The jingle of coins in the grubby pouch was enough to sour Vila's mood the moment the hoodie-clad pauper shuffled through her shop door. *Again*. She glared, her lips twisting into a scowl as she snatched the pouch and dumped its contents---a cascade of tarnished Krum coins---onto the transaction tray with a noisy clatter.
"Listen here, you little gutter rat!" Her voice was thick and nasal, like molasses clogging the ears. "How many times do I gotta tell ya? Stop bringing this filthy pocket change! The shopkeeper said it himself---next time you show up with a mountain of scrap metal, he'd rather lose your business than count it!"
"It's the exact amount," the boy replied, his voice unnervingly calm against her tirade. He slid his hands into the pockets of his worn hoodie, fingers rubbing against something hidden within. "Please, the special potion."
"Special potion?!" Vila scoffed, turning her back to rummage through the tiered shelves behind her. "Doctor Dower made it plain---your mother's sickness can't even be *diagnosed* properly! What good's a special mix gonna do? Honestly, you'd be better off keeping the coin, letting her enjoy her last days in peace. Spare the rest of us the trouble---call it charity!" Despite her harsh words, she pulled out a distinctively vibrant vial of thick, blue liquid and slammed it onto the counter beside the coins. Trade laws were a nuisance, and tangling with the Guard Corps over refusing a paying customer? Those persistent, vine-like enforcers were trouble she didn't need.
The boy's lips tightened. Without a word, he scooped up the vial and turned for the door. Head slightly bowed, hands jammed back into his pockets, his steps were surprisingly light as he walked away, already leaving the shop and Vila's grating presence behind.
His mind wasn't on Vila, nor the insults. It was fixed solely on the object his fingers traced over and over in the depths of his pocket---clenching, releasing, a sigh escaping him as the shape pressed hard against his palm.
Key. Lucien preferred to think of it as an artifact. The intricate patterns carved into its surface were craftsmanship far beyond anything he owned, and the flawless emerald set into its head seemed impossibly pure. If he dared pull it out in the sunlight, its deep green would glow, luminous and smooth, a stark, jarring contrast to his faded hoodie and unkempt appearance.
"After the potion, I've got ten Krom left," he murmured to himself, the key a hard, cool presence against his skin. "No matter how hard I scavenge the monster Graveyard during the day, scraping together next week's potion money is a long shot. Forget the potion -- I barely have enough for food this week." Desperation tightened his throat.
It was his father's legacy. But what use was legacy when you were staring into the abyss? Maybe its true value lay in the coin it could fetch. He was trying hard to convince himself.
One night, when he was eight, his father had pressed this key into his hand, muttered something to his mother, and vanished into the darkness. Gone. Poof. Lucien had clung to the childish hope that it unlocked some ornate chest, filled with riches to sustain them. He'd tried it on every lock in their meager home---cupboards, drawers, even the small, battered wooden box his father had left behind, whether intentionally or not. Nothing fit. Eventually, he'd accepted that the key *itself* was the inheritance. It certainly looked valuable enough.
"Not today," Lucien shook his head, finally dismissing the thought of pawning it. Not because he didn't want to, but because today was his seventeenth birthday. His mother, Elinora, seemed to have a touch more color in her cheeks today. She treasured this relic fiercely. He wouldn't ruin her fragile happiness. Not today.
Lost in thought, head down, he barely registered the alleyway he was passing until a slurred, mocking voice sliced through the air.
"Well, lookee here. The runt from the East End. What's trash like you doing in the city proper? Bringing bad luck with ya?"
"Heard his ma's got some fancy incurable sickness. Prob'ly fetching that special potion."
"Special potion?" The taller of the two drunks leaning against the grimy brick wall perked up, a predatory gleam entering his bleary eyes as he turned fully towards Lucien.
Lucien's head snapped up, sharp green eyes locking onto the pair barely ten paces away. One tall and lanky, the other short and squat. Both radiated a lazy, drunken arrogance, their gazes dripping with malice that felt like a physical threat.
"The hell you starin' at, freak?" The shorter man stiffened as those unsettling, upturned green eyes met his. He spat viciously onto the cobblestones. Something about those eyes... cold, unnatural. Like a corpse fished from the algae-choked lake. They sent a shiver down his spine.
"Hey, runt," the taller man drawled, his voice deceptively light, as if addressing a cornered rabbit. "Hand over that medicine vial."
"Yeah, we ain't thieves," the shorter one leered, a nasty grin spreading across his face. "We'll take *real* good care of yer ma for ya."
Silence. Then, a switch flipped. At the insinuation against his mother, the boy's fist clenched so tight his knuckles cracked. Rage, white-hot and blinding, surged through him. Before either drunk could react, Lucien was a blur of motion, launching himself forward, fist aimed squarely at the shorter man's sneering face.
"Callin' you a waste, and you just *hand* us yer ma?" The tall drunk laughed, a harsh, grating sound. He didn't even seem to try. A casual sidestep, a boot lashing out with surprising speed. It connected squarely with Lucien's chest.
The impact was brutal. Lucien flew backwards, skidding across the rough cobblestones for what felt like an eternity before slamming to a stop. Agony exploded through him---a constellation of pain that made him tremble uncontrollably. The coppery tang of blood filled his mouth. His ribs screamed; his organs felt pulverized. The terrifying proximity of death seized him. *No. Not yet. Elinora... she's not better. I can't... not now...*
The tall man's booming laughter echoed in the alley as he blurred forward, appearing beside the crumpled boy almost instantly. "Tryin' to match *my* speed? Hah! Maybe next life, if you're born lucky!" He raised a wicked, serrated dagger, poised to plunge it down.
Lucien's vision swam, consciousness fading. Despair washed over him. *Mother... forgive me. Maybe next life... we'll have peace...* He braced for the end.
***CLANG!***
The sharp, discordant ring of steel on steel shattered the moment. A longsword materialized out of nowhere, intercepting the falling dagger with brutal force.
"Daring to rob and assault citizens *in the city*?!" The voice that roared was deep, resonant, and crackled with authority. The wielder of the longsword twisted his blade violently. The dagger flew from the drunk's suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering away on the stones.
The word "Guard Corps" acted like a bucket of ice water. Both drunks' faces drained of color. Without a second's hesitation, before the swordsman could even get a clear look at them, they melted into the shadows of the alleyway, vanishing as swiftly and silently as they'd appeared. Only Lucien's crumpled form remained as proof of the violent encounter.
"Lucien! Stay with me!" The swordsman---Baron---wasted no time. Kneeling swiftly, he gently cradled Lucien's head and tipped the contents of a small vial with a golden stopper into the boy's mouth. His movements were practiced, efficient, hinting at grim familiarity with such scenes.
The potent healing elixir took effect immediately. A soft, white luminescence enveloped Lucien. The excruciating pain of shattered ribs and ruptured organs began to recede, replaced by the intense itch of knitting bone and mending tissue. His ragged breathing steadied, his senses swam back into focus. He forced his eyes open, blinking against the light.
Baron, seeing the life return to Lucien's eyes, let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Then, his brow furrowed in frustration. "Damn cowards! Ran like whipped dogs. Should've taken their heads clean off!" The Guard Corps operated with brutal efficiency. Since the Great Monster Uprising five years ago, fear had gripped Cocoon City. Monster attacks surged; robbery and theft became endemic. To combat the chaos, the Corps had been granted broad discretion. Threats like "taking heads" weren't idle---they were policy. No wonder the thugs had fled so fast.
"Lucky Baron the Knight got here quick," Lucien managed a weak, blood-stained grin, trying to ease the tension. "And that high-grade potion's no joke. Otherwise, I'd be picking out my next life right about now."
"Save the jokes," Baron grunted, helping Lucien sit up slowly and guiding him to sit on a nearby step. "Potion or not, it takes a toll. Don't push it. The medicine?" He asked, his voice tight with concern. "I'm tapped out. That was my last potion... and coin."
Panic jolted through Lucien. He frantically patted the pocket where his small coin purse should be. Empty. The thugs must have snatched it during the scuffle! His heart plummeted. Then, his fingers brushed against the hard, familiar shape in his other pocket. The key. Still there. A sliver of relief cut through the dread.
He looked up at Baron, his expression bleak. "Gone. What do I do? Elinora needs that potion *tomorrow*. Without it... who knows how long she'll last?" He glanced towards the setting sun, despair deepening. "Curfew hits at eight. Lasts 'til six tomorrow morning. That barely gives me any daylight to gamble in the Scrapyard..."
"Don't panic. I'll borrow from the squad. We'll get the money," Baron assured him, though doubt flickered in his eyes. He'd already borrowed heavily for Elinora's treatments. Whispers followed him now: Baron's solid, but always in debt... bad look.
"No," Lucien cut him off, sharper than intended. "Elinora is *my* burden. You keep borrowing... it's poisoning your reputation. Your future. Staying tied to us... it only makes things harder for you."
"*Harder?*" Baron's voice rose, fierce and protective. "Your family *is* my family! When those monsters killed my parents, who took me in? Who treated me like a son? Elinora *is* my mother! How can I walk away?!" His passion was cut short by a soft, chime-like ping only they could hear. A glance at his invisible system interface confirmed it: 4 PM. The alarm he'd set to remind him to get home for Lucien's birthday.
Lucien watched as Baron's index finger swipe into the air, silencing the chime. The sight never ceased to amaze him. Every Awakened had such a system---a personal interface only they could see. It tracked skills, levels, experience, aided daily life. But it was all second-hand knowledge, gleaned from school, Baron, or Viola. Unawakened, Lucien had never glimpsed that world.
"Anyway," Baron continued, his tone softening, "I'll figure out the potion. Can you move?"
The physical pain was gone, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that made his limbs feel like lead. Pushing himself upright, Lucien swayed for a moment, then nodded. "I'm good. Let's go. Elinora and Viola are waiting."