Momen's stomach twisted inside him.
He sat on the edge of his rooftop, looking down into the slums. The familiar cold fatigue sat in his bones, but tonight it had a sharper edge. He hadn't eaten since the morning before, and the half-rotten root he'd found then was just a memory in his gut now. His body needed fuel for the training, for the lifts and the swings with the bent metal sheet. Without food, the weakness would win. The knight's vow would fade into another empty day.
So he would go out.
The slums at night were a different creature. No Lumen-Stones reached over the inner wall to cast their steady glow here. The only light came from the occasional cook-fire behind a shanty wall or the weak, flickering orange of a tallow candle in a window. Between those islands of light stretched pools of deep shadow, perfect for moving unseen if you knew the gaps.
Momen knew them. He had mapped them over years of silent travel.
He waited until the moon slid behind a bank of clouds. He tied a strip of old cloth around his head to keep his dark hair from his eyes, and he checked the knots on his makeshift sack, a piece of burlap stolen from a collapsed grain store. He did not take his metal sheet club. It was too clumsy for scavenging, and the weight would slow him down. Speed mattered more.
He moved to the drainpipe at the corner of the tannery roof and lowered himself down, finding the familiar footholds in the rotten wood with his toes. He dropped the last few feet into an alley that smelled of stale urine and wet rot. He landed softly, bending his knees to absorb the impact.
He paused there, listening. From two streets over came laughter and the clatter of dice. That would be a patrol of slum enforcers, probably Brann's crew, making their rounds to collect protection money from desperate gamblers. He knew their route, they would loop past the dry well and then down toward the old brewery, always arguing about their winnings or losses.
Momen counted in his head, matching the rhythm of their fading voices against the map in his mind. When their sounds turned a corner and grew muffled, he moved.
He did not walk in the middle of the alleys. He kept to the edges where walls met ground, where shadows clung thickest. He stepped over piles of refuse with care, avoiding anything that might crunch or slide underfoot. His breathing stayed even and quiet, a skill learned from years of not wanting to be heard. He passed a sleeping form bundled in rags against a wall and gave it a wide berth. He crossed a narrow lane where light spilled from a cracked shutter, darting across the illuminated patch in two quick strides before melting back into the dark on the other side.
He was heading for a section of the western inner wall where decades of waste dumping had built up against the stonework. The city guards called it a hazard and cleared it only when the stench drifted too far into their nicer districts. For now, it formed a rough, treacherous slope of compacted garbage that he could use as a ladder.
Momen reached its base. The smell here was thick and complex-rotting food, human waste, the sour tang of spoiled ale. He ignored it, smell was just information. He looked up, scanning the dark slope for the best path. He saw a broken crate jutting out, then a tangle of what looked like old ropes above it.
He began to climb.
He used hands and feet, testing each hold before committing his weight. A piece of wood crumbled under his grip, and he shifted quickly, finding a firm patch of packed earth instead. He moved with a focused economy, each motion serving the next. The chronic fatigue whispered in his muscles, urging him to stop, but he pushed it down with thoughts of food, of strength, of the clean pride he needed to build inside himself. After several minutes of careful ascent, his fingers found the rough, cool stone of the wall's top.
He pulled himself over and lay flat on the wide stone ledge, catching his breath. Below him on one side lay the sleeping slums. On the other side was a narrow service alley within the city walls, used by merchants to take out trash from their back doors. This was his threshold.
He lowered himself down into the alley, dropping behind a stack of empty barrels. This close to the wall, it was still dark and quiet. But when he peered down the length of the alley towards the cross-street, he could see the steady glow of a public Lumen-Stone mounted on a corner post. Its light was a clean, white-blue, not like firelight. It illuminated clean cobblestones and the painted sign of a baker's shop. Momen stared at it for a moment. That single stone could light his whole rooftop for a month.
He turned away and focused on the task. The merchant middens were just ahead-a series of large, foul-smelling bins lined up behind a row of shops: a greengrocer, a baker, a fishmonger. The shops threw out what they couldn't sell at day's end. For Momen, it was a treasure trove.
He approached the first bin behind the greengrocer. He lifted the heavy wooden lid slowly, preventing any loud scrape. The smell of rotting vegetables washed over him. He sifted quickly with his hands, pushing aside slimy cabbage leaves and moldy potato skins. His fingers closed around something firm and round. He pulled out a turnip. One side was soft with rot, but he could cut that away later. He dropped it into his sack.
He moved to the baker's bin. Here he found stale ends of loaves, hard as stone. He took three of them, knocking them together to dislodge a few crawling insects. They would need soaking, but they were bread.
The fishmonger's bin was the worst. The stench of scales and guts was overpowering. He breathed through his mouth and dug near the edges, where sometimes filets that were merely old, not yet putrid, got tossed. He found a piece of cod, its eyes cloudy but its flesh still firm. He also grabbed a handful of scraped-off scales and bones wrapped in paper, he could boil them for broth.
His sack grew heavy with the weight of the food. It was more than he'd found in weeks. A small, unfamiliar sensation stirred in his chest-not happiness, but a temporary lifting of a constant weight. For tonight, he would not be hungry. For tomorrow, he would have strength to train.
He tied the top of the sack closed and slung it over his shoulder. He took one last look down the alley towards the Lumen-Stone's glow and the clean world it represented. Then he turned back toward the wall and his climbing point.
He had taken only two steps when he heard it.
Heavy footsteps. Not the shuffling gait of a drunk or the light step of another scavenger. These were deliberate, solid thumps coming from around the corner of the baker's shop, blocking his way back to the wall.
Momen froze.
Brann stepped into view.
The large enforcer filled the narrow alleyway. He held a length of rusted chain in one hand, letting it droop towards the cobbles. A slow smile spread across his face as he saw Momen standing there with his full sack.
"Well," Brann said, his voice a low rumble that carried in the quiet alley. "Look what climbed out of its hole."
Momen took a step back automatically as Brann advanced.
"Heard things," Brann continued, not bothering to whisper. "People saying they see you up on that roof at dawn. Moving around like you're training for something." He chuckled without humor as he swung one end of the chain idly against his leg with a soft metallic slap-slap-slap sound.
"What's an Apis runt training for? You think you can fight?" Brann stopped about ten feet away, completely blocking any escape route back to Momen's climbing spot.
Momen said nothing, holding onto his sack tightly. He was trying to think of any way out past Brann.
"Your mother should have strangled you in your crib," Brann spat suddenly, all pretense of amusement gone from his voice.
"She was kind," Momen whispered before he could stop himself. The words felt like an old reflex, coming out too quickly to suppress even after all these years alone on his rooftop. He thought about her sometimes late at night before falling asleep from exhaustion. She was part of what kept him going each day despite everything else falling apart constantly around him. That one small thing inside himself was something nobody else could take away, no matter how hard they tried or how much they hated him for just existing in a world that never seemed to want him here at all.
He wanted to exist. He wanted to be here. He wanted to become something more than this cursed thing they all saw when they looked at him with hateful eyes.
Get back to reality, he told himself. You're in an alley with Brann who has a chain, and you have a sack of food that you need. Don't lose it. Don't let him take it. Fight if you have to. Run if you can. But do something.
Brann moved as Momen finally broke from his frozen state.
The chain whistled through air as Brann swung it in a short arc aimed not at Momen's body but at his legs, trying to trip him up quickly before he could get away easily like last time. Today would be different because today Brann had caught him red-handed with stolen goods from inside the city walls, which was serious trouble even for slum trash.
The chain wrapped around Momen's ankle as Brann yanked hard, pulling him off balance and making him stumble forward onto his hands and knees. His sack dropped and spilled open, sending turnip, bread, and fish scraps scattering across the dirty cobbles.
Brann stepped closer and lifted one heavy boot, aiming for Momen's ribs where they stuck out pale under his thin rags.
"Cursed little blight," Brann grunted as he kicked.
The impact drove air from Momen's lungs in a pained gasp, folding him over onto the ground as a fiery ache spread through his side. Breathing became difficult suddenly, and tears pricked the corners of his eyes from sheer physical shock.
Another kick landed higher up, catching Momen's shoulder as he tried to roll away. He scrambled on elbows and knees through the filth, trying to reach the scattered food. Maybe he could grab something before running. But Brann moved faster, planting a foot solidly on Momen's back and pinning him face-down onto the cold, wet cobbles that smelled of old garbage and fish guts. The heavy weight pressed down, making struggle seem useless.
Brann leaned down, putting more weight on his foot and grinding Momen deeper into the muck while grabbing a handful of hair and lifting his head up slightly so he could speak directly into his ear, his voice low and vicious.
"She died screaming," Brann hissed quietly, almost gently like sharing a secret between friends. "Your mother died screaming your name because you killed her with your curse. You murdered her, you little monster. And everyone knows it. Everyone hates you for it. Even your own father couldn't stand the sight of you. He ran away and left you alone because you're poison."
Momen stopped struggling as those words washed over him, sinking deep past skin and muscle and bone. They reached something cold and fragile deep inside where the last tiny ember of hope still clung desperately, trying to stay alive amidst endless winter darkness.
He felt cold and empty and nothing except the weight on his back, the pressure on his hair, the pain in his ribs aching and throbbing. His head spun and the world tilted sideways. Maybe passing out soon would be a good idea.
But then something else stirred.
Not coldness.
Not emptiness.
A heat.
A tight hot coil deep in gut beneath hunger beneath fatigue beneath ache spreading outwards like liquid fire filling veins chasing away chill replacing with something raw primal furious boiling up throat tasting metal anger rage hatred pure undiluted focused entirely on man above holding down hurting saying those things about her about mother who was kind who was gentle who loved maybe even him before died because gave life for him maybe that meant something maybe she wouldn't want this maybe she would want him fight back make them stop make him stop make words stop make everything stop NOW.
A voice spoke inside skull not thought not memory separate entity clear distinct tone color red deep crimson vibrating through bone marrow shaking teeth rattling vision edges tinting scarlet everything narrowing down tunnel focusing single point target Brann foot back hand hair sneering face above kill him kill him kill him KILL HIM-
Pressure built behind eyes temples pounding rhythm matching pulse racing faster harder than ever before as heat concentrated chest burning hot tight constricting breath coming short sharp gasps world beginning shudder vibrate blur around edges as if reality itself straining hold together against force building inside small battered body pinned ground under brute's weight-
Momen opened mouth tried scream but no sound came out only rush air as pressure reached peak cresting wave about break unleash something unknown terrible wonderful-
Then blackness swallowed everything whole
The red voice screamed one last time, a silent command that bypassed thought. The pressure in his chest snapped.
A pulse, not of light but of force, erupted from him.
Momen saw the world shudder as if struck. The wet cobbles under his cheek vibrated. The stack of barrels ten feet away splintered apart with a sharp *crack*. Brann's weight vanished from his back as the man was lifted, not thrown, but *repelled* by an invisible wave that hit him like a falling wall.
Then everything went black.
***