Sleep didn't come that night either. The boy lay on the cold stone floor, staring at the crooked mirror on the wall, watching the flicker of lanternlight play across a face that still didn't look like his.
Hollow eyes. Scarred brow. Burn marks like chains. And that damn pouch at his hip, heavier than his ribs could bear.
Every time it clinked, he thought of the collector's smile. That serene, bliss-drunk face, frozen forever because of him.
He turned away from the mirror, squeezing his eyes shut. His stomach growled—sharp, ugly, unignorable.
"Great," he muttered. "Killer of men, terror of hunters, still slave to hunger like a stray dog."
The pouch clinked again when he shifted. Coins, memories, power—none of it edible. None of it human.
Dragging himself upright, he staggered to the stalls.
The market looked different in the half-light of dawn. Fewer buyers, fewer merchants shouting, just the desperate and the tired lingering like ghosts. The smell of incense couldn't cover the stench of sweat and rot.
At the girl's stall, she was already awake. Of course she was. Always awake, always chewing stale bread as if sleep was a luxury reserved for people with real names.
"Bread," he rasped, sliding a coin onto the tray.
She pushed the loaf toward him, chewing slowly. Her eyes flicked to his pouch, then back to his face. "You're eating more now."
"Guess killing burns calories," he said dryly, tearing into the loaf.
Her gaze lingered. "Or maybe you're filling a hole nothing can fix."
He almost choked. "You always this cheerful in the morning?"
She shrugged, as if the weight of her words meant nothing. "You'll see."
He didn't ask what she meant. Didn't want to know. The bread turned to ash in his mouth anyway.
Kael didn't meet him at the gate this time. That should've been a relief, but instead it set his nerves on edge. Kael always appeared. Kael always pushed.
Which meant if Kael wasn't here, he was planning something.
The boy lingered near the torch line, half-hoping the bastard would never show again. Maybe he'd vanish into shadow and stay there.
But Kael didn't vanish. He arrived late, dragging two other hunters behind him. Both older, scarred, carrying themselves with the easy weight of killers.
Kael's grin was sharp as a blade. "Lesson fifteen. A pack hunts better than a lone hound."
The boy's stomach sank. "So now I'm supposed to play nice with your pets?"
One of the men snorted. "Pets bite, stray. Careful where you bare your teeth."
Kael raised a hand, silencing the exchange. "You'll learn. Alone, you scrape by. Together, you carve deeper." His eyes glinted. "Tonight, we carve."
The boy wanted to spit, to turn and walk the other way. But Kael's gaze pinned him like a knife through flesh. And beneath the weight of that look, the pouch at his hip felt like a shackle.
He followed.
As the four of them slipped into the tunnels, he couldn't help muttering under his breath. "Congratulations, nameless idiot. You're officially part of a hunting pack. Next step: wagging tail."
Kael glanced back, smirk twisting wider. "What was that?"
"Nothing," he said quickly. But inside, the sarcasm burned hotter than the torches.
The tunnels smelled worse when you traveled in a group. Sweat, leather, unwashed bodies. At least alone, he only had to choke on his own stink.
The two hunters Kael dragged along walked like they owned the stone. Heavy boots, easy shoulders, hands never far from their blades. They didn't bother looking at him except to sneer, which was probably their version of friendship.
Kael led from the front, cloak brushing the ground like a wolf's tail. His voice carried back, smooth and practiced. "A pack doesn't ask permission. A pack doesn't argue. You see prey, you strike. Simple."
The boy rolled his eyes. "And if the pack decides I'm the prey?"
One of the hunters chuckled low. "Then you die fast."
"Comforting," he muttered.
But when the first fight came, there wasn't time to argue. Shadows burst from the rocks—bandits, half-starved, clutching rusted blades. Desperate eyes.
The pack moved without hesitation. Kael cut through the first like slicing fruit. The other two flanked, blades flashing.
And him? He found himself falling into their rhythm. Step where they stepped, strike when they struck. His dagger darted past a bandit's guard, slitting a throat before the man even finished screaming.
It was like dancing—bloody, frantic, and somehow terrifyingly natural.
When the last bandit dropped, Kael's smirk gleamed through the dark. "See? Alone you stagger. With a pack, you flow."
The boy wiped blood from his face, chest heaving. Flow, huh. He didn't like how right Kael sounded.
They hauled the coins from the corpses—fear, hunger, a few combat scraps not worth much. Kael pocketed the best without blinking, tossing the rest toward the boy.
One of the older hunters scowled. "Why feed the stray?"
Kael's eyes glinted. "Because even a stray has teeth. And I like mine sharp."
The boy caught the coins, fingers tightening around the cold metal. He should've thrown them back. Should've told Kael to choke on his lessons. Instead, he slipped them into the pouch at his hip.
Because survival. Always because survival.
On the walk back, the hunters muttered behind him. Not words he could catch, just tones—mocking, distrusting. He didn't need the details. He knew the look of men waiting for a moment to slip a knife into someone's spine.
At the market gates, Kael clapped his shoulder like a master proud of his dog. "Lesson sixteen. Trust the pack—until they turn. Then bite first."
The boy forced a tight smile. "Nice motivational speech. Very heartwarming."
Kael laughed, the sound low and sharp. The others didn't laugh. Their stares lingered, heavy as stones.
That night, back in his room, he sat against the mirror and stared at his reflection again.
A pack. A leash. A pouch full of blood and memories that weren't his.
The boy pressed his forehead to the cold glass, whispering to no one:
"Whose side am I even on?"