The western quarter of Duskbourne was a world away from the reeking slums where Lucien had spent the previous nights. Here, cobblestones were polished daily, gutters cleared, and lampposts freshly painted with black lacquer. Manors rose on either side of the boulevard like silent giants, their windows curtained in velvet, their gardens trimmed into geometric perfection. Even the fog seemed less suffocating here, as if reluctant to stain the noble quarter's cobbles.
Carriages rattled past, lanterns swinging from their sides. Horses snorted, tossing their manes, while liveried drivers cracked whips above their heads. Men in waistcoats and tall hats strolled the streets with women in lace gowns on their arms, their laughter sharp and practiced, a performance meant for the city to admire.
To these people, Lucien was invisible. A pale, underfed boy in a threadbare coat, his boots too worn for the street he walked. Their gazes slid over him without pause, as though he were nothing more than a smudge of dirt against the grandeur of the west.
That suited him.
He walked slowly, his pace unhurried, his eyes trailing over the wrought-iron fences topped with spear-like points, the marble lions that crouched before each estate, the gargoyles perched high above the rooftops. The nobles lived in towers of stone and glass, elevated above the filth of common life, guarded from the hungry hands of the poor.
But the city's cruelty was not locked away. It seeped into every crevice, every shadowed alley, every whispered laugh.
Lucien's steps faltered when he heard it.
The sound came from a narrow passage cutting between two manors—a sound he knew well. Not the laughter of joy, but of domination. Sharp, mocking, the sound of cruelty feeding on silence.
He turned his head.
The alley was dim, lit only by the dying glow of a gas lamp at the corner. Three figures stood in its depths, hemming in a fourth against the damp stone wall.
The victim was a boy—frail, dirt smudged, his shirt torn at the shoulder. He had the look of someone who belonged in the dockyards or the beggars' quarter, not here. His back was pressed to the wall, his lips clamped shut, his eyes wide with terror he tried desperately to conceal.
The three who surrounded him wore coats of velvet and boots polished to a mirror's shine. Silver-thread embroidery traced their sleeves, and the insignia of a baronial house glittered on their cuffs. They were young, no older than fifteen or sixteen, their faces still soft with youth, but their arrogance already sharpened like blades.
"Look at this little rat," drawled the tallest, his blond hair shining even in the half-light. His accent was crisp, practiced in halls where tutors corrected every syllable. "Sneaking into the west quarter like he belongs here."
The lean one with sharp cheekbones tossed a coin purse lazily into the air, catching it with each rise and fall. Clink. Clink. The metallic jingle punctuated his words. "Rats crawl where they please. Should take his fingers, see if he still tries to steal."
The third, shorter but meaner, pressed a boot into the ragged boy's shin. "Come on, beg. Say something. Makes it more fun when you squeal."
The ragged boy swallowed, his throat bobbing. His lips stayed sealed. Silence was his only shield.
Lucien watched from the alley's mouth. His eyes—gray, cold, detached—took in every detail. The way the victim's hands clenched until his knuckles whitened. The way the nobles' laughter scraped the stone walls like knives. The stink of rotting vegetables from a gutter nearby, mingled with the sweetness of cologne drifting from the nobles' coats.
His gaze lingered a moment longer. Then he turned.
This had nothing to do with him.
The strong fed on the weak. That was the truth of Duskbourne, of every world. To interfere was pointless. To feel pity was weakness.
But cruelty was not content to remain unseen.
"You there!" The blond noble's voice rang sharp. His eyes had caught Lucien's retreating figure. He stepped forward, boots splashing in a shallow puddle. "What are you staring at?"
Lucien stopped. Slowly, he turned his head.
Their gazes met. Lucien's was as empty as a winter sky, flat and unyielding.
The noble's jaw tightened. He strode forward, closing the distance, his companions watching with eager smirks. "You saw something you shouldn't. Keep your mouth shut."
His hand shot out, fingers digging into Lucien's shoulder. The pressure was firm, commanding. "Understand?"
Lucien's lips parted. A breath escaped. No words followed.
Silence.
The blond's eyes narrowed. "What's that look? Too good to answer?"
His hand whipped across Lucien's face. Crack. The sound echoed, sharp against the stone.
Lucien's head jerked with the blow. Slowly, he turned back, gray eyes settling on the noble once more. Empty. Unflinching. Indifferent.
That stare unsettled the noble more than if Lucien had cursed him.
"Hold him."
The other two lunged, seizing Lucien's arms and shoving him against the wall. Their laughter returned, eager and vicious.
The first punch drove into his stomach, folding him forward. Breath hissed from his lungs. Another fist cracked against his jaw, rattling his teeth. A kick hammered his ribs. The rhythm built—fists and boots striking flesh, the sound echoing like a cruel drumbeat.
Lucien's body bent beneath the blows, pain lancing through his thin frame. Blood welled in his mouth, copper bitter on his tongue. But no cry left his lips. His face stayed composed, his eyes lifeless.
The ragged boy stared, horrified.
Each strike should have drawn a scream. Each blow should have wrung out a plea. Yet the pale boy only absorbed it all in silence, his body a canvas for violence that left no sound behind.
It unsettled them.
The blond hesitated mid-punch. His chest rose and fell sharply, his breath ragged with exertion. That gaze… it wasn't resistance. It wasn't even despair. It was nothing.
Like striking a corpse that refused to acknowledge its own beating.
His lip curled. "Pathetic waste. Remember your place."
With a shove, they released him.
Lucien staggered. His ribs screamed, his vision swam. Yet he caught himself, straightening slowly, his posture steady though his body trembled. Blood streaked his lip, but his eyes—gray, flat, cold—remained unchanged.
Without a word, he turned and walked past them.
His footsteps echoed once, twice, before blending into the murmur of Duskbourne's streets.
The nobles jeered after him, but the edge had dulled from their laughter. Their eyes lingered too long on his retreating back, as though trying to shake the memory of those lifeless eyes.
The ragged boy slid down the wall once they were gone, his chest heaving. He clutched his bruised arms, his gaze fixed on the shadow that had disappeared into the city.
He didn't know the boy's name. He only knew that he had witnessed something unsettling.
Someone who endured pain not with strength, nor defiance, nor cowardice—
but with nothing at all.
---
Lucien melted into the crowd. The boulevard was alive with movement, gas lamps hissing as they cast golden halos into the fog. Vendors packed away stalls, guards called out curfew warnings, beggars slipped into doorways to vanish from sight.
The great Clockspire Tower loomed over the city in the distance, its bells tolling the hour. Each deep chime rolled through the streets like the heartbeat of the empire, indifferent, eternal.
Lucien's ribs ached. His lip split with every movement of his mouth. He could feel the blood drying against his skin, taste the iron on his tongue. But his expression did not shift.
Pain was fleeting. Hunger was constant. Silence was survival.
The city breathed around him, alive, cruel, uncaring.
And he walked on, a shadow among shadows, unseen and unfeeling.