Morning broke like it always did in the slums—with a reminder that we'd survived another day.
The air was cold, damp, and thick with the scent of mildew and yesterday's cook smoke. But she was already awake. Already moving.
A woman readied for the day—thin, pale, beautiful in a way the slums tried to bury.
The grime clung to her skin, settled into the lines of her hands.
There were cracks on her knuckles, bruises on her arms. A small scar across her collarbone.
But there was something in the way she held herself—tight, upright, unshaken.
Like hope hadn't finished dying yet.
She stood at the basin, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, scrubbing at her arms with gray water and lye soap until her skin stung. The scent of salt and ash clung no matter how hard she tried. It had settled deep into her—into the folds of her clothes, her hair, her memory.
But she scrubbed anyway.
Because today mattered.
Behind her, beneath a quilt patched more times than it had been stitched, lay a small body curled up tight. Breathing soft. Still lost in sleep.
Her son.
His face was soft in the morning gloom—blurred, indistinct, like a memory smudged at the edges. But she looked at him like he was the clearest thing in the world.
She saw him.
She brushed a hand across his cheek—gentle, practiced—as if the smallest touch might keep him safe.
She knew every twitch of his brow, every sound he made when he dreamed.
She knew him by heart.
She watched him for a long moment. Then leaned down, tucked the blanket beneath his chin, and kissed the top of his head.
He stirred.
"Mama?"
She smiled, soft and tired.
"Hey, sweetheart. Mama's gotta go out for a little while, okay? Be good for me."
Kai blinked up at her. "Where?"
"Just... errands. I'll be back before dinner."
He frowned. "Promise?"
"I promise."
She hesitated a second longer, then pulled on her coat. At the door, she paused—her fingers tightening around the worn fabric.
"Just one more day," she whispered, voice tight as if holding back fear. "That's all we need."
She turned toward the shard of mirror hanging from the wall by a bent nail.
Her reflection stared back—blurry, featureless. Not even a hint of a mouth or eyes.
Just the shape of someone who used to be.
She looked at it anyway.
Then tied her hair back with a red thread and stepped outside.
The air slapped her awake.
Damp, sharp, and sour with rot from the alleyways. She kept her head low, her shoulders tucked. One hand rested protectively against her waist, where a small leather pouch lay hidden beneath the folds of her dress.
She hadn't told anyone about the money. Not a soul.
Because in the slums, money got you killed faster than kindness.
The streets were already alive. If you could call it that.
Vendors shouted over half-rotten produce. Pots boiled in doorways. Smoke poured from chimneys patched with tin and bone. Children with soot-covered skin darted between stalls, chasing rats with sticks. A woman screamed at someone who might've been her husband. No one looked up. Their faces all blacked out like they were insignificant characters in the background of a story.
This was life in the outer ring.
She hated it.
And yet… she would miss it.
The slums were cruel, but they were honest. You knew what you were to everyone. What they were to you. And even in the worst corners, there were things worth remembering. The smell of frying onions in the cold. The way children still laughed when they ran.
The weird sense of comfort knowing that the person next to you is in the same mess as you.
But the truth was simple.
The slums weren't meant to be escaped. They were meant to keep you in.
Unless you had enough to buy your way out.
And now—she did.
As she kept walking, her eyes caught the massive wall in the distance—the one that separated them from the inner city.
The inner city loomed beyond it like a different world. The streets narrowed into paved stone. The buildings stood taller, straighter, whitewashed where the slums were rotted. The guards here wore clean armor and watched with blank expressions, hands always near their weapons.
Yet she kept moving, paying it no thought. The wall didn't bother her. It had always been there.
Eyes down. Shoulders forward. Money hidden.
Above it all stood the Cathedral Spires.
You could see them from anywhere in Dravorn—great spears of light and stone that stabbed the sky. The banners of the Church hung long from every tower, their symbols gilded in the sun.
The Radiant Order.
They ruled the city. The country. Maybe the whole damned world.
They preached salvation, but what they delivered was control. Every law, every wall, every neighborhood bent around their word. If your child glowed—if they were Giftborn—they took them. Called it a blessing. Called it sacred.
You didn't say no to sacred.
But today, she would.
Because today she would leave.
There were whispers of a cargo transport. Quiet, unofficial. Headed north, beyond the Cradle Peaks. Past the last checkpoint. Out where the Order's light didn't reach.
It would cost her everything in that pouch.
But it would be worth it.
She clutched the coin tighter beneath her coat, chest tightening.
Just a little longer. Almost there.
She walked.
Past fishmongers, past incense stalls, past cracked statues of long-dead saints. She moved through color and stink, through sweat and morning wind. Smelled iron, piss, bread. Felt her heartbeat in her ears.
The streets pulsed with life.
And for the first time in years, she felt something rising in her that wasn't fear.
Hope.
The stall she arrived at was nothing special.
Just a dented crate tucked between two shuttered bakeries, marked only by a red scrap of cloth tied to the post above it. It didn't advertise anything. Didn't need to.
People who came here already knew what they were buying.
The man sitting behind the crate didn't look up when she approached. His face was—like all the rest—blurred, undefined. A blur of jaw and motion and voice.
But he had the look of someone used to staying invisible.
That was good.
That meant he could be trusted, for now.
She didn't speak right away. Just reached into her coat and pulled the pouch free—slow, careful. She placed it on the crate.
He weighed it with one hand. Didn't count it. Just looked inside.
After a long moment, he reached beneath the crate and slid out a folded scrap of thick parchment. Stamped with a sigil. Smudged, but real.
"West end. Warehouse row. Docks behind the third kiln," he muttered. "One bell before dusk. No questions. No refunds."
She took the ticket and nodded.
"And the child?"
"Keep him quiet. Keep him close. If he attracts attention, we leave you both."
She said nothing.
The man looked up for the first time. Or maybe just turned his head. It was hard to tell with the way the light bent around his features—how nothing quite settled into place.
Then he leaned back and waved her off.
The deal was done.
She didn't let herself breathe until she was five alleys away.
Even then, it was shallow. Measured.
The ticket felt too light in her hand.
But it was real.
She tucked it into the lining of her coat and rested a hand over it.
Tonight. Just make it to tonight.
She let herself imagine it.
The quiet life that could finally be hers.
Their new home wouldn't be much—wood walls, maybe a porch if they were lucky—but it'd be theirs. No soldiers. No sermons. Just air that didn't burn in your throat.
She'd wake to the smell of rain on clean earth.
Her son would grow tall. Strong.
She'd watch him race down dirt roads with the other kids. Walk him to school on the first day. Hug him when he was nervous. Pretend not to cry when he smiled at her and said, "I'll be fine."
She'd hear about his first friend. His first fight.
She'd be there the day he brought someone home, blushing and proud.
She'd tease him. Laugh.
He'd get a job. A real one. A life earned through her sacrifices. And she'd watch, at peace, as he chased the light she never touched.
She blinked.
The street was still ahead of her.
The dream was still a dream.
But for the first time in years—
She believed it could be more.
She walked slower now.
The ticket was tucked safe against her ribs, and the pouch that had once held everything… now hung light. Hollow.
That pouch had cost her years.
Her body.
Her pride.
Dirty jobs. Dangerous ones. The kind where you never looked anyone in the eye, and sometimes, you didn't walk away.
Nights she didn't sleep. Nights she sold what she couldn't afford to lose.
All for this.
Her life's work, sewn into silence.
For a different life. A better one.
She reached into it and felt the last few coins—scratched coppers, barely enough for bread.
She turned down a side alley and made for the baker's window. The woman behind the counter didn't greet her, didn't ask questions. Just handed over two flat loaves wrapped in cloth and took the coins without looking up.
The bread was warm in her hands.
It smelled like roasted grain and soot.
She held it close to her chest and turned toward home.
The sun had begun to sink behind the rooftops, casting long, amber streaks across the narrow streets. The slums glowed gold in places—like even they were touched, just briefly, by something kind.
She watched the light settle on broken steps, cracked windows, children chasing shadows with sticks. A thin smile crept onto her lips.
We made it, she thought.
We really made it.
She picked up her pace, bread tucked under her arm, the red thread in her hair catching what little sunlight remained..
The walk home had never felt so short.
She stepped inside.
Closed the door behind her.
The little room welcomed her with silence.
Dust hanging in the golden light.
The boy asleep in the corner, undisturbed.
She set the bread down on the table, fingers trembling not from fear—but from relief.
"Tonight," she whispered, brushing the boy's hair gently. "We leave tonight. I promise."
She tore the loaf in half and began to wrap it carefully in a strip of linen. Her hands moved with practiced rhythm, as if this small act—this preparation—was the beginning of something sacred.
Then something shifted.
A pressure.
A warmth—not from the bread.
She paused. Blinked.
Looked down.
Red.
A bloom of blood through her dress, sudden, impossible.
vHer hand shook, unbelieving, pressed against the warmth.
Pain.
Sharp. Icy. Deep.
She'd just been thinking about—
Rain on clean earth.
A porch.
A boy laughing in the sun.
His first friend. His first job. His first—
It slipped away.
Her breath caught.
Then she turned.
The knife was there, lodged between her ribs. Buried to the hilt.
Behind it—
A figure.
Tall. Thin. Trembling.
A face—not blurred. Not distorted.
Clear. Familiar.
Eyes that didn't blink. A mouth drawn too tight. A gaze that looked through her like she wasn't real.
Her mouth opened.
Recognition.
Shock.
Something else—too heavy to name.
But no sound came out.
The bread slid from her hand.
Then she followed it.