The pie shop smelled like a warm hug, a mix of bubbling fruit and sweet, baked sugar that bled out into the chilly morning air. It was a scent so comforting it almost hurt, a stark contrast to the hollow ache in Alphonse's stomach. He stood across the alley, his eyes—so sharp and purple they seemed to glow—fixed on the woman behind the glass case. His fingers were already numb, but he ignored the cold's bite. All of his focus was on Shirley.
She had a smile that was all in her mouth, not quite reaching the pale blue of her eyes. Alphonse felt a familiar, tight knot in his stomach whenever she looked at him.
She reminds me of her, he thought, the memory of his mother's strict, unyielding gaze flashing in his mind—the look that had haunted him since he'd been left alone. His body tensed, a reflex he couldn't seem to break, ready to disappear into the shadows at a moment's notice.
"Here you go, little one," Shirley said, her voice a gentle murmur.
"That's for helping with the delivery."
Alphonse's hands, thin but sturdy, trembled as he took the cloth. The very act of taking something from someone else felt unnatural, almost forbidden. He unfolded it slowly, revealing three gleaming silver coins. The sight of them made his heart seize in his chest.
Three! he thought in a flash of pure panic. That's a fortune. Too much.
A jolt, as cold and sharp as an ice shard, shot through him. The weight of the coins in his palm felt like a stone, a burden he couldn't carry. He quickly shoved them into his pocket, the cool metal pressing hard against his thigh. He hated this feeling. The fear wasn't about the money itself; it was the echo of a life he'd been ripped from, a past where money meant danger and separation.
He mumbled a hurried "thank you," his gaze darting to the alley's mouth, a desperate need to escape swelling in his chest. He didn't want to be seen with this fortune. As he slipped away, his fist clenched tight inside his pocket, a faint, almost invisible wisp of shadow flickered from his knuckles and dissipated. It was an unconscious reflex, a leftover nervous tic from years of needing to be unseen. This quiet skill of the darkness, honed from a life on the run, was all he had. But he knew, in his bones, that it came with a heavy, solitary price.
Alphonse moved quickly, a shadow among the other morning shadows. His worn leather boots made no sound as he navigated the narrow, winding alleys that were his home. He kept his head down, the hood of his tattered coat pulled low, his eyes scanning every nook and cranny. The sun was rising, casting long, stark beams of light between the buildings, and he hated it. The light felt like an accusation, like it was trying to expose the secret he carried in his pocket and the greater secrets he carried in his heart.
He felt the coins jingle with every step, a soft, mocking sound. He thought of all the things he could buy: a real meal, not just a scrap of bread; a new coat that didn't have holes in the elbows; a place to sleep that wasn't a damp corner behind a tavern. The thought of it made him sick. It was all a trap. The more he had, the more he had to lose. That was the first lesson he'd learned, etched into his bones by his years on the streets.
He passed the main street, where the sound of the world rose into a dull roar—the clatter of carts, the calls of vendors, the hurried footsteps of people who had homes to go to. He didn't belong here, and the thought was a quiet ache in his chest. His destination was in the quieter part of town, down by the old, smoke-stained brick buildings near the river.
As he turned the final corner, the scent of charcoal and sizzling meat reached him, a smell that felt like coming home. Nestor's small, mobile grill stand was parked in its usual spot beside a rusted lamppost. The old man, hairless on top with a massive, startlingly white beard, stood over a sputtering flame. Despite the sinister look that the shadow cast on his face, his eyes held a familiar, comforting warmth.
"Morning, kid," Nestor grunted, his voice a low rumble. He didn't look up, just flipped a sausage with a practiced hand. "You're a bit late. Almost thought you got yourself caught by the Watch."
Alphonse's shoulders, which had been tight with tension, relaxed just a little. He's worried, he thought, and the small flicker of care was like a balm on his raw nerves. He walked over to the stand and leaned against the wooden cart, his eyes finally able to look at something without a sense of threat. The flames danced in the dark metal of the grill, and for a moment, he felt a sense of peace.
"Delivery took longer than expected," Alphonse said, keeping his voice low.
"Yeah? Shirley try to give you too much pie again?" Nestor chuckled, a deep, raspy sound. He had a way of knowing things without being told.
He knows, Alphonse thought, and his hand instinctively went to the coins in his pocket. He always knows. He didn't say anything, just watched the smoke curl into the air. Nestor didn't push it, either. That was the best thing about him. He didn't pry; he just waited.
The old man finally looked at him, his gaze surprisingly gentle. "You hungry? Got some leftover sausage."
Alphonse's stomach gave a loud, embarrassing growl. "Yes," he said, and the single word was filled with a gratitude he couldn't quite voice.
Nestor, without another word, took a knife and deftly sliced a large sausage from the grill. It was a perfect, dark-brown tube of sizzling meat, the smell alone enough to make Alphonse's mouth water. The old man placed it on a small, worn wooden plate, grabbed a charred bun, and pushed the whole thing into Alphonse's hands.
Alphonse took a bite, and the world seemed to fade away. The taste of the sausage—smoky, savory, and rich with spices—was a pure, physical joy that he rarely allowed himself. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the meat and the soft bread spread through his body. It was more than just food; it was an act of kindness, a reminder that he wasn't completely alone.
He ate quickly, almost desperately, but with a quiet, focused intensity. He didn't notice the way Nestor watched him, his own face unreadable. He felt a deep comfort here, a sense of safety he didn't find anywhere else. With Nestor, he didn't have to be a shadow; he could just be Alphonse.
When he finished, he licked his fingers clean and looked up at Nestor. The old man was flipping another sausage, his expression still unreadable.
"She gave me three silver," Alphonse said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. His hand went back to his pocket, the coins a heavy weight against his palm.
Nestor hummed, a low sound from deep in his chest. "Three, huh? That's quite a lot for a simple delivery."
"I told her it was too much," Alphonse said, his voice a tight whisper. "I tried to give it back."
Nestor stopped flipping the sausage and finally looked at him, his wise, gentle eyes holding his gaze. "And what did she say?"
Alphonse shrugged, his shoulders hunching slightly. "She just smiled and told me to be careful with it."
A small, genuine smile touched the corners of Nestor's beard. It was a rare sight, and it made Alphonse feel a little lighter.
"Sounds like a woman who knows a thing or two," Nestor said.
"I don't know what to do with it." Alphonse pulled the coins from his pocket and laid them on the grimy surface of the cart. They seemed to glow in the morning light, a dangerous, tempting treasure. "It's… too much."
It's a trap, he thought, the words a silent scream in his mind. It's going to get me killed.
Nestor picked up a coin, turning it over between his calloused fingers. "You're not good with money, kid. I know." He said it without judgment, just a simple, honest observation. He then put the coins back on the cart. "But you're a good kid. So you're gonna use this money to buy some new clothes. That coat you got is falling apart."
"I don't need new clothes," Alphonse said automatically, his mind already spinning with excuses. "I'm fine with this."
Nestor shook his head. "Look at you. You're getting bigger. You're growing like a weed. This old thing ain't going to fit you much longer anyway. Now, take it and go. Get something warm."
Alphonse stared at the three coins, the light reflecting off their surface. They were a problem. A burden. But for the first time in a long time, the burden was one of care, not fear.
Nestor's words, a mix of command and quiet affection, settled over Alphonse like a heavy blanket. The old man was right, of course. The coat was a mess of frayed threads and patched holes. It was less a piece of clothing and more a silent testament to every cold night and every desperate day.
He wanted to argue. He wanted to push the coins back into Nestor's hand, to say he didn't need anything, that he was fine. But a part of him, a deeply buried, hungry part, yearned for the simple comfort of a new coat. Something warm, something that didn't smell like rain and alleyways.
"What's a kid like you going to do with three silver?" Nestor asked, his voice low. He didn't look at Alphonse as he spoke, his attention focused on the sausages. "Got any plans?"
Alphonse hesitated. He thought about the coins in his pocket, a silent, heavy weight. "I… don't know," he mumbled. The lie felt like a stone on his tongue. He did have a plan, a terrible, frightening plan. He was going to give the coins away, find the first person who looked like they needed them more than he did, and make the problem disappear.
He'll be disappointed if he knows the truth, Alphonse thought, a new kind of shame twisting in his stomach. He'll think I'm ungrateful.
Nestor chuckled, a short, raspy sound. "Don't think about it too hard. You're a kid. You're supposed to be thinking about what you're gonna eat for dinner, not what to do with a fortune."
"I... I have other things to think about," Alphonse said, the words coming out in a rush. He couldn't keep the truth in, the need to confide in his father-figure overwhelming him. "Konan wants to teach me. He says I'm… getting better at controlling the shadows. He says if I practice, I can become a full-fledged 'shadow master'."
Nestor's face went completely still, a rarity for the old man. The sizzling of the sausage was the only sound for a moment. He turned from the grill, his gentle gaze now filled with a deep, weary sadness. "Konan's teaching you?"
"Yeah," Alphonse said, his voice a whisper. "He says I have a knack for it. He even taught me how to control a bit of electricity."
"A knack for it," Nestor repeated, the words tasting bitter. He turned back to his grill, his large, scarred hands working the sausages with a renewed, almost violent energy. "You stay away from that. Those blessings... they ain't a game, kid. They come from the gods. And the gods always want something in return."
Alphonse frowned. What does he mean? "But Konan said it's just a talent. He said it's a part of me."
"It's a part of you that will get you killed," Nestor said, his voice so low and full of warning it sent a shiver down Alphonse's spine. "Don't listen to him. You're a good kid. You're a survivor. That's all you need to be."
The words hung in the air between them, thick with an unspoken fear. Nestor had never talked this way before. He had always been the steady, unshakable foundation. Now, even he seemed to be afraid. Alphonse's heart pounded in his chest, a drumbeat of sudden, cold dread. He looked at Nestor, at the hunched shoulders and the tense set of his jaw, and for the first time, he saw not a father, but a frightened man. And that was the most terrifying thing of all.
The silence that followed was heavier than any words could have been. It hung between them, a thick, suffocating wall of unspoken fear. Alphonse, for the first time in his life, saw the man who had been his shelter and his guide as something fragile and frightened. It was a terrifying revelation.
He's scared of something, Alphonse thought, a cold knot forming in his stomach. He's scared of what I can do.
He wanted to ask more, to demand what Nestor meant by a "gods wanting something in return," but he couldn't. The moment had passed. The old man was back to his grill, his motions deliberate and slow, as if he were trying to hide the tremor in his hands.
"I have to go," Alphonse said, his voice flat. He didn't wait for a response. He simply turned and walked away, the three coins in his pocket feeling heavier than ever. He wasn't walking towards a specific destination; he was just walking away from the fear on Nestor's face, a fear he didn't know how to handle.
He found himself in the bustling marketplace, a place he usually avoided. He felt a sense of vertigo as he looked at the sheer volume of people, the noise, the smells of spices and bread and raw meat. It was overwhelming, but it was also a distraction. He didn't want to think about Nestor's warning. He didn't want to think about his Blessing.
His eyes fell on a young boy, no older than seven, sitting against a wall, his face thin and pale. He was shivering in a tattered coat that was even worse than Alphonse's. The boy's eyes, wide and vacant, stared at the food stalls.
And in that moment, Alphonse made a decision. He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the silver coins. He walked over to the boy, his heart pounding in his ears, and knelt down.
"Here," he said, his voice soft. He placed the coin in the boy's hand. The boy's eyes went wide, and his trembling hand closed around the coin as if it were a rare and precious jewel.
"Thank you," the boy whispered, the word a reverent sound.
Alphonse didn't say anything. He just nodded and stood up, the other two coins in his pocket feeling a little lighter. He still felt a sense of fear and unease, but it was mixed with something new: a faint, fragile sense of purpose.
He walked out of the marketplace, his mind reeling. He had given away a fortune. He had disobeyed Nestor. He had chosen to be seen. He didn't know if he had done the right thing, or if he had just made a terrible mistake. But as he looked up at the sky, a single, dark cloud passed over the sun, and for a moment, his shadow disappeared completely. And as the light returned, so did a strange, new power, humming in his veins.
What are you, my Blessing? he thought, his purple eyes fixed on the sky. What do you want from me?