The market of Humreet didn't believe in bedtime.
Even after the sun dipped below the horizon and shadows stretched long across the cobblestones, the place still pulsed with life like a restless beast. Lanterns hung from poles and windows alike, glowing in warm orange halos that fought against the encroaching dark. Merchants barked their final sales of the day with throats hoarse from shouting, desperate to make just one more coin before closing shop. Ale sloshed from mugs as drunkards staggered out of taverns, and sizzling skewers sent the smell of grilled meat weaving through the air like invisible hands trying to drag me closer.
If Humreet had a lullaby, it was clamor, sweat, and smoke.
I should've been heading back to the little inn where I'd rented a bed, thinking about the herbs tucked safely into my bag..., the whole reason I came here. But instead, my eyes kept drifting toward the alleys and rooftops, scanning every shadow like some paranoid guard dog.
That boy.
The ragged thief who'd slipped free from the shopkeepers earlier. He'd bolted the second he was loose, a blur of skinny arms and dirty hair. Yet his glare..., equal parts fear and defiance..., stuck in my mind like a splinter.
I'd seen that look before.
It was the exact same one I used to wear, back when I thought the world had written me off. Before Grandpa pulled me out of that pit and reminded me that people could choose kindness.
I tightened my grip on my satchel. "Damn it," I muttered, shaking my head. "Why am I like this?"
Grandpa would've laughed himself silly if he saw me now. Me, willingly running into trouble instead of avoiding it. He'd clap my shoulder and say, 'You're soft, kid. Soft like butter. The wolves are gonna eat you alive.'
Well, maybe. But sometimes butter sticks to the pan.
I turned into a dim alley, hoping my instincts weren't wasting my time. At first, nothing, just a stack of crates, a pile of broken barrels, and the sour smell of old ale. Then, faintly, a scuffle.
Above me.
I looked up just in time to see a shadow vault from one rooftop to another, ragged clothes fluttering like torn banners.
My jaw dropped. "Seriously? Roof hopping? Who even does that?"
Apparently, him.
I bolted, weaving through a crowd of late-night shoppers. The boy glanced back once, caught me staring, and... unbelievably..., smirked. Then he picked up the pace, like I was the best entertainment he'd had all week.
"Catch me if you can, shop boy!" His mocking voice floated down, tinged with laughter.
"Oh, I'll catch you, rat," I muttered, shoving past a pair of drunkards arguing about the price of onions.
And so began the great chase of Humreet.
Every time I thought I had him, he slipped away. Through gaps in the wall I was too broad to squeeze into, across fences I had no business climbing, vanishing into crowds like smoke in the wind. At one point, I swore I had him when he darted into a dead-end alley. My grin practically split my face.
"Got you now," I muttered, advancing slowly.
Then—crash!
A crate toppled from above. I barely threw myself into a roll before it smashed on the cobblestones, sending splinters flying.
"Oops," he called down, voice dripping with fake innocence. "Didn't see you there."
"You little—!" I scrambled upright, glaring at him. "That could've killed me!"
"Relax, shop boy. You're alive, aren't you?" He grinned, flashing more teeth than a street cat before vanishing again.
By the time the moon had climbed high over the city, my lungs felt like they'd been scrubbed with sandpaper. My legs wobbled, and my shirt clung to my back with sweat. Still, I pressed on. Stubbornness: one of the few things I had in abundance.
Finally, I spotted him again, sitting on the edge of a rooftop like it was his personal throne. He chewed on something he must've stolen, swinging his skinny legs and looking completely at ease, like he hadn't just dragged me on the world's longest game of tag.
"You don't give up, do you?" he asked, not even glancing my way.
"Not really my style." I leaned against a stack of crates, trying to pretend my lungs weren't screaming for mercy. "You're fast, you know that?"
He shrugged without pride. "Better be. Slow kids don't survive long in Humreet."
The way he said it..., it was almost casual. But I caught the steel under the words, the hard truth most people pretended didn't exist.
"I wasn't kidding earlier," I said, lowering my voice. "About the food. The bed. The family."
He barked a laugh, sharp and short. "Family? You don't even know me."
"Maybe not." I tapped my chest. "But I know that look. The one that says you don't trust anyone. That you're tired of being treated like trash. I used to wear it every day."
That got him. His smirk faltered. His eyes narrowed, searching my face like he was trying to peel it open and see if I was lying.
"You talk too much," he muttered.
"Yeah. That's what my grandpa says too."
The corner of his mouth twitched, just barely. Then he hopped down from the rooftop, landing as light as a cat despite how thin he looked. He stood in front of me, sharp-eyed and tense, like a fox deciding whether to bolt or bite.
"Fine," he said. "I'll listen. But don't think this makes us friends. I don't do family, shop boy. Family gets you killed."
The words hit harder than I expected. For a second, I almost flinched. But I forced a crooked smile instead. "Then don't call it family. Call it… partnership. You help me, I help you."
He tilted his head, weighing me. "Partnership, huh?"
"Yeah. And maybe one day, when you're ready, we'll talk about the 'family' part."
He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath that might've been an insult. Then he shoved his hands into his ragged pockets and started walking past me.
"You're weird," he said flatly.
"Thanks. I get that a lot."
He didn't vanish this time. Didn't sprint away like the night itself had called him back. Instead, he just kept walking, slow and casual, as if the city belonged to him.
And that was enough for now.