"Give me the money!"
Zarif's voice cracked on the last word, but he tried to hide it by slamming his knife down onto the merchant's table with what he hoped looked like deadly intent. The blade pierced the wood and stuck there, quivering.
He was young, maybe nineteen or twenty, though the way he carried himself suggested he wanted people to think he was older. Dangerous. His lean, muscular frame was wrapped in a grey jacket—worn at the elbows but well-made, the kind of garment that had once belonged to someone with means. His white marble skin was clean, almost luminous in the harsh sunlight streaming down from a cloudless afternoon sky, like it belonged on a statue rather than someone trying to be a criminal. His dark hair, cut short but disheveled from the heat, caught the light. Even his hair, though slightly disheveled, was clean.
The midday heat—it must have been approaching the second bell, when merchants closed for their afternoon rest—pressed down on the marketplace. This was the western continent, the prosperous coastal regions where trade from across the shards converged. Here in this particular district, a sprawling trade quarter that sat near the harbor, merchant stalls lined the square in haphazard rows, canvas awnings providing scattered pools of shade. The cobblestones beneath their feet had been laid generations ago, each stone placed by hand, worn smooth by decades of foot traffic and cart wheels.
Beside Zarif, his friend Foggy stood in what was clearly meant to be a threatening posture.
It wasn't working.
Foggy was broader than Zarif, though his frame carried a softness that spoke of a life spent indoors. His cheeks were full, his belly slightly rounded beneath a vest that was two sizes too large—likely handed down from a relative. His skin was darker than Zarif's, a warm brown that suggested time spent in the sun despite his pampered appearance. His brown hair hung in tangled curls past his ears, unkempt in a way that suggested someone had given up on grooming him. He wore simple clothes—a loose linen shirt beneath the oversized vest, trousers that had been patched at the knees—all clean enough to show someone at home cared for him, but worn enough to show they didn't have much. He'd squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest like he'd seen tougher men do. He'd narrowed his eyes into what he probably thought was a dangerous squint, but which made him look like he was trying to read something written very far away. As he shifted his weight, his hand went to his pocket—a nervous habit, fingers working against the fabric in a repetitive motion. The overall effect was that of a man attempting to impersonate a threat he'd once seen but hadn't quite understood.
The shopkeeper—a middle-aged man with the kind of face that suggested he'd been having this exact conversation with idiots for the past twenty years—didn't even flinch. His skin was weathered and tanned from years working outdoors, creased deeply at the eyes and mouth. His beard, more grey than black now, had been trimmed recently. He wore the practical clothing of a successful tradesman: a leather vest over a sturdy cotton shirt, both designed by an individual craftsman with an eye for durability rather than beauty. Brass buttons—hand-forged and polished, each one slightly different from the others—fastened his vest. He looked at the knife, looked at Zarif, and let out a breath that was half sigh, half laugh. When he moved, there was a distinctive rolling motion to his shoulders—years of lifting crates and barrels had left their mark.
"You better get going, young man," he said, his tone carrying the same energy as someone shooing away a stray dog. "Or I'll have to call the soldiers. They're just around that corner."
The way he said "young man" made it clear that he thought Zarif was about as dangerous as a child playing with wooden swords.
Zarif's jaw tightened. "I said give me the money," he repeated, trying to inject more menace into his voice. It came out slightly whiny instead.
The shopkeeper turned away from him entirely, as if the conversation was already over. "They're just around the corner," he repeated, gesturing vaguely toward the eastern edge of the market where the square opened onto one of the main thoroughfares. "Imperial soldiers. Three of them. They'll be very interested to hear about this."
The mention of soldiers sent a cold spike through Zarif's chest despite the heat. But he couldn't back down now. Not in front of everyone. Not in front of Foggy.
Doors began to open along the row of shops behind the merchant. One after another, shopkeepers emerged from their stalls, each doorway revealing cramped interiors where goods were stacked on handmade wooden shelving, where every piece of furniture had been crafted by individual woodworkers rather than mass-produced. A woman with flour-dusted hands came out first—her apron marked with the day's baking, her plump frame and flour-pale arms testament to years of tasting her own goods. Her hair, streaked with grey, was tied back in a practical knot. Then a man carrying a hammer—a blacksmith by the look of his leather apron, scorched black in places from flying sparks, his massive forearms marked with old burn scars. His movements were deliberate, each step planted with the certainty of someone used to working with dangerous tools and heavy metal. And then two more men—one thin and wiry with the nervous energy of a tailor, his fingers stained with dye, constantly adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles with a habitual gesture; another broader and red-faced, his nose marked with the burst blood vessels of someone who drank more than he should. They arranged themselves in a loose line behind the first shopkeeper, arms crossed.
"Get lost!" one of them finally shouted, the one with the hammer. His voice carried the rough quality of someone who spent his days shouting over the ring of metal on metal.
Zarif looked at them—one, two, three, four, five of them now, all looking significantly more annoyed than frightened—and felt his confidence begin to crumble.
Foggy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, that nervous swaying motion that made his whole body move. His threatening expression had collapsed into something closer to concerned. His hand went to his pocket again—that same repetitive gesture, fingers working against the fabric.
"Watch this," Zarif said, turning slightly toward Foggy. He yanked his knife free from the table—it took two pulls, the blade having sunk deeper than he'd intended—and held it up in what he hoped looked like a professional throwing stance.
Foggy watched, eyes widening slightly. There was hope there. Maybe even belief.
The man with the hammer—the blacksmith—took a step forward. Just walking. Like he was going to grab Zarif by the collar and throw him into the street like a sack of garbage. As he moved, his hammer swung slightly in his grip, catching the afternoon light—a well-maintained tool, its head polished smooth from years of use, the wooden handle worn to fit his hand perfectly.
Zarif pulled his arm back. "You'll regret the day you ever tried to stop me," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
He threw the knife.
It whizzed past the approaching shopkeeper's head with at least three feet of clearance. It wasn't even close. The man didn't even have to duck.
The shopkeeper stopped walking. He turned his head slightly, watching the knife's trajectory with mild interest, then looked back at Zarif. His expression was no longer annoyed.
It was amused.
"Hah!" He barked out a laugh, the sound carrying that particular rhythm of someone who laughed often and loudly. "Your aim is garbage, just like you and that doofus that follows you everywhere!"
The other shopkeepers joined in the laughter. One of them slapped his knee—an exaggerated gesture. The woman with the flour on her hands covered her mouth but couldn't hide the grin splitting her round face.
Zarif's face burned. Not from the heat now, but from humiliation.
Foggy stood frozen beside him, his mouth slightly open, his threatening face completely forgotten. His hand had frozen mid-motion in his pocket.
And then, from somewhere behind the row of shops, came a scream.
"AAAHHHH!!!! Oh my airships! Who the hell threw that!!"
Everyone turned.
A man stumbled out from between two stalls, clutching his shoulder. Zarif's knife was buried there, sunk deep into the muscle just below the collarbone. Blood was already seeping around the blade, staining the man's shirt—a once-fine garment with embroidered edges, the kind of detailed needlework that spoke of middling wealth—a spreading dark red.
The man's legs gave out and he crashed to the ground, the bag he'd been carrying spilling open. Coins scattered across the dirt—dozens of them, gold and silver, rolling in every direction. The coins themselves bore the Imperial seal, each one hand-stamped at the Royal Mint with an octagonal star surrounding a crown—the mark of authentic currency.
"Oh my airships," the man gasped again, curling onto his side. "Oh my—someone pull it out—who threw that?!"
The marketplace went silent. The sounds of the city—cart wheels on cobblestones, distant shouts from other squares, the creak of sign boards swaying in the breeze—seemed to fade into background noise.
Zarif stared at the fallen man. Then at the spilled coins. Then at the knife in the man's shoulder.
His knife.
Foggy stared too, his eyes so wide they looked like they might fall out of his head.
They turned to look at each other at exactly the same moment, a perfect mirror of shock. Neither of them said anything. Neither of them seemed capable of speech.
"That's—" one of the shopkeepers started.
"That's the bastard who's been stealing from the west stalls!" another finished.
Movement returned to the marketplace all at once. People started converging on the fallen thief, talking over each other, pointing at the knife, at Zarif, at the scattered coins.
"He threw it—"
"Did you see—"
"Got him right in the—"
The shopkeeper whose table Zarif had stabbed earlier closed the distance between them in three strides. His hand shot out and gripped Zarif's collar, twisting the fabric tight against his throat. His other hand pulled back into a fist.
"You little—" he started.
"Wait!" Another hand caught the shopkeeper's wrist, stopping the punch mid-swing.
It was the man with the hammer. He was looking at Zarif with an expression that was difficult to read—somewhere between surprised and thoughtful. And something else. Something softer underneath the rough exterior.
Pity.
Not obvious. Not the kind that would embarrass either of them. Just the quiet recognition that passed between someone who'd been struggling for years and someone who was clearly still in the middle of that struggle. The man with the hammer had worked these streets long enough to recognize desperation when he saw it.
"He stopped the thief," the man said, his voice firm but not harsh.
The shopkeeper holding Zarif's collar didn't let go, but he didn't finish the punch either. He glanced back at the man on the ground, at the coins, at the knife.
"He—" the shopkeeper started, but seemed to lose track of what he was going to say.
"He stopped the thief," the man with the hammer repeated, more firmly this time. His eyes stayed on Zarif for a moment—that same expression still there. Seeing something worth defending, even if he couldn't explain why. "That mongrel's been stealing from Davek's stall for three weeks now. Security couldn't catch him."
The grip on Zarif's collar loosened slightly.
The man reluctantly let go of Zarif's collar, an angry expression on his face as he walked back into his store, adjusting his sleeves that were rolled up to his elbows.
A moment of silence as they watched him storm back into his store.
"Thank you for stopping that mongrel, Zarif," the man with the hammer said, breaking the silence.
"Looks like there's some good in ya after all."
The words hit Zarif like a slap. Some good in ya. Like everyone knew he was bad, and this one accidental thing was a tiny exception.
"The wife would have been devastated if he ran away with the coins," he called back to Zarif. "You saved me an earful today, and saved my money."
He turned fully to face Zarif now, and his grin widened into something that looked almost genuine.
"Tell ya what," he said, pointing at Zarif with the hammer. "If you want to do any honest work around here instead of being such a hooligan, just ask."
The man turned and walked back to his stall, laughing to himself, like he'd just told a joke that only he understood. His gait was that distinctive rolling walk of someone who'd spent years at a forge, legs bowed slightly from standing in one position for hours at a time.
Around them, the marketplace was returning to normal. The thief was being hauled away, still groaning, blood trailing behind him on the cobblestones. People were picking up the scattered coins and arguing about whose money it actually was. The afternoon sun had moved perhaps a hand's width across the sky—no more than twenty minutes had passed, though the incident had felt much longer.
"Damn this!!" Zarif growled, the words barely making it past his teeth.
He turned and walked away before anyone could say anything else to him, before anyone else could thank him or congratulate him or offer him honest work. His grey jacket swung as he moved, catching the breeze.
Foggy tagged along behind him, silent, his hand returning to that nervous pocket gesture as they walked.
They walked for a full minute before Zarif spoke again.
"I would have killed him if I wanted to, wouldn't I?"
He looked at Foggy when he said it, his eyes demanding agreement. Demanding validation. Tell me I'm dangerous. Tell me that was on purpose. Tell me I'm not a joke.
Foggy kept walking. He didn't look at Zarif. He didn't say anything at all. His hand continued working at his pocket—that repetitive motion, fingers moving against fabric.
The silence stretched out between them like a physical thing. It was worse than if Foggy had laughed at him. Worse than if he'd said something cruel.
Zarif felt his jaw tighten.
"Swear to it," he said, his voice low and stern. He stopped walking and turned to face Foggy fully, putting himself directly in his friend's path.
Foggy stopped too. He looked at Zarif with those wide, perpetually worried eyes—brown eyes that always seemed on the verge of tears even when he wasn't upset—and still said nothing.
Something hot and sharp twisted in Zarif's chest. Before he could think about it—before he could stop himself—his hand shot out and struck Foggy in the center of his chest. Not a punch exactly. Just a sharp, mocking jab that made a dull thump sound against the fabric of his too-large vest.
Foggy stumbled back a step, his hand coming up to cover the spot. His face crumpled slightly, not in anger but in that resigned kind of pain that comes from being used to this. His soft frame absorbed the blow easily—there was no muscle to resist, just yielding flesh.
Zarif didn't apologize. He never apologized. Instead, he turned and kept walking, raising his voice slightly so Foggy would be sure to hear.
"Just like that," he said, his tone almost conversational. "One swift move and the guy would be asleep like his mom put him to bed."
Behind him, Foggy followed in silence, still holding his chest, his other hand returning to that nervous pocket gesture—fingers working, working, working against the fabric.
They walked through streets that seemed to get wider and cleaner the further they went from the market. The cobblestones here were evenly placed, maintained by city workers who swept them each morning—unlike the market's haphazard stones that shifted underfoot. The buildings rose higher here, two and three stories, their facades well-maintained, windows fitted with actual glass rather than shutters—expensive, each pane individually crafted and set by hand. The afternoon sun—it must have been approaching the third bell now, perhaps two hours past midday—cast long shadows across the street.
The people walking past them wore clothes that actually fit, clothes that had been washed recently and mended with care. A woman passed them carrying a parasol—one of those elaborate contraptions that wealthy women favored, with lace edges hand-sewn by individual seamstresses and a carved wooden handle, the design unique to whatever craftsman had made it—to keep the sun off her face. Her dress was a light blue that looked expensive, the fabric moving with that quality only silk possessed, imported from the eastern provinces at great cost. A man in a dark jacket walked by going the other direction, checking a pocket watch made of actual gold—not brass painted to look like gold, but real gold with intricate engravings, suspended from a chain that caught the light. His stride had that particular confidence of someone who'd never worried about money, his boots polished to a mirror shine.
Zarif watched them all with something that wasn't quite envy and wasn't quite anger. Something in between. Something closer to hunger. His white marble skin seemed to catch the light, making him look almost ethereal—too clean, too refined for the darkness in his expression.
"Where were you when I needed you?" he said suddenly, not looking at Foggy but knowing he was there.
Foggy didn't answer. Again. His hand continued its nervous motion—fingers working, working against the fabric of his pocket.
Zarif glanced back and saw his friend attempting to make a threatening face—the same one from earlier, the squinted eyes and pressed lips. It looked even more ridiculous now, after everything that had happened. The softness of Foggy's features, the round cheeks and perpetually worried expression, made any attempt at menace look absurd.
"Yeah," Zarif said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Looking like a pathetic dog while I almost got beaten up."
Foggy's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. Something hurt. His habitual pocket gesture stopped for a moment, then resumed—slower now, more deliberate.
They kept walking.
"No kills, no arson, no assault," Zarif said, counting them off on his fingers. His voice was rising now, frustration bleeding through. "Do you think we'll ever get respect if we're doing this nonsense?!"
He spun to face Foggy, pointing a finger at him. His grey jacket swung with the sudden movement.
"Tell me!"
Foggy flinched slightly but still didn't answer. His hand froze in his pocket again, fingers pressed against fabric.
Zarif let his hand drop and turned away again, his shoulders tight with tension that had nowhere to go.
They walked in silence for another stretch, turning down a narrower street lined with smaller shops—artisan quarters where individual craftsmen made their goods by hand. A cobbler's window displayed boots in various stages of completion, each pair slightly different in style and stitching—the mark of handcrafted work. A printer's shop showed a hand-operated press visible through the window, one of those elaborate mechanical devices from the oldest designs, all brass fittings and wooden rollers, where each page had to be set by hand with individual metal letters. The sound of the press working carried faintly through the glass—clunk, clunk, clunk—as someone pulled the lever to press ink onto paper. And that's when Zarif saw it.
The little store with the faded awning. The hand-painted sign that said Fabrics & Notions in letters that had been carefully formed by someone with more care than skill. The crates stacked outside with different colored cloths folded inside them—bolts of fabric in blues and greens and browns, each one dyed individually by hand, creating subtle variations in shade that marked them as artisan work rather than factory-produced goods.
He stopped walking.
"Let's leave," he said immediately, already turning to go back the way they'd come.
But the door to the shop was already opening. And before Zarif could convince his legs to move, an old woman stepped out into the afternoon sunlight.
She was small—barely came up to Zarif's shoulder, her frame slight in that way that spoke of a lifetime of modest meals and hard work. Her hair was white and pulled back into a practical bun, and her face had the kind of wrinkles that came from smiling more than frowning—laugh lines around her eyes, creases at the corners of her mouth. She wore a simple dress—clean but old, mended in several places with patches that didn't quite match the original fabric, each patch sewn with tiny, precise stitches that spoke of practiced hands. Her skin had that particular translucence of advanced age, spotted with marks from decades under the sun. Her movements had a quality to them—a slight shuffle to her step, the way she tilted her head when she looked up—that suggested both advanced age and enduring vitality.
Her eyes found Zarif immediately, and her face lit up. She had a habit of clasping her hands together in front of her chest when she spoke, a gesture of sincerity.
"Hey kid," she called out, raising one hand to wave him over. Her voice had that particular warble of the elderly, but it was warm. "Come here. Let me give you something to eat."
Zarif felt his back teeth grind together. Kid. She called him kid like he was ten years old. Like he wasn't dangerous. Like he wasn't someone to be taken seriously.
He almost walked away. Should have walked away. But his feet seemed to have rooted themselves to the cobblestones, and now she was walking toward him with that smile, her shuffle-step distinctive and measured, and Foggy was standing right there watching, his hand working at his pocket again, and—
"What do you want, old woman?" Zarif said, shifting his grey jacket from where it had been hanging over both shoulders to drape it over just one. The movement was meant to look casual, indifferent.
The old woman ignored his tone completely, her smile never wavering.
"You saved my husband from being mugged once, remember?" she said, her voice warm and grateful. She clasped her hands together in front of her chest—that habitual gesture. "I'm still thankful for that. If not for you, I don't know what those mongrels would have done to him."
She stepped closer, looking up at him with eyes that seemed too kind for this city—pale blue, slightly clouded with age but still sharp with awareness.
"You rode in bravely on a horse, handsome and brave, and you ran over those scum who were bothering my husband," she continued. Her smile turned slightly weary, like she was tired but refusing to let it stop her from being kind. "I'll never forget it."
Zarif felt something uncomfortable twist in his stomach. That's not how it happened. That's not—
"Hey. Watch it," he said, his voice sharp. He pointed a finger at her, the gesture aggressive. "I was trying to steal the horse, you understand? Those losers were in my way. I couldn't help it."
He said it firmly, clearly, making sure she understood. He wasn't a hero. He was trying to commit a crime and other criminals got in his way. That's all.
The old woman didn't even seem to hear him. She just kept talking, her voice taking on that distant quality of someone lost in memory. Her hands unclasped, and one moved to her chest—a gesture of emotion. Her shoulders had a slight forward slump, the posture of someone carrying old grief.
"My husband," she said, and her eyes started to look wet. "He's such a hard worker. When we were younger, he told me that his dream was to venture out into the world. Through seas and skies on airships and sea ships. Discover the shards, meet people, find the great Manual."
She paused, blinking rapidly.
"He couldn't do it because he lacked resources. No money for passage. No connections to get him hired on a crew. Nothing."
Her voice got quieter.
"Now his job is to maintain airships, boats, and sea ships. He works at the docks—" She gestured vaguely westward, toward where the harbor lay beyond the city buildings, where the massive vessels sat in port—the sailing ships with their individually carved figureheads, each one unique to its vessel, and the airships with their elaborate balloon frameworks and hand-riveted metal gondolas. "—at the western port where the trade vessels come in. Fixes other people's vessels so they can go have adventures while he stays here."
A tear actually rolled down her cheek, following one of those smile-line creases. She wiped it away quickly, almost embarrassed.
"He's so close to his dream every day," she whispered. "But he'll never get to live it."
Something happened in Zarif's chest. Not quite an emotion—he wouldn't let it become that—but something physical. A tightness. His eyebrows furrowed without his permission, and for a moment he wasn't in this street listening to an old woman. He was somewhere else, someone else.
His dream. The old man's dream.
Venture out into the world. Discover the shards. Find the great Manual.
The words settled into Zarif like stones dropping into still water, sending ripples through parts of himself he kept locked away.
He shook his head, hard, like he could physically dislodge the feeling.
"Shut it, old woman," he said, his voice coming out harsher than he'd intended. "You think I care about that old man?"
He stepped back, then turned to leave.
"Just wait till I come across him. He's finished."
The threat hung in the air, empty and hollow. Zarif knew it was empty. The old woman probably knew it too. But he said it anyway, needed to say it, because the alternative was to admit that her words had reached something in him that he didn't want reached.
He walked away quickly. After a few steps, he realized he was carrying something—the old woman must have pressed it into his hand while he was distracted. It was wrapped in cloth. Food, probably. Bread or something.
He didn't throw it away.
"Come back again, you foolish young man!" the old woman's voice called after him, bright and cheerful. He could hear the smile in it without needing to turn around.
Foolish young man.
Not dangerous. Not threatening. Just foolish.
Zarif kept walking, his jaw tight, his hands gripping the wrapped food harder than necessary. The afternoon sun continued its slow descent—it would be perhaps another two hours before evening proper arrived, but the heat was beginning to ease slightly.
Behind him, Foggy followed in silence, as always, his hand working at his pocket in that endless nervous rhythm.
Time passed. The sun moved lower in the sky, the light taking on that golden quality of late afternoon. The shadows grew longer across the cobblestones.
Zarif and Foggy found themselves sitting on the side of a road, their backs against a sun-warmed wall. Behind them, scattered along the same wall, were others like them—an old man asleep with his hat over his face, two women talking in low voices, their clothes patched and faded, a young mother keeping her child from running into the street. Poor people. Street people. None of them paid any attention to Zarif or Foggy.
That was fine. Zarif didn't want their attention anyway.
What he wanted was across the street.
A gambling hall took up most of the block, its facade painted in deep reds and golds that had been applied with careful attention to detail—each section of color blended into the next by hand, creating gradients rather than sharp lines. The paint itself was expensive, mixed with minerals imported from the eastern provinces to achieve those rich hues. Next to it stood a theater, its front decorated with carved columns—each column unique, the work of individual stone carvers who'd left their mark in the details: vines on one, geometric patterns on another, even crude faces peering out from the stone on a third. People flowed in and out of both establishments in a constant stream. Rich people. The men wore jackets that fit perfectly, their fabric fine wool or even silk, tailored specifically to their measurements by individual craftsmen—no two exactly alike, each bearing the subtle marks of its maker's style. Their shoes were polished to catch the light, leather worked until it gleamed. The women wore dresses of silk and satin, the kind that cost more than a common laborer made in a year, jewelry glittering at their necks and wrists—each piece custom-made by individual jewelers, not mass-produced, bearing unique designs that marked them as one-of-a-kind.
Zarif watched them all with an intensity that was almost physical, his eyes tracking each person like he was trying to memorize them. His white marble skin caught the golden afternoon light, making him seem to glow.
"This is the dream, Foggy," he said, his voice low but fervent.
It was the first time he'd said Foggy's actual name out loud in weeks.
"All we have to do is kill some people, make a name for ourselves, join a faction, and then—" He lifted both hands, gesturing broadly at everything across the street. "—it's money and luxury everywhere."
The plan sounded so simple when he said it like that. Step one: kill people. Step two: get famous. Step three: join a powerful faction. Step four: become rich.
Easy.
Foggy didn't say anything, but Zarif could feel him listening. His hand had gone still in his pocket for once.
Zarif turned his head slightly, looking back over his shoulder at the people sitting behind them. The old man, still asleep. The women, still talking in their low voices. The young mother with her child—she wore a dress that had been mended so many times it was hard to tell what the original fabric had been, each patch a different color.
"Don't be like these fools," Zarif said, loud enough that some of them might hear. "No ambition. Look at how pathetic they are."
His eyes swept across them with unconcealed contempt.
"Lowlives like these pick money off the street," he added, his voice dripping with disgust.
The old man didn't stir. The women kept talking. The young mother glanced at him briefly—her eyes tired, her face worn beyond her years—then went back to her child.
Zarif turned back to face the street, satisfied that he'd made his point.
His eyes caught on something. A glint in the dust near his foot.
A coin.
Without thinking—without even registering the contradiction—Zarif leaned forward, picked up the coin, and slipped it into his pocket. The movement was automatic, practiced. The coin was copper, stamped with the Imperial seal—hand-pressed at the mint, the octagonal star slightly off-center in the way that marked it as genuine rather than counterfeit.
He settled back against the wall, completely unaware of what he'd just done.
Foggy had noticed. Foggy always noticed. But he didn't say anything about it. Instead, he shifted his weight slightly and asked, "So what's our next step to becoming rich? What do we do?"
It was the first time Foggy had really spoken in—Zarif couldn't remember how long. His voice was quiet but genuine, like he actually wanted to know.
"Our next step," Foggy had said. Our.
Something about that made Zarif sit up a little straighter. His grey jacket shifted on his shoulders.
"We kill one of those retard dog-faced shopkeepers who thought they could stop us," Zarif said, the plan forming as he spoke. His hand lifted, one finger pointing out into the air. "Take their head to a powerful faction. Let them know we're serious about joining them."
The more he said it, the more sense it made.
"We show them we mean business," Zarif continued. "And then they'll have to take us seriously."
Foggy was quiet for a moment. His hand went back to his pocket—that nervous gesture returning. Then: "But, we can't even do one thing right. We keep failing."
His voice had that quality it always did when he was worried—thin, slightly higher-pitched.
"And how can we take on soldiers if they're called?" Foggy continued. His fingers worked against the fabric of his pocket—faster now, more agitated. "Soldiers have training, don't they? They'll beat us up and throw us into prison."
Zarif felt irritation flash through him.
"You don't know me," Zarif said, and a smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth. "I can take them all on without breaking a sweat, you know?"
Foggy turned his head to look at him. His brown eyes, perpetually worried, studied Zarif's face. Just looked. And then: "How?"
One word. One simple question that cut through all of Zarif's bravado.
"I used to fight wild animals when I was a boy," Zarif said, the smirk still on his face even though it felt more forced now.
The claim hung in the air between them. Vague. Unprovable.
Foggy just looked at him for another moment with that face—the one that always looked slightly worried, slightly uncertain. He didn't say he believed Zarif. But he didn't say he didn't believe him either. He just looked away, back toward the gambling hall across the street. His hand resumed its nervous motion in his pocket.
The silence stretched out. The afternoon sun continued its descent—it would be perhaps an hour until sunset now, the sky beginning to take on that deeper gold that preceded evening colors.
"When that old lady told us her husband's dream," Foggy said eventually, still looking across the street, "it reminded me of what you used to tell me. A long time ago."
Zarif felt his entire body tense. His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he said, his voice sharp. "The past is the past. Don't bring stupid stuff up again."
The words came out harsher than he'd meant them to, but he didn't take them back. Because Foggy knew—Foggy knew—that this was off limits.
"Stupid stuff," Zarif had called it.
Foggy fell silent again, and Zarif felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. His friend's hand continued that pocket gesture—fingers working, working against the fabric.
Across the street, something caught both of their attention at the same moment.
A painting. Massive, taking up most of the wall of a large building next to the theater. A portrait done in oils—the kind of work that took months to complete, each brushstroke individually placed by a master painter, the colors mixed by hand from imported pigments. A woman, young and beautiful, painted wearing white and gold, her blonde hair arranged in elaborate curls that must have taken hours to achieve. A crown sat on her head—painted in such detail that individual jewels were visible, each one catching imaginary light. The frame itself was ornate, carved wood covered in gold leaf—real gold, beaten thin and carefully applied.
Below the portrait, text had been added in careful calligraphy—the kind of lettering that required years of training to execute properly, each letter formed with precision and decorated with flourishes.
Foggy squinted at it, his lips moving slightly as he worked through the words. His perpetually worried expression deepened with the effort of reading.
"Princess Althea," he read slowly, his voice flat with exhaustion. "Being wed to Nicholas, the greatest young talent in the empire."
The words settled into the air like dust.
Zarif stared at the portrait. At Althea's painted face—perfect, unblemished, the kind of beauty that had never known hunger or fear or cold. At the gold and white of her dress, at the crown, at everything the image represented. Wealth. Security. Power. Everything he didn't have.
"Must be nice," he said, his voice bitter. "Being a spoiled girl like her."
He lifted his hand and pointed at the painting, his finger jabbing at the air. His white marble skin seemed to glow in the golden afternoon light—too clean, too pure for the venom in his voice.
"I'm sure she's the most immature brat you'll ever come across," he added. "Probably never worked a day in her life. Never had to worry about food or money or where she's going to sleep. Just gets everything handed to her because she was born into the right family."
The words came out venomous, each one sharp with resentment that had nowhere else to go.
Zarif let his hand drop. The energy that had been driving his anger seemed to drain out of him all at once, leaving him feeling hollow and tired. He shifted his posture, letting his elbow rest on his knee, his body curling forward slightly. His grey jacket hung loose on his frame.
"I was raised differently," he said, his voice quieter now. Almost to himself. "I told you, didn't I?"
Foggy didn't answer. Didn't need to. This was something Zarif had said before, though never with details. His hand continued its nervous motion in his pocket—slower now, a steady rhythm.
"I don't even know where I came from."
The words sat heavy in the air. The afternoon was fading into evening now—the sky beginning to show hints of orange and pink along the horizon, though full sunset was still perhaps half an hour away. Zarif stared at the painting across the street, but his eyes had gone distant, unfocused. His shoulders dropped slightly, and something in his expression shifted—the hardness giving way to something else. Something older.
He was quiet for a long moment. Then:
"I remember some things though," he said, his voice lower now. Different. "From when I was younger."
Foggy turned his head slightly, listening. His hand went still in his pocket.
Zarif's gaze drifted away from the street, from the rich people flowing in and out of the gambling hall and theater, from the massive portrait of Princess Althea, from everything in front of him. Looking at something that wasn't there anymore. Something that only existed in the spaces between what he could remember and what he'd forgotten.
"There was a place," he said quietly. "Before all this."