I knew better than to cut through the market corridors after bell-five.
Every orphan in the lower tiers knew that rule, same as we knew not to drink from the orange-marked barrels or poke around the steam vents near the rainworks tunnel. There were rules for everything down here. Unspoken, mostly. You learned by surviving the consequences.
But hunger makes fools of all of us, and today my stomach had more say than my common sense.
It started with the smell.
The upper market always smelled like citrus and fresh bread this time of day—lemon rinds curling on the cobbles, steam lifting off crusted loaves still warm from the ovens. I'd long since trained myself not to look at the things I couldn't have, but today… today I was weak.
I was supposed to be back at the bunkhouse before curfew, but instead, I lingered. Just long enough to see the baker's apprentice drag out a woven basket and dump its contents behind the shop. Day-old rolls, maybe a bit stale, but still better than the dry grain bricks we were fed at the tunnels. He didn't even glance behind him as he went back inside.
I didn't think.
I just ran.
My fingers had barely brushed the edge of the basket when a voice slammed into me like a wall.
"Well, well. Look what the gutter spat out."
Before I could turn, someone grabbed the back of my collar and yanked hard. My spine smacked against stone, and I stared up into the sneering face of a boy I vaguely recognized. He was older. Broader. Upper tiers, maybe. His sleeves were rolled and his knuckles were raw, the way boys' get when they want people to see them hit things.
"You think you're clever, street rat?" he growled, pressing his forearm across my throat. "That was our corner."
I twisted, kicked, shoved, but there were more hands than I had arms to fight. Another boy stepped in—thinner, meaner-looking. He jabbed a knee into my gut. The breath left me in a whoosh.
"I didn't know," I gasped. "I was just—just looking!"
"Looking turns into taking," the second boy said. "And thieves don't get second chances."
A boot caught me in the ribs. I folded, hit the ground hard. Wet cobbles met my cheek, slick with the misting rain that had started an hour ago and now came steady and cold, soaking through my too-thin shirt.
One of them kicked the basket aside. Another toed the roll from my hand into the gutter.
"Scum like you always think rules don't apply."
My ears rang. My ribs ached. I curled tighter, tried to shield my face and stomach with my arms. If they kept going, I wouldn't make it back to the bunkhouse tonight. Wouldn't even make it to curfew roll call. The thought didn't scare me so much as it… stung. Because no one would miss me. Not really.
"Stop it," came a voice. Clear. Steady. Not angry—just… done.
I flinched, expecting another boot, but the blow never came.
The older boys froze.
I cracked open one eye, squinting against the rain.
Two figures stood at the mouth of the alley.
One was a man I knew only by reputation—tall, silver-haired, and straight-backed. He wore the long navy coat of the magistrate's guard, a thin blade hanging at his side. His face was hard, unreadable.
But it was the girl beside him that caught me off guard.
She couldn't have been older than me. Maybe younger. Her boots were spotless, her coat stitched with fine red trim, and the brooch pinned to her collar gleamed even in the rainlight—moonstone inlaid with silver.
Lovelace. One of them.
"It's one of hers," the first boy muttered, stepping back.
"You know the rules," the man said, voice like polished steel. "Street fights in the inner ring come with work penalties."
That was all it took. The boys bolted, vanishing down the alley like rats in sunlight.
I didn't move. Couldn't. My side throbbed with every breath, and my hand burned where it had scraped the stone. I half expected them to come back. Or for the magistrate to haul me up for stealing.
Instead, the girl stepped toward me. She knelt, rain dripping from her lashes.
"Ava," the man said, tired like this wasn't the first time she'd done something like this. "We don't need to bring every fight home with us."
"I know," the girl—Ava—replied. She reached out, brushing my wet hair back from my forehead like we knew each other. Her touch was gentle, not pitying. "This is Sorin. He's one of the lower orphan tier. His bunkhouse is over by the rainworks tunnel."
I blinked at her, stunned. She knew my name?
"I saw him a few times when we brought medicine," she added, speaking more to the man now. "He never asked for anything."
My voice came out hoarse and low. "I didn't steal."
"I know you didn't," Ava said gently. She smiled, but it wasn't the kind of smile people wore when they looked at us street kids. It wasn't polite or guarded or forced. It was real. "But you look like you haven't had a proper meal in days. And that bruise on your cheek is turning purple."
The magistrate sighed like he was already regretting his next words. "Bring him, then. But your mother's not going to love it."
"She'll get over it," Ava said breezily.
She rose, offering me a hand. I tried to stand on my own, but the world swayed and I nearly toppled. Ava caught my arm.
"I'm fine," I muttered, cheeks burning. The humiliation stung worse than the bruise.
"You're not," she said, matter-of-fact. "Come on. Just dinner. You can leave after if you want."
I hesitated. Glanced at the magistrate, half-expecting a trap. But the man was already walking ahead, as if the matter had been decided long ago. He didn't look back, didn't demand obedience. Just… moved forward, certain we'd follow.
And we did.
Ava didn't let go of my sleeve as we walked. She didn't say much, but her grip was steady, grounding. I could still feel the shape of the roll in my pocket—flattened, damp, but warm. It should've made me feel safe.
But it wasn't the bread that kept my legs moving. It was her hand, light on my arm, never tugging… just there.
We climbed the tier paths slowly. Each step hurt, but I didn't complain. The streets here were cleaner. Brighter. Lined with lanterns instead of leaking gutter-pipes. I passed flower boxes with curling green vines, heard music from behind painted shutters. It was like stepping into another world. One I'd only glimpsed through gaps in the lower grates.
My shoes squeaked with every step. Ava's didn't.
Neither of us spoke until we crossed under the arch that marked the Lovelace estate. A gate—wrought iron and silver threadwork—parted silently as the magistrate approached. No keys. No guards. It just knew who he was.
Magic.
Real, humming, ancient.
My stomach turned, not just from hunger now, but from the feeling that I was walking into something I didn't understand.
The estate was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that costs money.
I'd expected servants to come rushing or someone to bark at me to take my shoes off, but no one did. The entryway was warm, lit by wall sconces shaped like crescent moons. Ava helped me out of my soaked jacket, then disappeared for a moment and returned with a dry one.
"Wear this so Mother doesn't faint," she said, not unkindly.
"Your mother doesn't like orphans?"
"She doesn't like surprises," Ava corrected, slipping her moonstone brooch into a drawer like she didn't want it seen. "And you qualify as both."
I wasn't sure what I was walking into. I just knew I couldn't walk away.
Not yet.
The dining hall felt like stepping into a painting I didn't belong in.
Polished floors. Crown-molded walls. Candles that didn't flicker when the wind moved. And a table longer than the bunkhouse latrine, set with fine plates and shining cutlery I didn't dare touch.
At the head of the table sat a woman who made me forget how to speak.
Lady Lovelace.
Her presence pressed on the room like a mountain. Her hair was coiled with impossible precision, and her hands rested on the table with the stillness of someone raised to control every gesture. Her face could have been carved from stone, but her eyes—sharp and dark—held no malice. Just judgment.
When she looked at me, I didn't feel hated. I felt weighed. Measured. As if she was quietly asking: Will you be worth the trouble my daughter's about to cause?
Ava swept past me, already halfway to her chair.
"This is Sorin," she said with the same casualness she might use for weather. "He was being cornered behind the bakery. Father said we'd feed him."
Lady Lovelace's gaze didn't shift from me. "Did he."
Her voice was like the table—polished, cool, steady.
"I'm not staying," I said quickly. "Just dinner. I'll leave after."
"Mm," she said, not quite dismissive. She glanced once at the damp cuffs of my sleeves, then returned to stillness. "Sit. End of the table."
I moved like the chair might bite me, careful to make no noise as I pulled it back. The cushion let out a sigh beneath my weight. I half expected the floor to reject me entirely.
"You'll ruin your appetite, Ava," Lady Lovelace said as a servant entered with trays.
"I'm half a head taller than last season," Ava replied with a smirk. "I need the energy."
"Not if you keep bringing home strays. They might start to follow you."
"I think they already do."
A faint quirk tugged at the corner of Lady Lovelace's mouth—there, then gone.
The food arrived in quiet waves. Roast meat with herbs. Warm bread and sweet butter. A green soup so smooth it felt like velvet. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to eat yet, but my stomach had opinions that outweighed manners.
I took small bites. Careful ones. Let the flavors bloom and fade before swallowing. I didn't want to appear greedy. Didn't want them to think I didn't know what real food tasted like—even if I didn't.
Ava ate like it was just another day. She passed me the salt. Nudged the bread basket my way without saying a word.
"You live near the rainworks tunnel?" she asked.
I nodded. "Bunkhouse twelve. The roof whistles when it rains."
Her eyes lit up. "It still does? I remember that."
"You've been there?"
"We delivered medicine last winter," she said. "You had a cough."
I stared. I remembered the delivery—boxes, clean linen wraps, glass bottles with wax seals. But I didn't remember her. Or maybe I hadn't dared to look at her long enough.
Lady Lovelace sipped her water. "And you never asked for more?"
"I didn't want to get anyone in trouble," I muttered.
For the first time, she addressed me directly.
"That shows more sense than most."
I wasn't sure if it was praise or warning.
After the meal, Ava pushed her chair back and looked to her mother.
"I'm taking him to the sitting room. Just until the rain lets up."
"He is not to go upstairs."
"He won't."
"And I expect him gone before bell-nine."
"Of course."
Lady Lovelace didn't argue. She just turned her head slightly, allowing the tiniest nod. Like she already knew how this would end.
The sitting room was warmer than anything I'd known. A fire glowed in the hearth, casting golden light over thick carpets and cushioned chairs. I moved slowly, still afraid I'd somehow knock over a lamp by breathing wrong.
Ava gestured to a chair near the fire. "Sit. You'll start shivering once you stop moving."
"I'm not staying," I said again, more to myself than her.
"You can leave whenever you want."
I sat stiffly on the edge of the cushion, keeping my hands in my lap. Ava curled onto the rug, her head tilted back toward the flames.
"How long have you been in the bunkhouses?" she asked softly.
"I was told I showed up when I was two. A wet nurse took me in."
"That's a long time."
I didn't reply.
Not because I didn't want to—but because I didn't want to start remembering.
The fire crackled. The warmth crept in. And slowly, without meaning to, I let my shoulders relax.
I didn't say anything when Ava brought me a blanket. Or when she tucked it around my sides like I was a child and not just a boy with bruises.
"I really will go after this," I said quietly.
"I know."
"I'm not staying the night."
"No one said you were."
But her voice had that look in it again—that knowing tone, like she was already imagining something else entirely.
I didn't hear the older woman enter.
She moved with the kind of quiet that belonged to old libraries and nighttime nurses. Her silver hair was braided in a crown around her head, and she wore a thick shawl over her shoulders patterned with stitched constellations.
"Well now," she said, clasping her hands. "Who's this little puddle?"
Ava looked up. "Gran. This is Sorin. He's just staying until the rain lets up."
"Mm. Rain's tricky like that," Gran said, stepping closer. "Comes in, settles, takes its time. Just like tired boys with full bellies."
I tried to sit up straighter, but she waved me down with a kind smile.
"No need to look guilty, love. You've earned the fire tonight."
"I'm leaving after this," I mumbled again.
She gave a light, airy laugh. "Of course you are. But first, let the fire work its way into your bones. That's how it gets the stories out."
"The stories?" I asked.
She tapped her temple. "Every boy with a bruise has one. And every boy who falls asleep in front of this fire ends up telling it—eventually."
I didn't plan to tell her anything.
Didn't plan to fall asleep, either.
But my eyes were heavy. My ribs no longer ached. The blanket was too warm. The room too quiet.
I rested my head back against the chair.
Just for a second.
Just until the rain stopped.
I woke hours later to the sound of soft voices and the scent of cinnamon tea.
Someone had placed another blanket over my legs. A tray of warm milk and bread sat untouched nearby. Ava was curled up in the armchair opposite mine, half-asleep herself.
Gran stood by the fire, humming tunelessly as she poked at the logs.
"He's out like a snuffed lamp," she whispered with a grin. "Told you."
"I know," Ava murmured without opening her eyes. "I told him too."
Gran chuckled. "I do love it when I'm right."