Sorin knew better than to cut through the market corridors after bell-five, but hunger made fools of all of them.
The alleys near the upper tier always smelled like citrus and fresh bread this time of day—reminders of food that wasn't his. So when he spotted a baker's apprentice dumping a basket of day-old rolls behind the shop, he didn't think. He just ran.
He hadn't seen the other boys until it was too late.
"You think you're clever, street rat?" one of them growled, pinning him to the stone wall. "That was our corner."
Sorin tried to twist free, but the bigger boy shoved him back harder, knocking the breath from his chest.
"I didn't know!" Sorin rasped. "I was just—just looking!"
"Looking turns into taking," said the other. "And thieves don't get second chances."
A boot caught Sorin in the ribs. He gasped, crumpling to the wet cobbles.
The rain had turned steady now—cold, sharp, and merciless.
"Stop it," came a clear voice. Not from the shadows—from the open.
The older boys hesitated. Sorin blinked through damp lashes.
Two figures stood at the alley's edge. One was a man in an officer's coat—tall, silver-haired, with a blade at his hip. The other, a girl no older than Sorin. Her boots were too clean for these streets, and the heavy brooch at her collar gleamed with the Lovelace crest.
"It's one of hers," the first boy muttered.
"You know the rules," said the man—Magistrate Lovelace himself. His voice was calm, but sharp. "Street fights in the inner ring come with work penalties."
The boys bolted without another word.
Sorin didn't move. He half expected them to come back with reinforcements.
But instead, the girl knelt beside him.
"Ava," the man said, a touch weary. "We don't need to bring every fight home with us."
"I know," said the girl—Ava. She brushed Sorin's damp hair back from his forehead. "This is Sorin. He's one of the lower orphan tier. His bunkhouse is over by the rainworks tunnel."
Sorin blinked. She knew his name?
"I saw him a few times when we brought medicine," she added. "He never asked for anything."
"I didn't steal," Sorin croaked.
"I know you didn't," Ava said gently. "But you look like you haven't had a real meal in days. And that bruise on your cheek is turning purple."
The magistrate sighed. "Bring him, then. But your mother's not going to love it."
"She'll get over it."
Sorin tried to stand, but swayed. Ava caught his arm.
"I'm fine," he mumbled, more embarrassed than hurt now.
"You're not," Ava said. "Come on. Just dinner. You can leave after if you want."
Sorin glanced at the magistrate, half-expecting a trap. But the man just turned and started walking, giving them no reason to doubt him… and no room to argue.
Ava kept hold of Sorin's sleeve as they walked. She didn't say much else. But she didn't let go, either.
And somehow, that made Sorin feel warmer than the bread still clutched in his pocket.