The ache returned with teeth.
It gnawed at Lucien's stomach, a hollow clawing that felt louder than the city itself. He sat hunched on the edge of a crumbling step, fog curling around his boots like smoke, watching the endless tide of Duskbourne move past. Carriages rattled down the main street, horses stamping as drivers snapped reins. The shouts of vendors carried in the night, hawking the last of their goods before shutters closed.
But the noise was far away.
All Lucien could hear was the ache.
It had been gnawing for hours, growing sharper until even the whispers seemed to echo it.
Hollow… hollow… feed the hollow.
He pressed a hand against his coat, but there was nothing there. Only the stolen pouch he had long since emptied. No coins, no crumbs. The ache burned on.
Lucien closed his eyes. Hunger was familiar. He had ignored it before—days of emptiness, when sleep was the only escape. But now he noticed something different.
When he woke here—in this world of fog and cobblestone—his body mirrored the emptiness of the one he had left behind. Sleep did not erase hunger. Meaningless or not, the ache followed him.
That thought unsettled him more than the whispers.
His eyes opened again, catching the sway of coats and skirts, the bulges of coin pouches brushing past careless hands. The city never noticed him, never turned its gaze his way. Thin, forgettable, faceless.
That suited him.
Lucien rose and stepped into the stream of strangers.
---
The first pouch came easily. A merchant in a dark overcoat, distracted as he counted receipts, never felt the tug as Lucien's fingers brushed cloth and pulled away the weight of coin.
The second was harder. A woman in velvet gloves turned just as Lucien's hand slipped near. For a heartbeat their eyes met. Hers narrowed, suspicion flickering—then she brushed past, dismissing him as a nobody. Lucien kept walking, his pulse steady, the pouch hidden up his sleeve.
The third nearly broke his luck.
A sailor, thick-shouldered, staggered from a tavern door reeking of ale. Lucien brushed too close, fingers slipping toward the man's belt. The sailor turned with a grunt, hand clamping down on Lucien's wrist.
Lucien's stomach lurched, but his expression stayed still. His gray eyes met the man's drunken glare.
"What're you—" the sailor began, words slurred.
Lucien twisted his wrist sharply, letting the coins clink just enough for the sailor to notice. Then he dropped them deliberately onto the cobblestone. The pouch rolled into the gutter.
The sailor blinked, swore, and stooped clumsily to snatch it up. By the time he looked again, Lucien was gone, already swallowed by the fog.
His pulse slowed as he walked. Mist clung to his lips, cold and damp, but the pouch in his sleeve was real and heavy.
That was enough.
---
The baker's stall glowed warm against the damp streets. A single lantern flickered, casting gold light over loaves stacked high behind glass. The smell hit Lucien like a blow—sweet yeast and toasted crust, heavy with promise.
He placed three coins on the counter. The baker didn't even glance up, just shoved a rough loaf toward him.
It was warm.
Lucien took it without a word and walked into the alleys.
---
Veilgate Alley yawned dark and damp. The cobblestones were uneven, puddles shining like broken mirrors under weak lamplight. Lucien sat on a crate, the loaf heavy in his hands.
He tore the first piece with deliberate slowness. The crust crackled, flakes scattering into the fog. He brought it to his mouth and bit.
The taste spread through him. Rough, sweet, grainy against his tongue. He chewed slowly, letting it linger, letting the ache ease just a little.
Each bite was mechanical, but the warmth of the bread seeped through him, dulling the sharp edge of hunger. His body relaxed in increments, though his face remained unchanged.
The whispers coiled in the back of his mind.
Hollow fed… hollow not filled…
Meaning in hunger, meaning in lack.
Lucien ignored them. He ate another piece.
---
"You there."
The voice cut through the fog.
Lucien looked up, crumbs still in his hand.
A girl stood at the alley's mouth. Younger than him—thirteen, perhaps—but wrapped in velvet and silver. A cloak clasped at her shoulders with an ornate pin, and a jeweled pendant gleamed at her throat.
Two guards stood at her sides, broad-shouldered, boots polished, coats trimmed with gold thread. Their eyes fixed on Lucien, hands ready.
The girl's gaze, however, was not hostile. It was curious.
"What's your name?" she asked.
Lucien tore another piece of bread, chewed, swallowed. His voice came flat, without weight. "I don't have one."
The girl's brows lifted. "Everyone has a name."
"Names define meaning." Lucien brushed crumbs from his fingers. "I don't need meaning."
The guards exchanged uneasy looks. The girl's lips curved into something between amusement and intrigue. She stepped closer, ignoring the damp alley under her shoes.
"Then I'll give you one."
Lucien finally met her gaze. Cold, gray eyes, steady as stone. "Keep it."
The words rang sharp, final.
The guards bristled. One's hand drifted toward his weapon. But the girl raised her hand, silencing them without looking away from Rowan.
Her smile deepened. "Strange boy. What if I bought you?"
Lucien rose to his feet. His frame was lean, shoulders sharp beneath his thin coat. He stood taller than her, though hunger had hollowed his form. His face betrayed nothing.
"I'm not for sale."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You would refuse me?"
"Yes."
The alley fell into silence, fog curling between them. The guards' unease was palpable, but the girl only looked more fascinated, as if she had stumbled upon a puzzle she could not stop turning in her mind.
She tilted her head. "How curious."
Lucien stepped past her, into the mist. The guards tensed, but again she stilled them with a gesture.
"Let him go," she said softly.
Lucien did not look back. His steps faded into the night, steady, indifferent.
---
Lady Elowen remained in the alley's mouth, eyes fixed on the space where he had vanished.
"No name," she murmured, her voice almost reverent. "No meaning. And yet he walks."
Her guards shifted uneasily. One cleared his throat. "Lady Elowen, shall we return?"
She smiled faintly, her eyes glinting like steel in lamplight. "Yes. But keep an ear to Veilgate. If he comes again… I want to know."
---
Lucien walked until the lamps thinned and the city hushed. The bread was nearly gone. The hunger had dulled, but not disappeared.
It never did.
The whispers lingered, soft but insistent, circling him like vultures.
No name… no meaning…
The circle awaits… the axis turns…
Lucien chewed the last bite in silence. His face was unreadable, his eyes distant.
The ache was part of him now. Hunger. Meaninglessness. The fog.
And somewhere in the depths of Duskbourne, something had noticed.