Kael woke up to the smell first. The stink of rot and piss and cheap liquor that had seeped into the concrete of the underpass, a smell so constant it had long since ceased to offend, though it still clung to his clothes, to his skin and his very breath like a curse. The bridge above groaned when carriage trucks passed, raining down flecks of rust and powdered stone, and every vibration carried through the ground beneath his thin mat of rags.
Around him, the others stirred. Groaning and coughing, an indication that the rattle of lungs were already ruined before thirty. The shuffle of bones in their bodies stretched too thin. A muttered curse here, a laugh there, bitter as rusted nails. In that half-light gray morning bleeding through the gaps, their faces looked hollowed, like skulls with scraps of skin still clinging on. Kael rubbed his eyes with a dirty knuckle and sat up, his hair hanging in greasy strings over his forehead.
He had been born to this. To the cold concrete and the gnaw of hunger that never really went away, only dulled when stolen bread or soured wine filled the gut.
He supposed he should have felt something for his parents, but all he felt was relief they'd gone young. Better for them. Better than watching him become what he was. They hadn't been able to feed him or be able to keep the world from spitting on him, and the truth was—they had been too weak to even try. Death was easier for them.
Kael's speech had always set him apart from the others under the bridge. He spoke too bluntly and insistent as though words themselves could carve meaning out of the filth. That wasn't from his parents because they'd left him nothing. It was from the older street kids who used to be someone before cheap drugs took them down to this level. Some of them had gone to school once upon a time, they could write their names, they could talk about history or math in half-remembered fragments, and Kael had soaked it all up like rainwater through cracks. He learned to form sentences that didn't sound like slurs spat into the night, and though most of it was useless, he took it anyway. Knowledge, even broken, felt like power.
The morning air was damp and cold enough to bite. Kael shivered as he stood, pulling his threadbare jacket tighter, the seams pulling like they might split if he dared move too quick. Beyond the bridge, the city stretched in gray blocks, the marketplace already stirring to life with the smoke from food stalls curling like thin black fingers into the sky and the clamor of merchants shouting over one another, as buyers were haggling and coins clinking.
Today was another day to take what the world wouldn't give. His belly cramped at the thought of it with hunger.
From the shadows, his two friends emerged. Boys like him, lean and sharp-eyed, though each carried their own kind of ruin. One grinned, missing half his teeth, the other just stared with the flat, hungry gaze of a dog that hadn't eaten in days. They didn't need to speak, the plan was the same as always. They'd stir the pot, kick up a distraction, and Kael would slip through with his quick hands and pocket anything useful he came across.
The boys never gave their real names, maybe they never had any worth remembering. They were too young when the streets took them, and too young when whatever families they'd once had had dissolved into dust and absence. Kael had christened them himself, years ago, in the damp dark under the bridge when they'd first learned to trust one another. One he called Runt, because he was small and wiry, quick as a rat in a drain. The other was Spit, because when he laughed, which wasn't often, it came with a spray of saliva and a wheezy rattle, like his lungs were already half rotten. They didn't mind. Names were like scraps of clothing out here, you wore what you were given and prayed it lasted.
The three of them shuffled out from beneath the bridge, stiff from the cold and stiff from hunger, chatting about nothing, joking about a dog they'd seen limping down by the river, about how its ribs stuck out so sharp it could've been a skeleton walking. They mocked one of the drunks under the bridge who had pissed himself in his sleep again. Their voices carried thin in the morning mist, brittle with laughter that wasn't joy but habit.
The overseer was waiting at the mouth of the alley, just as Kael had feared. A slab of a man, arms like clubs, eyes like pits of coal. He always lingered where the market path began, sneering at the likes of them. To him, the homeless weren't people, they were weeds in the cracks, pests to be stomped out when he was bored enough. Today, he sat on an overturned crate with a mug in his fat hand, sipping slow and mean, as though daring them to pass.
Kael didn't think or plan anything, it was Spit who acted first, striding close, lips curled in that rotten grin. He bent like he was going to bow, then spat straight into the mug. The overseer bellowed, jerking up, but by then Kael and Runt had already pulled Spit away, their bare feet slapping the cobbles. The man's curses chased them down the alley, but his bulk was too slow to follow. Their laughter echoed thinly and desperately, but it was laughter all the same.
Farther down the lane, another shape hunched in the shadows. A man with a ragged beard, hair matted into clumps, was cradling a filthy bundle like treasure. He was hiding food, though not well of bread crusts shoved into a torn sack, half covered with rags. His eyes flicked up when he saw them, wary and wild, but Kael raised his hands as though in peace.
"Keep it close," Kael said, with a low voice that came out flat. "We've got our own."
The man's eyes widened with a flicker of gratitude, disbelief chasing through the grime on his face. He nodded quickly, clutching the sack tighter, as if Kael had given him a blessing instead of a lie. Kael didn't look back as they moved on, though he felt the weight of the man's gaze boring into his back. Runt whispered a knowing laugh. Spit cackled, wheezing like broken machinery. They'd done this before. They did it almost every day. And every day, the poor fools always believed them.
It was a charade, but it was survival. Let others think they were kind, generous even—it kept suspicion at bay, and it bought a sick kind of respect among the forgotten. Truth was, Kael never had any food, not once, not ever, but it pleased him in some twisted way to let someone else keep what little they had. It made him feel… different.
By the time the three of them emerged from the crooked lanes and the shadows of ruined walls, the noise of the market swelled in the air like a storm waiting to break.
And there it was, bright and noisy. The place where they'd eat, or starve.
The market was alive, a swarm of bodies moving shoulder to shoulder, each carrying baskets of vegetables, hunks of meat and bolts of cloth. The air reeked of fish left too long in the sun, of sweat and piss and horse dung. Kael had learned long ago not to wrinkle his nose at any of it, it was the smell of life, and he'd rather endure it than the damp rot of the bridge.
Runt went first, like always, his little legs pumping as he barreled into the crowd. He was barely ten, his cheeks still round with boyhood, but he could put on a performance that would shame an actor in the grand houses Kael had only heard about. "Help!" he cried, his thin voice breaking with desperation. "Help, I've lost my little brother!" His eyes darted wildly, fat tears already forming, dripping down his dirty face.
The crowd rippled turning their heads as they shuffled their feet. A woman in a scarf dropped her sack of potatoes to clutch at him, her voice thick with pity. Another man—an older one, beard patchy and gray, put his hand on Runt's shoulder and promised to help. The script was well rehearsed, and Runt delivered it like a gospel.
Then came Spit, swaggering into the scene with his crooked grin and that chipped tooth that always seemed to catch the light. "I'll help him look," Spit said, already craning his neck, pointing and gesturing. He was a master at making chaos look natural. Within seconds, he had three people digging through baskets and shouting questions at one another, dragging the crowd into his orbit like moths to a lantern.
Now it was Kael's moment.
His chest tightened, heart knocking against his ribs as he slipped sideways, all angles and elbows, weaving through skirts and trouser legs until he reached the stall. A loaf of bread, still steaming, sat fat and golden on the wooden plank, the crust dusted with flour. His stomach clenched so hard he thought he'd vomit. He didn't think then but just moved. The bread was in his grasp before the stall-keeper even shifted his weight.
But the man did shift, and Kael, too focused on the prize, caught it too late. A fat, sun-reddened face, eyes like boiled eggs, snapping up to meet his. The man's lips peeled back, exposing yellowed teeth. "Thief!" he bellowed, voice like a cracked bell. "Guards!"
Kael froze for half a second too long.
He saw the guards and their dull bronze armor glinting, their hands already moving to their clubs. Their eyes lit up with the glee of dogs spotting prey.
The bread suddenly felt heavier in Kael's hand, as though it carried the weight of his entire miserable life.
Kael's legs were pistons, pumping harder than his chest could keep up with. His breath tore in and out of him, sharp as a broken glass, each exhale leaving a bitter sting in his throat. Behind him, the guards thundered after, their boots slapping against cobblestone like war drums, their curses chasing him down as surely as their bodies did. He didn't dare look back, looking back meant slowing down, and slowing down meant the cold crack of a club against his spine.
Spit appeared at his side, lean as a crow, his grin replaced by a clenched jaw. Runt darted ahead of them both, his little legs carrying him faster than any of them would've thought possible. They cut between baskets, over crates, through flailing crowds who spat and cursed as the trio shoved past. Somewhere, Kael heard the stall-keeper still roaring, his voice like a warning bell: "Thieves! Catch 'em!"
The city always hated their kind and thought of them as street rats. Vermin with human faces.
They ducked down an alley, the smell of sewage and rot thickening, clinging to their skin like oil. Runt dropped to his knees first, sliding like a stone down a chute, disappearing into the narrow, filth-slick drain mouth. Spit followed, whooping like he'd won a prize, his laughter echoing. Kael threw himself in last, scraping his ribs on the stone as he wriggled through. Behind them, the guards' boots hammered closer, but the space was too narrow for armor-clad bodies. Kael could almost taste their frustration in the dark.
And then, daylight again. The drain spat them out onto the edge of a highway, carriages rattling past, drivers shouting curses at one another. Runt tumbled out with a squeal of victory, Spit rolled to his feet, and Kael collapsed onto his side, clutching the stolen loaf like it was a treasure.
They laughed an ugly, breathless laughter, their ribs still heaving. For a moment, they were kings. Kael tore the bread, stuffing a hunk into his mouth. It was dry and crusty, but it melted on his tongue like heaven. Runt's hands trembled as he held his piece, eyes wide and reverent. Spit grinned again, that chipped tooth flashing, as he crammed his share in like he might choke himself on purpose.
"This was worth it," Spit muttered, crumbs spraying from his lips.
But the joy lasted less than the time it took to chew.
The shadows moved before Kael even realized it, a sudden dark that falls when something bigger than you blocks out the sun. Rough hands seized him that felt iron-hard, calloused and merciless. The bread dropped from his mouth, falling into the dirt. Runt screamed before his voice was cut off by a meaty fist gripping his collar. Spit fought, spitting and kicking, but the guards were already on them, three heavy forms like vultures who came home to roost.
The cuffs snapped on Kael's wrists, colder than he'd expected, biting into his skin. His breath rattled in his chest as he looked at the bread lying in the dirt, half-eaten and smeared in grime. Their prize and their heaven was already ruined.