He didn't remember walking back into the market—only the heat of Kael's stare burning into his spine long after they parted.
The stalls felt different now. Brighter, sharper. He wasn't invisible anymore. People looked twice when he passed. Some glanced at the pouch on his belt. Others studied his face, as if weighing how much he was worth alive—or dead.
He hated it.
A merchant leaned across his stall, grinning with yellowed teeth. "Care for a gamble, boy? Half-price coin. Could be strength, could be madness."
"Pass." His voice came out low, almost growled.
The grin didn't falter. "You'll be back. They all come back."
He moved on, pulse quickening. The more Kael shoved him forward, the more the market smelled of traps. Everyone smiling too wide, every offer a noose.
At the edge of the row, he spotted her—the little girl, perched behind her tray as usual. Same dull eyes. Same stale bread.
But this time, she wasn't alone. Two robed men hovered nearby, whispering low, their hands twitching toward her coins.
Something in his chest snapped. Before he could think, his feet carried him closer.
"What's the problem here?" His voice cut harder than intended.
The taller man sneered. "None of your business, stray."
The girl didn't move, didn't speak, just kept chewing. Her eyes, though, flicked to him—quick, sharp, as if testing what he'd do.
His dagger felt heavier at his side. He wasn't sure if it was instinct or exhaustion, but he stepped closer anyway. "I'm making it my business."
The two men froze, studied him, then muttered something under their breath before slinking back into the crowd.
The boy let out a slow breath, unclenching his fist from the dagger's hilt.
The girl tore another bite from her bread, finally speaking. "You're getting reckless."
He scowled. "You're welcome."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Hunters who protect are still hunters. Don't forget that."
He walked away before she could cut deeper. Her words still followed him, like knives tucked between his ribs.
That night, Kael led him deeper than ever before. Past the torches, past the half-lit caverns where husks wandered. The air grew colder, thick with damp and the copper tang of old blood.
"Tonight," Kael said, his smirk faint under the hood, "you hunt without my hand on your back."
The boy gripped his dagger tighter. "So what? You'll just watch me drown?"
Kael chuckled. "If you drown, you were never worth teaching."
They emerged into a cavern where the ceiling stretched high, jagged with stalactites. At the center, a campfire burned low. Four figures sat around it, armored, armed, coins glinting faintly at their belts. Not husks. Not beggars. Hunters.
The boy's mouth went dry. "Four? You're insane."
Kael's eyes gleamed. "Lesson twelve. The market doesn't care about fair fights."
Then he stepped back, melting into shadow, leaving the boy standing alone at the edge of the firelight.
The hunters looked up. Silence fell heavy. One of them rose, cracking his neck, blade glinting red in the fire's glow.
The boy's pulse roared. His instincts screamed to run. His body refused to move.
Four against one. I can't win. I shouldn't even try.
But Kael's voice echoed in his skull—prey dies, predators live.
The first hunter stepped forward. The boy drew steel. His grip didn't shake this time.
And when the clash came, it was steel on steel, blood on stone, and survival screaming louder than fear.
The first hunter lunged. His blade came fast, practiced, but the boy's dagger rose in time—steel grinding against steel, sparks leaping into the firelight. The impact rattled his bones, but his stance held.
Another came from the side. Reflex kicked in. He twisted, parried, slashed low. Pain exploded up his arm when his dagger bit flesh. A scream tore through the cavern.
The fight blurred into chaos. Four against one. Blades flashing, boots skidding on wet stone, breath burning in his chest.
He ducked a swing, rammed his shoulder into a man's ribs, and drove steel into his gut. Hot blood sprayed across his face. The man collapsed, choking on his last breath.
Three left.
Every movement came too fast to think, too instinctive to be his own. The coins burned in his pouch, the stolen reflexes guiding his body. Step, pivot, slash, parry. Over and over, like a rhythm he'd never learned but somehow couldn't forget.
A blade nicked his cheek. Another cut grazed his arm. He gritted his teeth, tasting iron, forcing his body forward.
When the second man dropped, throat slashed open, the cavern fell silent except for the ragged hiss of his breath.
Two lay dead. Two remained.
The survivors exchanged a look—then retreated into shadow, leaving their fallen behind.
The boy staggered, chest heaving, dagger dripping red. His knees trembled, threatening to buckle. But he was still standing.
From the darkness, Kael's laugh echoed low and sharp. "Lesson twelve passed."
The boy spat blood to the stone. "Fuck your lessons."
But he was alive. And that was the only thing the market counted.
Back at the market, he barely remembered the walk. His head pounded, his body screamed, his pouch clinked heavier with every step.
Kael trailed beside him, smug as ever. "Four hunters against one. And you're still breathing. You should be proud."
"Proud?" His laugh was raw, bitter. "I'm covered in blood that isn't mine. And you want me to be proud?"
Kael shrugged, unconcerned. "Blood's just a price tag. You paid it, and now you're worth more."
The boy stopped, glaring. "Is that all this is? Turning people into coins?"
Kael's smirk sharpened. "Exactly. Took you long enough."
He wanted to hit him, scream, anything. Instead, he walked away, fists clenched, the weight of the coins dragging him down.
At the little girl's stall, she looked up as he approached. Her gaze lingered on the blood crusted in his hair, the cuts across his arms.
"You survived again," she said softly.
"Barely," he muttered.
Her eyes didn't soften, but something flickered there—recognition, maybe pity. She tore her bread in half and pushed a piece toward him.
He took it, hands shaking. For a moment, the noise of the market dulled. Just him, the girl, and the taste of stale bread cutting through the iron still on his tongue.
But when he glanced down at his pouch, glowing faintly with stolen lives, the silence shattered.
Empty victories. That's all they were.