far too long."
"…You're absolutely right," Zurrel replied, admiration gleaming in his eyes as he stepped back. "If we can finish it before the war begins, we might be able to save countless lives."
Lefahne nodded, her gaze sweeping across the worktable that was lined with rare fauna, preserved animal parts, scattered tools, and pages of scribbled notes. "If all goes well, we'll have it ready by tomorrow."
Zurrel dragged over a chair and picked up the mortar and pestle, already beginning to grind the freshly gathered ingredients. "Then let's get to it and make that happen."
"Right."
***
Silvestia and Fay sat in the grass beneath an overpass, fishing poles in hand, their lines disappearing into the calm canal waters at their feet.
Glancing away from her unmoving line, Silvestia peeked at her friend surreptitiously. For someone who had been a homeless orphan just weeks ago, Fay sat next to her gracefully, her posture nearly regal.
Her lashes were long and thick, her unpainted lips soft and full, her round face framed by strands of pink, silken hair. Every motion she made exuded femininity.
Silvestia's gaze shifted to the small mole beneath Fay's eye, then dropped—only to pout slightly as she noticed the girl's bust, which was far more developed than expected for someone so young. Combined with her dignified bearing, Fay seemed to radiate an almost divine aura. It was enough to stir questions Silvestia dared not ask.
Who was Fay, really?
Where had she come from—and why?
But she had promised herself not to pry.
Her parents had warned her not to.
Just as they had kept their own race and history hidden, Fay, too, had the right to her secrets. Her past didn't matter. What truly counted was what she chose to do with her present, her tomorrow, and the future beyond that.
But in this moment, Silvestia had only one thing on her heart—