The city of Veridia was a beast of stone and shadow, its breath a perpetual miasma of
refuse and damp earth. For Kael, it was simply home. Not a comforting hearth or a
welcoming embrace, but a cage, a hunting ground, a constant, gnawing challenge. He
was an alley rat, a creature of the forgotten corners, a phantom in the labyrinthine
sprawl of slums that clung to the city's underbelly like a festering wound.
His day began not with the sun, for the sun rarely pierced the perpetual gloom of the
Lower Districts, but with the gnawing ache in his stomach. It was a familiar companion, a
constant reminder of his precarious existence. Kael, barely eighteen, was a wisp of a boy,
all sharp angles and hollows, his frame honed by perpetual hunger and a life spent
scrambling. His clothes, a patchwork of salvaged rags, offered little warmth against the
biting chill that seeped from the ancient cobblestones. His eyes, however, were keen, a
startling shade of grey that missed nothing, reflecting the harsh realities of his world
with an almost cynical clarity.
Today's routine was no different from any other. He slipped from the crumbling alcove
he called a bed, a space barely large enough to curl into, and melted into the pre-dawn
shadows. The air was thick with the stench of stale ale, unwashed bodies, and
something vaguely metallic – the lingering scent of desperation. He moved with a
practiced fluidity, a silent whisper through the narrow, winding alleys, his bare feet
making no sound on the slick, grimy ground. Every shadow was a potential hiding spot,
every overturned cart a vantage point. Survival was a dance, and Kael had mastered its
grim choreography.
His first target was the baker's refuse bin behind the Golden Loaf. Not for the bread itself,
for that was long gone, but for the scraps, the burnt crusts, the discarded dough that
might still hold a morsel of sustenance. He was quick, his hands deft, sifting through the
refuse with a practiced efficiency. A half-eaten apple, a few hardened crumbs – a meager
feast, but enough to quiet the most insistent pangs.
Next, the market. Not to buy, of course, but to observe. The Upper Districts, with their
gleaming spires and their air of arrogant prosperity, were a world away, but even their
cast-offs found their way down here. Kael watched the merchants, their faces flushed
with the early morning chill, hawking their wares. He noted the unguarded stalls, the
distracted vendors, the pockets that bulged with coin. He was a predator, albeit a small
one, and the market was his hunting ground.
He spotted a plump merchant, his attention fixed on a dispute with a haggling customer.
Kael moved, a shadow among shadows, his hand a blur. A small pouch, heavy with coin,
was his. He was gone before the merchant even realized his loss, melting back into the
throng, his heart a steady drum against his ribs. No remorse, no guilt. Just the cold
satisfaction of a successful hunt. This was his life, a constant struggle for existence, a
testament to his cunning and his will to survive. He was Kael, the alley rat, and in Veridia,
that was all he needed to be. For now.