The streets were quiet now. Too quiet.
Raven had learned to move like a shadow, eyes sharp, ears pricked, stomach hollow. Uncle Gavran's tavern, a crumbling two-story building tucked between alleys, smelled of alcohol and smoke. Its sign swung crookedly, almost mocking in the evening wind: The Drunken Hawk.
Inside, the place was dim, thick with the scent of old wood and spilled ale. Gavran tended the bar, wiping mugs with a rag, and muttering curses at patrons who were mostly locals, drunks, and wanderers. To the world, he was a fool, a drunkard with a crooked back and one bad eye.
But Raven had begun to see the cracks in the mask.
He was no fool.
Before the fall of his country, before the fires that had swallowed Elarion, Gavran had been a general. A strategist. A warrior who could move armies and outthink kings. Now, he moved through the streets and alleys with the same cunning, only his battlefield was smaller, darker, and hidden.
He had gathered the children — orphaned, hungry, angry, and broken, just like Raven — and made them his secret army. In the daylight, they were beggars, street urchins, invisible to the Helvareth guards who patrolled the immigrant quarters. At night, under Gavran's watchful eye, they became something else.
Raven watched him as he leaned over the counter, whispering to a boy no older than ten. The boy blinked rapidly, eyes wide with terror and excitement.
"Good," Gavran said softly. "Remember: always take what isn't watched. Always move faster than suspicion. Always disappear before the eyes know you exist."
Raven's hands itched. She wanted to try. She wanted to steal. She wanted… power.
The city had changed since the Queen of Lysara died.
Her death had torn more than hearts. It had torn alliances. Helvareth blamed Elarion. The queen's assassination, they said, had been orchestrated by Elarion spies. Even though the truth was different. Even though Elarion had no hand in it. But the Helvareth king had listened to Lysara's charges, and suspicion had turned to hatred, and hatred into fire.
Entire districts were purged, immigrants hunted, streets washed red with the innocent blood of men, women, and children. And those who survived were scattered, homeless, or forced to live in shadowed alleys like Raven had been.
Gavran had learned early that in such a world, survival required more than just fear. It required skill. Knowledge. Cunning.
He had begun teaching.
Pickpocketing. Lockpicking. The art of negotiation. Reading faces. Bluffing. Running, hiding, vanishing into the crowds. Every child who came through his doors learned something that would make them invisible — and lethal.
Raven learned quickly. Faster than most. Her hands were small, nimble, and daring. Her mind was sharp, and she absorbed everything Gavran taught her like water soaking into parched soil.
He would sometimes tap her head with a finger. "Brains first, muscle second. Never the other way around. Remember that."
By night, the tavern's ale and smoke acted as a cover. Drunk patrons laughed, spat, and stumbled into each other, oblivious to the lessons being whispered in dark corners. Every corner of the room was a classroom if you knew where to look. Every shadow was a teacher if you had the eyes to see.
Raven liked the lessons. She liked the small victories — a coin taken from a merchant without him noticing, a stolen loaf of bread for the smaller children, a plan executed perfectly under Gavran's watchful eye. Each success was a balm on the wound that had never healed: the loss of her parents, the burning of her home, the screaming of the innocent.
Yet, in the quiet moments, when the tavern's laughter and shouting fell away, the city's pain returned.
She would stare out the grimy windows at the streets, lit dimly by torches and lanterns. Soldiers patrolled. Families cowered. Fear moved like a shadow over Helvareth, heavy and suffocating. And in that shadow, she swore she would grow strong. Smarter. Faster. Strong enough to never feel helpless again.
Sometimes Gavran would catch her staring. He would lean down, voice rough but soft. "Don't let it consume you. Use it. Turn it into fire. Anger makes them predictable. Fear makes them slow. You have both now. Learn to wield them."
She nodded silently. She already understood.
The days and nights blurred together. The tavern became a sanctuary, a fortress, a school, and a home — all at once.
Raven learned the ways of the streets. How to blend with beggars. How to make herself invisible in a crowd. How to strike without hesitation. How to negotiate with a confidence she didn't yet feel. Every lesson Gavran taught her came with stories of his past — battles fought, decisions made, victories snatched from the jaws of impossible odds.
And sometimes, when the alcohol-soaked patrons became too loud or too drunk, Gavran would smile faintly, and Raven would glimpse the man he used to be — a warrior, a general, a strategist. One who could have changed kingdoms.
But kingdoms had changed him too. And so he had changed the children instead.
Raven grew taller, sharper, quicker. She watched the streets like a hawk. She learned not only to survive, but to understand the currents of the city. Where danger waited. Where opportunity lurked. Who could be trusted — and who would kill you for a single coin.
She began to see patterns in the chaos. The drunkards, the beggars, the guards — all moved in predictable ways. Gavran's teachings had turned her into something new: a shadow among shadows, a whisper in the dark, a girl who could steal a purse, vanish into a crowd, and reappear miles away before anyone noticed.
But even in her growing confidence, the anger never faded. The pain never dulled. Every night, she remembered her parents' faces, the flames consuming their home, the screams echoing in the alley.
And she vowed silently, fiercely, to never be powerless again.
Because the world was cruel.
Because Helvareth blamed Elarion.
Because kings, even when wrong, could send soldiers to burn streets and slaughter innocents.
And because she… would survive.