The fog rolled in like a living thing, curling between the narrow alleys of South Street. Arin kept his head low, clutching the small, tattered book he had found that morning. Finn skipped ahead, oblivious to the creeping shadows, his basket swinging in rhythm with his uneven steps. Liora trailed close, her thin frame hunched against the chill, coughing quietly every few steps, but her eyes sharp, scanning the street for trouble.
Every corner, every doorway seemed to breathe. A strange draft carried whispered sounds that might have been voices—or tricks of the fog. Arin felt his pulse quicken. The streets were empty enough that a predator could emerge from any shadow, yet crowded enough that no one would see a child disappear.
A man stood motionless near a lamp post, half-hidden behind a stack of crates. His hand twitched toward Arin but didn't touch. Just his gaze alone sent a shiver crawling down Arin's spine. He could feel the weight of it, cold and calculating, like metal pressing against his chest.
"Are we going home already?" Finn asked, breaking the spell of fear. His eyes were wide and innocent, staring at a bloated rat sprawled near the river's edge. Arin glanced at the creature, then back at the boy, whose naivety was almost unbearable in a city like this.
"Quickly," Liora murmured, tugging at Arin's sleeve. Her cough rattled through her chest, sharp and sudden. She kept her head low, her eyes flicking to the crates, the shadows, the distant alley where a faint glow pulsed and disappeared.
Arin's fingers brushed against the small knife tucked into his boot. He drew it out and handed it to her in one swift motion. Liora's hand closed around it expertly, slipping it into her sleeve, her movements slow enough for him to notice but deliberate. "You don't even like reading," she muttered, coughing again. "I'll be down South if you change your mind."
Arin hesitated, glancing at Finn, who was now pretending to inspect a stray puddle as he skipped along. "I'll get it down before winter," he said, mostly to himself. Light would be too scarce soon; every hour he delayed meant another page lost.
The trio moved quickly, weaving through alleys and side streets, alert to every sound. A strange old woman appeared at the end of a narrow lane, leaning heavily on a cane, her eyes piercing. "Where are your parents?" she asked, voice sharp and curious. Arin and Liora ignored her, quickening their pace, Finn following without understanding.
By the time they reached the wider street, the fog had thickened. Gas lamps barely pierced the gloom, and shadows pooled like ink along the cobblestones. Arin's heart thumped harder. This was South Street in its prime—where fortunes were taken, lives broken, and secrets whispered. He could feel the city watching, judging.
Liora paused near a darkened doorway. "Quick break," she said, her voice low. She checked her surroundings, cough barely contained. "Coins only, don't linger." She handed Finn a few copper pieces for his basket. Arin took note—these tiny rituals of survival were necessary in a place where a single wrong glance could spell disaster.
The basket in Finn's arms swung dangerously as he darted ahead. The boy seemed unaware of the shadows that danced along the walls or the distant figure that had begun to follow them from the other end of the street. Arin caught sight of him through the fog: Corvin, the man who had lingered near the lamp post, silent, patient, observing.
They passed a row of shuttered shops. A faint light flickered from one window, casting elongated shadows of rusted signs and dangling ropes. Arin's eyes caught movement—a small shimmer, almost like a pulse. He blinked, and it was gone. A trick of the fog, perhaps. Or something else entirely.
"Don't stop," Liora warned, her voice barely audible over the wind that tugged at the tattered edges of their coats. She led them down a narrow alley, one that twisted sharply before opening into the marketplace. Piles of crates, broken carts, and forgotten barrels created a maze where they could hide if needed.
Arin kept his gaze on the rooftops. Here, the whispers felt closer, brushing at the edges of his mind. He tried to focus on the book in his pocket. Letters, symbols, pages half-decayed—he needed to understand them before winter closed in and stole the daylight.
Finn's voice suddenly broke the spell again. "Do you think they'll find us?" His innocence contrasted sharply with the street's cruelty. Arin shook his head. "Not if we're careful," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. Danger was never absent. It merely waited for a moment of weakness.
They reached the corner of South Street, where the market often spilled over with merchants and desperate buyers. Now it was deserted, but the sense of life lingered—ghosts of bargains, shouts, and footsteps echoed faintly. Arin noticed the faint glow again, higher this time, as if something—or someone—was observing from the rooftops.
Liora handed him back the knife, pressing a small warning into his palm. "Keep it ready," she said, scanning the alley behind them. "I don't like the feeling tonight."
Arin nodded, slipping it back into his boot. Every sense was alert: the scrape of a cart wheel, the whisper of fabric against cobblestones, the distant cough of a stranger. South Street had teeth, and they were walking straight into its mouth.
By the time they reached the old library at the edge of the street, night had fallen completely. The gas lamps cast their weak glow against stone walls slick with fog. Arin's stomach twisted in anticipation. This was why he risked the streets, the danger, the coughs, the shadows. Knowledge waited inside those walls. Secrets waited. And soon, he would have them—if he survived the night.
Finn, oblivious, trotted after him. Liora gave a final glance over her shoulder, eyes sharp, knife ready, breath steady despite the coughing. "Inside," she whispered.
And as the library doors creaked open, the fog seemed to sigh, curling back into the alleyways, keeping its secrets close. Outside, South Street waited, patient and hungry.