A loud, unrelenting hunger roared inside the boy's gut. He could ignore the shivering cold of his dusty and empty home, but starvation was a war he could not win. He tried to forget it, truly. He tossed and turned, barely getting a wink's sleep, being constantly awoken by the ruthless rumble. Besides his twisting stomach, the only thing the boy knows is that his name is Luther. And that he's around twelve years of age.
A cloud of cold vapor, a hopeless sigh made visible, escaped his lips as he pushed himself upright. He tried stretching his upper body, as a stone floor was not exactly the best thing to sleep on. The hay he's gotten a few nights ago has eventually given up, withering away into nothingness. Hay was something he could worry about another time; having food right now was his priority.
A single, lone candle was his only friend in the pitch dark. It had no holder, and he didn't care. For the life of him, he could not find it. Maybe his father took it before he left to God knows where. It had been many moons since Luther's father left him. He may not be the best father, but at least he helped place food on the table. Or floor, rather.
If the house burned, it would simply be an end to a beginning he never asked for. He snatched the small light, snapping the wax seal that held it to the floor.
"Morning hasn't come yet." Luther could tell from the grey light that peeked through the cracks of the wooden shutters. Another loud howl from his gut sent him to the door. He could hunt, he thought; a rabbit, a squirrel, a bird, any small piece of life that might be generous enough to sacrifice itself. Any warm body would be a feast. He had no traps, no snares, not like he'd know how to use it anyway. A simple knife was enough.
The door creaked open, letting in a raw, cold wind that dissipated all drowsiness off Luther's body. He was stuck between two deaths – The biting cold or starvation.
"If only I could eat a prayer." He interlocked his fingers, as if gesturing a prayer, only for his words to be laced in spite and poison. "What a useless God."
The wind snuffed out his meager candle, leaving only the dim moonlight to guide his steps. The air was a familiar yet suffocating smell of blood, unwashed skin, and waste. It was a scent he long learned to ignore.
Into the waking nightmare the people have called The Wretches' Hollow are a maze of bodies, all piled on top of each other like discarded rags. The living were impossible to distinguish from the corpses. Some were merely asleep, huddled together for warmth and comfort that the world refused to give, eyes of dead bodies that simply stared blankly into the endless expanse, and a few thrashed in the grips of a false paradise. They twitched and muttered, high on some cheap drug to escape their sorrows.
Luther moved through the bodies like a ghost, tucking his knife into his trousers. He knew well to mind his own business. In the slums, a boy with a blade was just part of the scenery. Having a knife was a necessity. Everyone in here is either a criminal, a mercenary trying to make a living, or dead. He kept his head low, acting like a common beggar trying to find dropped coin or scraps forgotten on the floor. Luther couldn't afford a fight in the Wretches' Hollow. He needed to hunt. He needed a meal, or he would become just another body on the ground.
A single glance, a lingering look, and he would have to worry about another type of death. If he's lucky, maybe an epitaph would be inscribed into his tombstone. No, just a tombstone would be a grace. Either way, what a luxury.
Just past the bodies scattered on the floor, a band of five men held court by the entrance of the alleyway. They leaned against the walls, slick with filth and waste, their chatter filled with lies and empty pride. The lamps hung above casted a yellow, sickly light that did little to fight the darkness, leaving the men's faces half-eaten by shadow.
Their bodies were a map of scars and other markings. Scars, ink, velvet. Luther knew not to interact with them, yet alone caught their attention. Their laughter was a raw, jarring sound in the quiet. A single pipe was passed around, its smoke a thin, serpent slithering into nothingness. They would take a long draw, and smoke would curl from their lips as a shuddering groan of pleasure escaped them.
Luther could excuse the grime of the Hollow off his senses, but the smoke of some poison was new to him. He grimaced at the scent; it was unfamiliar and disgusting.
Women were clinging unto these men, their faces covered in white powder and colorful pigments. They giggled at every rough word, batted their painted eyes, their faces flushed with moments of false joy. They gave quick, empty kisses here and there, leaving vermillion marks on the men's necks. Luther had a word for these women, a word he had learned long ago. He knew it because his mother used to be one. But in the Hollow, there was a simpler, more common name that everyone used, a word that was spat like poison. Whore.
It didn't matter, though. His mother is dead, and has been since the day he was born. She was just another ghost in the Hollow.
"Aye, that's enough, woman." One of the men pushed the harlot off of him, his teeth yellow from smoke and rot. She stumbled back, her facade slipping with a scowl. She quickly recovered, going back to her front with a pout.
"I need the coin." She whispered. She was not pleading. Not proud. Just plainly stating it. After all, this is her life.
The woman teasingly traced the man's face with her fingers. "I can show you more." Her fingers slowly travelled down to the man's torso, then towards the hem. She toyed with the man's waistband, twirling the strings that kept his pants secured.
Another man lets out a wet chuckle, "Oh, she's good, Aldus." He slurred, blowing smoke out of his nostrils. "Gets straight to business! None'a that soft kissing nonsense."
Aldus glared at him then back at her. "Do somethin' funny," He muttered lowly only for her to hear, "and I'll leave you without teeth."
The harlot's fingers slightly trembled. It was a risk she must take, whether she liked the consequences or not. As if beauty could armor her bones. As if seduction were salvation instead of survival dressed up in rags pretending it's silk.
Luther pretended to be as oblivious as a stone. He clutched the knife hidden inside his shorts, as a countermeasure. He held his breath until he was out of the Hollow. He gulped in the cold night air, letting it wash the stench of their smoke.
Finally, he slipped into Belrac's central square, a land managed by the apathetic hand of Baron Edric. The air was barely any cleaner, the buildings a little taller, but Belrac was just Wretches' Hollow in a better disguise. Baron Edric was no tyrant, but no savior either. He was a man who saw no reason to do more than the bare necessity, leaving the poor to die slowly.
There is a local church, the only beacon of hope for the destitute, but it has been so long since it last opened its door to provide a warm, free meal. Just the memory of it is so old that it's rumored to be a fairytale.
The only lights in Belrac were the faint glow of a few barely working lanterns, its flames flickering like dying hearts, and the bright torches held by guards on night duty. The guards patrolled the rough cobblestone streets, but turned a blind eye towards the harlots and most criminals. Everyone knew the guards were cheap. Their morality, if they had any to begin with, was easily bought and sold.
Luther is too poor to offer any coin and too small to fight. His only currency was his stealth. God was not there when his stomach was screaming. Prayer won't ensure that he could pass through the gates without any trouble. But if there is any higher power that would hear his plea, he would gladly worship it.