The streets of Revaz at night were unlike the polished avenues of the nobles. Here, the cobblestones were cracked, uneven, worn down by years of boots and bare feet alike. The lamps were dim, their glow soft and wavering, leaving shadows to pool in every corner. The air smelled of smoke and bread, of boiled herbs and roasted grains—the kind of food that filled bellies rather than impressed guests.
Yet for all the dimness and simplicity, the Commoner's Street was alive.
Children darted between the legs of their elders, laughter echoing faintly against the walls. A wooden flute whistled a simple tune, joined by the beat of a hand drum, and voices rose in unpolished harmony. Families sat close together on stools and overturned crates, sharing bowls of stew and torn bread. Even the poorest among them, dressed in patched tunics and faded skirts, wore smiles lit with the kind of joy that did not come from wealth but from survival.
Zuleika stood at the edge, her cloak pulled tight around her, hood shadowing her features. Her eyes softened as she took it all in—the warmth that thrived here, despite the Empire's iron hand pressing down on their backs. They find joy even in chains, she thought. Perhaps joy is rebellion itself.
A sudden tug at her wrist startled her. She turned sharply to find a girl—perhaps no older than fourteen—smiling up at her with dark eyes shining like stars in the lamplight. Her long black hair was tied in a rough braid, strands loose around her round face.
"Come!" the girl said, her voice bright. Without hesitation, she pulled Zuleika toward the gathering, her grip surprisingly firm for someone so small.
"I—wait—" Zuleika blinked, caught between resistance and amusement.
But the girl only grinned wider. "You shouldn't just stand there like a shadow. You'll miss the best part."
Before Zuleika knew it, she was seated on a rough bench among strangers, a wooden bowl pressed into her hands. Steam rose from it—simple grain porridge with scraps of root vegetables, humble but warm. The girl squeezed Zuleika's hand as though she belonged there, as though no cloak or polished accent could make her different from them.
Laughter swelled again around the fire. Someone poured weak ale into cups, someone else passed roasted corn wrapped in husks. The music continued, clumsy yet full of heart, and for a fleeting moment Zuleika allowed herself to smile—genuine, unguarded.
The girl sat beside her, digging into her own bowl. "You're not from here, are you?" she asked suddenly, her tone more curious than suspicious.
Zuleika hesitated, spoon hovering. "Why do you say that?"
"Your hands." The girl tilted her head, pointing with her spoon. "They're too clean. Too soft. No dirt in your nails." She grinned, gap-toothed but radiant. "And you talk funny."
Zuleika let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "You are very observant for your age."
The girl shrugged proudly. "You have to be, to live here." She ate another bite, then leaned closer, lowering her voice. "But don't worry. I won't tell."
That made Zuleika's smile fade just slightly. "Tell what?"
"That you don't belong here," the girl said simply, as though it were obvious. "If the guards knew, they'd drag you away. They don't let outsiders sit with us. Not unless you're noble—and nobles don't come here."
Zuleika stirred her food quietly. "And why is that, do you think?"
The girl's laughter dimmed, her gaze dropping to her bowl. Around them, the music played on, yet her voice cut through the cheer with a softness too heavy for her age.
"Because we're not supposed to be happy."
Zuleika's eyes narrowed. "Not supposed to?"
The girl nodded, her braid swaying. "The lords and guards say joy makes commoners lazy. That laughter makes us forget our place. So we can't gather like this in the daylight. We can't sing, or dance, or feast." Her hands tightened around the bowl. "But at night… when the palace sleeps… we steal a little joy back."
Zuleika's chest constricted. She looked around again—at the faces illuminated by firelight, their smiles fragile yet fierce, at the way they held one another close as if daring the darkness to steal them apart. She thought of her own people, of Eloisa and her brothers, free to laugh under the sun. And rage bloomed in her heart like a storm.
"How long has it been this way?" she asked, her voice low.
The girl shrugged, though her eyes were far older than her years. "As long as anyone remembers. My grandmother says it was the same when she was young. The nobles feast all day, every day. But us? We get one feast at midnight, if we're lucky."
Zuleika's spoon clinked softly against the bowl. Her fingers curled tight around the wood, steadying the fury threatening to rise to her lips. This is what they call order? This is Feltogora's pride? Shackling joy, rationing laughter like it were grain?
The girl looked up at her then, her smile returning, small but brave. "But still… we're happy tonight. Because we're alive. And as long as we can keep stealing nights like these, they'll never win."
Zuleika's throat tightened. She placed her spoon down, reaching out to brush the girl's braid gently. "You are strong," she whispered. "Stronger than you should ever have to be."
The girl tilted her head, puzzled. "That's just how life is."
"No," Zuleika said firmly, her eyes burning as she looked into the girl's black gaze. "That is how they made it. And one day… it will not be this way."
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them. Then the girl's lips curved again into a grin, youthful and unbreakable. "I'll hold you to that, stranger."
Zuleika smiled back, though deep in her heart, the weight of her promise settled like iron.
Zuleika thought the conversation might end there, the firelight flickering between them like a quiet shield. But the girl tilted her head, studying her with a spark of mischief.
"You never told me your name," she said.
Zuleika hesitated, her tongue caught between truth and disguise. At last, she offered softly, "Lei."
The girl grinned, as though pleased. "Lei. Hm. That suits you." She lifted her chin proudly. "I'm Aya."
Zuleika let the name linger on her tongue, smiling faintly. "Aya. Strong and simple. Just like you."
Aya beamed, though her cheeks reddened. "No one's ever called me strong before. Not really." She swung her legs beneath the bench. "Usually they just say I talk too much."
"Perhaps that is your strength," Zuleika replied gently. "Those who speak, who question—often they see truths that others cannot."
Aya's dark eyes gleamed at that, as though Zuleika had just given her a secret treasure. "Then maybe you're right. Maybe I am strong. Strong enough to survive here, at least." She glanced up at the smoky sky. "Though sometimes I wonder what it'd be like… to live where laughter isn't hidden. Where the sun doesn't burn joy away."
Zuleika's breath caught. "One day, Aya, you may yet know such a place."
Aya's expression softened, hope flickering across her young face. She studied Zuleika for a long moment, then leaned closer, whispering as though sharing a secret. "Will you come back tomorrow night, Lei? At midnight? Everyone gathers again. It's never the same twice—you should see it."
Zuleika looked at the girl, her small hands cradling the empty wooden bowl, her smile stubborn against the weight of her world. Her heart ached—caught between the role she bore and the promise tugging at her chest.
"Yes," she said finally, her voice warm and certain. "I'll come."
Aya's grin widened, bright enough to rival the firelight. She reached out, slipping her hand into Zuleika's with unthinking trust. "Good. Then tomorrow, Lei, you won't just be a shadow watching. You'll be one of us."
Zuleika squeezed her hand gently, and for the first time that night, she believed it.