The world narrowed to the burn in his lungs and the frantic hammering of his heart. Kaelen ran without thought, without direction, driven by a base, animal instinct to put distance between himself and the condemning screams. The elegant, elemental glow of the main city streets was a threat; he plunged into the service alleys, where the air hung thick with the smell of rotting garbage and stagnant water.
His shoulder throbbed where the stone had struck him. His fine ceremonial tunic was now torn and smeared with filth from where he'd scrambled through a muddy puddle. The chaotic symphony of the city faded behind him, replaced by the drip of water, the scuttle of unseen things, and his own ragged breaths.
He finally stumbled, his thin legs giving out, and collapsed behind a reeking stack of empty crates in a dead-end alley. He curled into a ball, pressing himself into the shadows, trying to make himself small, invisible. Again.
Heresy.
The word echoed in his skull, louder than any bell. He saw the priest's horrified face, the ashen stone, the mob's transformed expressions. He saw Lila's shock, Anya's hardened glare, Maya's pity.
A dry, hacking sob escaped him, but no tears came. He was too terrified, too hollowed out. He had gotten his wish. He wasn't average. He was a monster. The Church's sermons hadn't been abstract warnings; they were a manual for what to do with people like him. Purification. Which probably didn't involve a gentle talking-to.
The sun began to set, painting the narrow strip of sky above the alleyways in shades of orange and purple. The temperature dropped. His damp clothes clung to him, a chilling shroud. Hunger, his old, familiar enemy, began to gnaw at his insides with renewed vigor, cutting through the shock.
He had to move. He couldn't stay here. But where could a "heresy" go?
As dusk deepened into night, a new sound joined the alley's ambience—a low, rhythmic scraping. It was followed by a soft, muttered curse.
Cautiously, Kaelen peered around the crates.
A figure was hunched over a gutter a dozen yards away. It was an old woman, her back bent with age, bundled in layers of ragged shawls despite the mild evening. Her hair was a wild, grey mane escaping from a frayed scarf. She was using a crooked piece of metal to scrape at something caked in the drain.
She wasn't a guard. She wasn't a priest. She looked as forgotten as this alley.
His stomach chose that moment to emit a loud, plaintive growl.
The old woman's head snapped up. Her eyes, sharp and surprisingly clear in her wrinkled face, scanned the darkness and landed directly on his hiding spot. She didn't look scared. She looked… annoyed.
"Alright, come on out," she called, her voice a gravelly thing worn smooth by time and hardship. "You're scaring the rats, and they're better company than you're being."
Heart in his throat, Kaelen hesitated. This was a terrible idea. But the cold was seeping into his bones, and his hunger was a screaming demand. Slowly, he uncurled and shuffled out from behind the crates.
The old woman looked him up and down, her gaze taking in his torn tunic, his thin frame, his undoubtedly terrified expression. Her eyes lingered on the darkening bruise on his shoulder. "Hmph. Awakening Day didn't go so well, I take it."
The statement was so blunt, so devoid of judgment, that it left him speechless. He just nodded mutely.
"Figured," she grunted, turning back to her scraping. "They only end up in this part of the city if it went one of two ways: real bad, or real boring. You don't look boring." She pried a lump of something free from the grate. "You eat yet?"
He shook his head, unable to form words.
She held out the lump. It was a piece of hardened, discarded journey-bread, covered in gutter grime. "It's that or nothing. Gutter's clean enough. Mostly."
It was the most unappetizing thing he'd ever seen. His stomach growled again, insistently. Pride was a luxury he could no longer afford. He stepped forward and took it from her, wiping off the worst of the filth on his trousers before taking a small, desperate bite. It was like chewing on leather, but it was food.
"Name's Morwen," the old woman said, watching him struggle with the bread. "I see things, living down here. People forget you're there. You see who really runs the city." She pointed her crooked metal rod at him. "So. What'd you get that has you hiding behind garbage?"
The question hung in the air. He could lie. He could run. But the weight of the day, the exhaustion, and the simple, stark humanity of this old woman offering him her gutter-found food broke something inside him.
"They… they called it Decay," he whispered, the words tasting like ash.
Morwen went very still. The casual annoyance vanished from her face, replaced by a deep, calculating intensity. She studied him anew, not with fear, but with a piercing curiosity that reminded him of Elara.
"Decay," she repeated slowly. She nodded to the hard bread in his hand. "Show me."
He stared at her. "What?"
"The bread. It's stale. Make it… more stale."
Hesitantly, Kaelen focused on the rock-hard journey-bread. He reached for that cold, humming stillness inside him, the one that had erupted in the square. He didn't try to push it out; he let a trickle of it flow into the bread, focusing on the bonds that held it together.
There was no flash, no sound. The bread simply crumbled in his hand, collapsing into a dry, inert powder that looked like it had been left to rot for a hundred years.
Morwen let out a low whistle. "Well, I'll be damned." She looked from the powder in his palm to his face, a strange light in her eyes. "They call it Heresy, boy. But that's just a word for what they're too stupid to understand."
She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "The Church sees an ending. But everything ends. The food we eat, the bodies we wear, the empires we build. It all returns to the earth. That…" she pointed at the dust in his hand, "…is just a faster way of getting there. Not evil. Just… efficient."
Her words were so contrary to everything he'd been taught that he could only stare. She wasn't preaching. She was stating a fact, as if observing that the sky was grey.
"They'll be looking for you," she stated matter-of-factly. "The Hounds have a good nose for fear. You can't stay here." She jerked her head toward the darker end of the alley. "There's a place. For folks the world doesn't have a place for. It's not much. But it's out of the rain."
She was offering him shelter. A path. It was more than he had minutes ago.
"Why?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "Why would you help me?"
Morwen's grin was toothy and full of a dark humor. "Let's just say I've got a professional appreciation for things that fall apart." She hoisted herself to her feet with a grunt. "Well? You coming, or are you waiting for the City Guard to offer you a better deal?"
Without waiting for an answer, she turned and began shuffling down the alley, a hunched silhouette against the deepening night.
Kaelen looked down at the powder in his hand, the evidence of his curse. Then he looked at the retreating back of the old woman who called it efficiency.
He had no choice. No other options. Taking a shuddering breath, he pushed himself to his feet and followed the glimmer of hope offered by a woman who scavenged in gutters.