The northern winds bit sharper than those of Vallur, carrying the sting of dust and stone. Arjun had left the salt stink of the harbor behind, but poverty followed him like a shadow. The mountain roads were lined with caravans, merchants guarded by hired blades, and ragged laborers hoping for work in villages that dotted the foothills.
Arjun moved among them, unnoticed, his rough clothes and hardened gaze blending him into the stream of the desperate. He asked no favors, sought no pity. Every step north was driven by the vow carved into his chest: to rise, to seize, to conquer.
By the time he returned to Vallur months later, he was no longer a boy scraping coins. He was leaner, stronger, and had learned the patience of a predator. He had worked fields, carried stone in quarries, fought in tavern pits for bread. He had gathered whispers of the mountains, the Patils, the mines. And though he had seen nothing with his own eyes yet, he knew the truth lay north—gold hidden like fire beneath rock.
But before he could reach for it, he needed allies. And in Vallur, there was only one man who had ever looked at him with respect rather than contempt.
Ratan.
The smuggler's dockside warehouse was lit by lanterns when Arjun found it again. Men moved in and out carrying crates, their shadows long against the damp stone. The air smelled of tar and gunpowder.
Arjun approached cautiously, watching. A pair of guards stepped forward, blocking his way. "What do you want, rat?" one growled.
"I'm here for Ratan," Arjun said, his voice steady.
The guards laughed, but before they could shove him away, a familiar voice cut through the night.
"Let him in."
Ratan emerged from the shadows, his broad frame unmistakable. He wore a leather vest, a curved dagger at his belt, and eyes sharp as ever. He studied Arjun for a moment, then smiled faintly.
"I wondered when you'd come knocking," Ratan said. "Didn't expect it to take this long."
"I had to learn," Arjun replied simply.
The smuggler chuckled. "Learning is good. But Vallur doesn't wait. It chews slow learners to pieces."
"I'm not here to be chewed," Arjun said.
Ratan's grin widened. "Good answer. Come inside."
The warehouse was a hive of activity. Men packed crates of iron rods, blades, sacks of powder. Others counted coins at a table, their eyes wary. Ratan led Arjun through, speaking as they walked.
"This is my world, boy. Weapons, contraband, anything the city forbids or taxes too heavily—we move it. The docks are ours at night. Politicians look away if their pockets stay full. But it's a dangerous game. Rival gangs, corrupt guards, even the sea itself—every day threatens to sink us."
He stopped before a stack of crates and faced Arjun. "If you want in, you'll start as all do—an errand boy. Running messages, carrying loads, watching doors. You'll be spat on, cursed, maybe cut. But if you live, you'll rise."
Arjun nodded without hesitation. "I'll do it."
Ratan's eyes gleamed. "I knew you would."
Days turned into weeks. Arjun worked without complaint. He carried blades wrapped in cloth through the alleys, delivered bribes to guards, scrubbed blood from the warehouse floor after drunken fights. He ran until his legs burned, lifted until his back screamed, bled when rival thugs tested him.
But he never faltered.
He listened, observed, memorized. Which guards took bribes, which merchants cheated, which gangs fought among themselves. He noted how Ratan commanded respect—not through shouting, but through quiet certainty, a readiness to strike when crossed.
At night, Arjun returned to his hut, exhaustion crushing his body, but his mind alive. He thought of the mines, of gold buried in darkness. To reach it, he needed power. And this life, harsh as it was, was teaching him how to seize it.
One evening, Ratan summoned him. The smuggler sat at a table in a back room, maps and ledgers spread before him. A bottle of rum gleamed in lantern light.
"You've done well," Ratan said without looking up. "Most boys in your place don't last a week. They run, or they die. You've lasted months."
Arjun said nothing, waiting.
Ratan lifted his gaze. "Tell me, boy—why are you here? Don't give me some fool's answer about coin. There are easier ways to fill your belly than running knives through the docks."
Arjun's eyes hardened. "Coin won't be enough. I want more."
"More?" Ratan leaned back, amused. "Power? Respect?"
Arjun nodded once.
The smuggler studied him, then laughed softly. "I like you. Reminds me of myself when I was your age. Hungry. Dangerous. But hunger alone won't keep you alive. You'll need to learn when to strike and when to wait."
Arjun met his gaze. "Teach me."
The room fell silent for a moment. Then Ratan's smile faded into something sharper. "Very well. Tomorrow, you're not just carrying messages. You'll stand with us."
The test came faster than Arjun expected.
A rival gang had been cutting into Ratan's shipments, stealing crates before they reached the docks. Ratan planned a counterstrike—a message written in blood.
They gathered at midnight: a dozen men armed with iron rods and knives, faces wrapped in cloth. Arjun stood among them, weapon in hand for the first time. The weight of the rod felt heavy, but not foreign.
Ratan's voice was calm. "We don't run tonight. We don't hide. We take back what's ours. Leave one alive to spread the word. The rest—" He drew his thumb across his throat.
The men nodded, eyes gleaming. Arjun's chest tightened, but he showed no fear. He had promised his mother he would never beg, never bend. Tonight, that promise would be tested.
They struck a warehouse near the docks where the rival gang stored their spoils. The door splintered under their boots, and chaos erupted. Shouts, the clang of metal, the scream of splintered wood. Arjun swung his iron rod, blocking a blade, then drove it into a man's ribs. The man crumpled, gasping. Another lunged; Arjun smashed the rod across his face, teeth scattering like pebbles.
Blood sprayed, fists flew, the air filled with fury. Arjun fought like a cornered wolf, relentless. When the dust settled, the warehouse floor was slick with red. Only one rival remained alive, dragged out and tossed into the street.
Ratan looked over his men, then at Arjun. The boy's chest heaved, his rod dripping, but his eyes were steady.
"From errand boy to enforcer," Ratan declared. "He's one of us now."
The men cheered, their voices echoing through the alleys.
Arjun stood in the midst of them, silent, his heart pounding. He felt no guilt, no fear. Only a fierce rush—the taste of respect, of power.
But even as they celebrated, his thoughts drifted northward, to the mountains, to the gold whispered of in taverns. This life was a step, nothing more. He was learning, sharpening his claws.
The feast would come later.
That night, as Vallur slept uneasy under the rule of gangs, Arjun returned to his hut. He cleaned the blood from his arms, stared at his reflection in a cracked mirror. The boy who had once begged for scraps was gone.
In his place stood a wolf in the making.
And though his hands were stained, his eyes gleamed with a hunger the streets could not satisfy.