Power never goes unnoticed.
By midsummer, the slums whispered Aiden's name with a mix of awe and envy. The ghost fed his followers, clothed them, and made coins appear where none should. But for every child who pledged loyalty, there was another who saw only a prize ripe for the taking.
The Black Fangs came at dusk.
They were older—street men, not boys—led by a scarred brute called Garrik, who wore a necklace strung with teeth he claimed were his enemies'. They controlled three alleys of the southern quarter, and Aiden's growing influence cut into their scraps of power.
Garrik and his men cornered Aiden near the broken arch, five against one. His own boys scattered, too young and terrified to face knives.
"So this is the ghost," Garrik sneered, shoving Aiden against the wall. "Heard you've been playing lord with the street rats. Thought you'd buy your way out of hunger, eh?" He pressed the edge of a blade to Aiden's throat. "Give me your coin. All of it. Maybe I'll let you keep your skin."
Aiden's heart hammered, but his face stayed calm. He had no strength to match Garrik, no blade to parry steel. But he had the pendant, and he had his mind.
"You could kill me," Aiden said evenly, "and get a handful of coins tonight. Or…" His eyes flicked to Garrik's men. "You could let me live, and I'll make sure each of you eats better than you have in years. My boys don't fight you, they serve you. My trades become your trades. That necklace could be hung with silver instead of teeth."
The men hesitated, hunger plain in their eyes. Garrik snarled, sensing their wavering.
"You're a rat," Garrik spat, shoving harder. "And rats don't bargain."
The knife pressed closer—too close. And in that moment, the pendant burned hot against Aiden's chest, urging him. Knowledge flashed in his mind like lightning: the way to win was not through coin, but through fear.
Aiden smiled faintly. "If you kill me," he said softly, "the coin I've hidden dies with me. The food, the trade, the favors—all gone. But if I die, know this—my boys will set fire to every store you own. Your scraps, your hideouts, your bed. You'll wake to ash, and your necklace will be all you have left."
For a long moment, only the sound of breathing filled the alley. Garrik's grip tightened, then loosened. His men shifted uneasily.
Finally, Garrik stepped back with a snarl. "Careful, ghost. You're clever, but clever mouths get cut." He spat on the ground and signaled his men to leave.
When they were gone, Aiden exhaled slowly, the knife's ghost still lingering at his throat. His boys crept back from the shadows, eyes wide.
"You faced Garrik," one whispered.
Aiden turned to them, voice steady despite the tremor in his chest. "No. Garrik faced me. And he won't try again."
That night, beneath the broken arch, Aiden did not count coins. He stared into the darkness, knowing the truth.
He had survived his first real challenge. But survival was not enough.
If he wanted to climb higher, he would need more than coin and clever words. He would need power that no brute could threaten, power that would force even the Veyras to take notice.
And the ghost of the slums vowed he would find it.