By spring, the slums no longer looked the same to Aiden. The alleys were still crooked, the roofs still sagged, and the gutters still stank of rot—but to him, every corner had become a map. Every market stall, every rat-hole den, every whisper of trade was part of a web he was weaving.
And at the center sat the ghost.
The boys who once mocked him now worked his errands faithfully. One watched the bakers, another the butchers, another the city gates. They brought news—who was desperate, who was careless, who was lying. Information became coin, and coin became control.
Aiden learned quickly that profit was not enough. To keep it, he needed order.
So when two of his boys quarreled over stolen bread, Aiden gathered them beneath the broken arch and spoke with quiet steel. "You don't fight each other. You don't steal from each other. Break that rule, and you're no use to me. And if you're no use…" He let the silence stretch until they lowered their eyes.
From then on, discipline held.
With order came loyalty. Aiden made sure of it. Each boy who worked for him ate. Each boy had shoes, patched coats, a dry corner to sleep in. Small things, but in the slums, they were riches.
Soon, others came—runaways, beggars, cast-offs—drawn by whispers of the ghost who always had food, who turned scraps into silver. Aiden did not take them all, only those who obeyed, who could be sharpened into tools. His net grew wide, but never tangled.
And as his followers grew, so too did his reach.
Aiden began lending coin to desperate hawkers, charging small favors in return. A stall-keeper who borrowed from him became a watcher in the market. A dockhand who owed him carried word of cargo shipments. None of them knew how far his net stretched, but all knew the same truth: you did not cross the ghost.
Yet Aiden himself remained careful. He still wore rags, still walked as if unnoticed, still slept beneath his arch. He hid his wealth where only he could find it, buried in places the pendant seemed to whisper were safe. The slums saw only the ghost—clever, yes, but still one of them.
And that was exactly how he wanted it.
One evening, as the firelight flickered on his boys' faces, Aiden studied them. They were stronger, cleaner, sharper now than when they had first followed him. No longer just orphans, but something more.
"You see what we've built," Aiden told them, his voice low but firm. "This is only the beginning. The slums are ours because no one else wants them. But beyond the walls, beyond the hill…" He looked toward the distant glow of noble estates. "That is where the true game waits. And when we step into it, we will not crawl. We will stand."
The boys nodded, half in awe, half in fear.
Aiden touched the pendant at his chest, feeling its steady thrum.
The ghost was no longer just surviving. He was building a throne out of shadows.
And soon, the city would feel its weight.