Vallur never slept. At dawn, its harbor roared alive—the crashing of waves against ships, the shrill cries of gulls fighting for scraps, the barked orders of captains unloading cargo. The city was a beast of salt and steel, feeding on trade and crime alike. Spices from the east, weapons from the north, silks from faraway kingdoms—all flowed through Vallur's docks, and with them came thieves, smugglers, and killers who ruled the alleys like kings.
Arjun walked among them as a shadow. Barefoot, in ragged clothes, his ribs showing through his skin, he moved quickly through the crowds with a basket slung on his shoulder. At ten years old, he was smaller than most boys, but his eyes gave him weight—hard, unflinching, always watching.
He ran errands for merchants when they would hire him, carrying messages, delivering small packages, sweeping shop floors. Payment was often a stale loaf or a copper coin, sometimes nothing at all. The city did not reward kindness, but Arjun had learned to take what he needed. If a merchant looked away too long, bread vanished from a counter. If a drunk sailor staggered into an alley, his pouch was lighter by morning.
The streets taught him quickly. To be small was to be prey. The gangs that ruled Vallur had no mercy for beggars, and even less for orphans. Children were beaten, stolen from, sometimes sold to brothels or workhouses. Arjun survived by fighting like a rat—biting, clawing, never letting go.
That evening, he found himself cutting through the Fish Market, where the stink of brine and rot made even seasoned sailors gag. Merchants shouted prices over the buzz of flies; fish heads stared lifelessly from bloodstained tables. Arjun darted past, his basket swinging, when a group of older boys stepped into his path.
There were three of them, taller, broader, their faces scarred by street brawls. They were known in the alleys—thieves who worked under a small gang boss.
"Where you running, rat?" the tallest sneered, blocking Arjun's way. His teeth were yellow, his eyes hungry. "What's in the basket?"
Arjun's grip tightened. "Nothing for you."
The second boy laughed and shoved him. "Bold little bastard, isn't he? Let's see if he squeals."
They lunged. Arjun twisted, slamming his basket into one boy's face, then bolted. But the alleys of Vallur were a hunter's maze; within moments, he was cornered between two stalls.
The boys advanced, knives glinting. "Should've run faster," the tall one said.
Arjun's breath came fast, but his eyes remained cold. He had fought before, but never outnumbered like this. His mind raced—every detail mattered. A pile of broken crates lay nearby, nails jutting from the wood. He seized one, gripping it like a club.
The first blow came fast. A knife slashed for his chest. Arjun swung the crate wood upward, the nail raking across his attacker's cheek. The boy screamed, clutching his bleeding face.
The others hesitated a moment too long. Arjun lunged, jamming the wood into the second boy's stomach. The third grabbed his arm, but Arjun sank his teeth into the boy's wrist until blood flowed.
A roar filled his ears—rage, hunger, the promise he had made to his mother. He struck again and again until the second boy collapsed, coughing blood, the nail gouging his side. The others fled, shouting curses, but none dared return.
Arjun stood over his fallen attacker, chest heaving. His hands trembled, sticky with blood, but there were no tears in his eyes. The market crowd had gathered at a distance, murmuring. Some looked away, others nodded with a strange respect. Few children fought like wolves.
And among the crowd, one man watched with more interest than the rest.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a trimmed beard and a gold earring. His clothes were plain but clean, and his eyes held the sharpness of a predator. This was Ratan, a smuggler who moved weapons and contraband through Vallur's docks.
Ratan leaned against a post, arms folded, studying the boy. Where others saw a street rat, he saw something else: hunger sharpened into a blade.
When the crowd dispersed, Arjun picked up his basket, his face unreadable. He turned to leave, but Ratan stepped into his path.
"You fight like a cornered wolf," the smuggler said.
Arjun froze. His instinct was to flee, but something in Ratan's tone held him still. It was not mockery, nor pity. It was… respect.
"You've got fire in you," Ratan continued, his voice low. "Most rats in Vallur squeal when caught. You bite. That's rare."
Arjun said nothing. His eyes narrowed, weighing the man.
Ratan chuckled. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not here to rob you. I'm here to offer you something better."
The boy tilted his head. "Better?"
Ratan gestured toward the docks, where ships' lanterns flickered in the dusk. "The streets will chew you up, boy. Gangs, merchants, guards—they'll bleed you dry. But men like me… we make our own rules. We take what we want. Gold, food, power. And we don't answer to anyone."
His words struck a chord. They echoed the vow Arjun had whispered at his mother's grave.
"Think about it," Ratan said, stepping aside. "You've got the eyes of a wolf. If you want to survive, you'll need a pack."
He tossed a silver coin at Arjun's feet and walked away into the crowd.
Arjun stared at the coin, shining against the dirt. Slowly, he bent, picked it up, and clenched it in his fist.
For the first time in days, his stomach would be full tonight.
But more importantly, a seed had been planted.
That night, Arjun sat in the shadows of his hut, turning the coin over in his hands. The memory of the fight still burned in his muscles—the fear, the rage, the rush when the older boys fled. Respect. For the first time, people had looked at him differently, not as prey but as something dangerous.
He thought of his mother's words: The world only bows to power.
Perhaps this was what she had meant. Fear was power. Respect was power.
The silver coin glittered in the moonlight, and with it, the first steps of a new path.
Arjun was no longer just surviving.
He was beginning to rise.