The rain in Oakhaven didn't just fall; it punished. It clung to the skin like a debt that could never be repaid, smelling of wet wool, chimney soot, and the briny rot of the Lower Docks.
Elian sat tucked into the lee of a stack of rotting fish crates, his knees pulled tight against his chest. His stomach was no longer just hungry; it had become a hollow pit of fire, a silent scream that echoed with every shallow breath.
It had been three days since he had closed the door on his father's curses. Three days since he had traded a roof for the open sky, only to find the sky was made of lead and cold water.
"You look like you're waiting for the cobbles to open up and swallow you, kid.
Word of advice? They won't. They're just as stubborn and cold as the men who laid them."
Elian didn't look up. He knew the voice. It belonged to Jax, a boy perhaps three years older, wearing a coat made of more patches and grease than original fabric.
Jax was the leader of the 'Dock Rats'—a dozen children who lived like ghosts in the hollowed-out belly of an abandoned warehouse.
Jax sat down on a damp crate across from Elian, casually tossing a small, shriveled apple between his hands. The rhythmic thwack of the fruit hitting his palm was the only sound against the steady drum of the rain. He didn't offer the apple, Not yet.
"I've seen you around the Weaver's District," Jax said, his voice surprisingly gentle for someone who spent his nights dodging the city watch. "They called you the 'Little Saint.'
Said you could take a man's broken bones and make 'em whole just by holding his hand. So why are you out here shivering in the mud with the rest of us 'sinners'?"
Elian pulled his knees closer, his voice a raspy whisper that barely carried in the wind. "The Saint died. His father sold him for silver, and the Silver Inquisition burned his church to make a point. There's nothing left of that house but ash. There's nothing left but the boy."
Jax stopped tossing the apple. He leaned in, his sharp eyes searching Elian's sunken, shadowed face. "The boy looks hungry and in Oakhaven, hunger is the only thing that's honest. You want to eat? Or you want to keep waiting for the 'Light' to come save you? Because I've been out here a long time, Elian, and the Light never ventures south of the Merchant's Bridge."
"I'm done with the Light," Elian said, finally looking up. For a flickering second, his eyes flashed a dull, sickly violet—a spark of the Siphon reacting to his inner turmoil.
Jax grinned, though the expression lacked any real warmth.
"Good. Because the Light doesn't reach the Docks. Out here, we have the Grey. And in the Grey, we look out for our own. Come on. Stand up. Let's see if that 'gift' of yours is good for anything other than charity."
The Lesson of the Siphon
They moved through the city like shadows, weaving through alleys where the mud was ankle-deep until the cobblestones began to even out. They were approaching the 'Gilded Mile,' the heart of the trade district where the merchant lords stumbled out of taverns with purses heavy enough to feed a Dock Rat for a lifetime.
"Look at that one," Jax whispered, pulling Elian behind a stone pillar. He pointed to a man in a deep velvet doublet, swaying on his feet as he exited a high-end alehouse.
"Master Torvin. He owns three of the largest textile mills in the city. He's currently drunk on wine that costs more than your life. Usually, we'd have to trip him, risk a beating from his guards, and hope he drops a few coins. But you… you can do it quiet, right?"
"I've never... I've only ever taken pain to help people," Elian murmured, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "To use it like this... it feels wrong."
Jax grabbed Elian's shoulder, his grip firm and grounding.
"Listen to me, Elian. Really listen. That man? He's the reason your mother has the Grey Lung; his mills don't use filters because they cost too much. He's the reason my sister died of a simple fever because we couldn't afford a 'Saint's' price or a doctor's visit. You aren't hurting him. You're just… redistributing the burden. You take his balance, his awareness. Just for a second we take the gold and everyone goes home.
It's a transaction, nothing more."
Elian looked at the merchant. He thought of his mother's rattling, wet cough. He thought of his father's heavy, greedy hand.
"What do I do?"
"Just touch his shadow if you have to, or a stray thread of his coat. Just a spark, Elian. Don't take his life. Just take his 'steadiness.' Give him the vertigo of a man falling off a cliff."
The First Theft
Elian stepped out into the rain, feeling like a ghost wandering amongst the living. As the merchant fumbled with a heavy brass key, Elian brushed past him, his fingers grazing the man's fine silk sleeve for a fraction of a second.
Siphon.
Elian didn't reach for a fever or a broken bone. He reached for the man's sense of "Up." Suddenly, a sickening rush of nausea climbed up Elian's own throat.
The world spun violently, and for a heartbeat, Elian felt as if the entire street had tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. He nearly fell himself, the stolen vertigo threatening to overwhelm him.
The merchant groaned, his knees buckling. He hit the cobblestones with a dull, heavy thud, his eyes rolling back as he grasped at the air, trying to find a floor that no longer felt flat.
Jax moved like a blur. In three seconds, the merchant's heavy leather purse was gone, disappeared into the folds of Jax's patched coat.
Minutes later, back in the safety of a dark alley, Jax handed Elian half of the shriveled apple. "You did it. Look at you. You're shaking, but you're alive. And you're about to be fed."
Elian leaned against the cold brick wall, clutching the fruit with trembling hands.
"It felt... different, Jax. When I helped people, the pain felt like it belonged to me. Like I was meant to hold it. This time... it felt like I was stealing a piece of his very soul."
Jax took a bite of his own fruit, leaning back against the wall with a sigh.
"That's because you were. Welcome to the real world, Elian. It's not a beautiful tapestry where everyone is woven together for a purpose. It's just a pile of loose threads. If you want a long one for yourself, you have to pull it from someone else's coat. That's the only way the math works."
"Does it ever get easier?" Elian asked, staring at his hands. "The feeling of... taking?"
Jax looked at the boy, and for a fleeting moment, a shadow of genuine regret crossed his hardened face. He reached out and ruffled Elian's damp hair.
"No," Jax said quietly. "But the hunger gets colder. And in Oakhaven, that's as close to a miracle as you're ever going to get. Don't let it get to your head, Saint. Tomorrow, we go for the Silver District. You think you can handle taking a guard's strength?"
Elian looked at the half-eaten apple, then back at the dark, rainy street. The boy who walked out of the Weaver's District was gone. The "Saint" was truly dead.
"I can handle it," Elian said, his voice becoming a little flatter, a little more like the stone he sat on. "As long as I never have to feel that man's hunger again."