The bite of the Ventus wind was an old acquaintance. It scoured the city's labyrinthine alleys, carrying the acrid scent of the docks and the faint tang of desperation that clung to the orphanage district like mildew. For ten-year-old Orin Aerion, the wind was just another part of the low, constant hum of survival.
He moved through the cramped, often brutal, confines of the orphanage with the practiced ease of a whisper. Most children here survived by being loud, demanding, or fast. Orin survived by being unnoticed. His dark brown hair, perpetually a little messy, often fell over keen grey eyes that saw too much, too fast. They were eyes that didn't miss the subtle flinch of a caretaker about to strike, the tell-tale shift in weight of a larger boy preparing to shove, or the faint, fleeting shimmer of something impossibly ancient that sometimes touched his forehead when he felt truly alone.
Life in the orphanage was a stark echo of the "terrible environment" Ryo, the assassin he once was, had known. Scraps of food, arbitrary punishments, the constant jostle for the warmest corner to sleep—it was a microcosm of the kill-or-be-killed world Ryo had escaped, or perhaps, simply been thrust from. Orin, even at his young age, understood the irony. He was a master of evasion, a strategist of resource management, a quiet observer who knew how to disappear. These weren't lessons taught in books; they were etched into the very fiber of his soul.
"Think you can hide, Orin?" a gruff voice rumbled, pulling Orin from his thoughts.
Joric, a year older and already burly for his age, grinned, elbowing Orin playfully. Joric was all brawn and good intentions, always sticking up for the smaller kids, even if it usually ended with him taking a beating. Beside him, Elara gave Orin a soft smile, her bright eyes a rare splash of warmth in the bleak orphanage. She was Orin's age, quick-witted and always seemed to find the hidden good in things, whether it was a forgotten crust of bread or a sliver of kindness from a stern caretaker.
"Always," Orin replied, his voice a quiet murmur. He moved to let them into his cramped, makeshift 'hideout' behind a stack of unused crates. "Gribble's looking for someone to scrub the privies."
"Wouldn't surprise me," Joric scoffed, his grin fading. "He caught me trying to 'borrow' a pie from the kitchen again. Said if I do it one more time, he'll send me to the Dregs."
The Dregs. A notorious section of the city, controlled by a petty gang called the 'Iron Grasp,' known for forcing children into petty theft and begging. Even the caretakers feared them.
Elara's smile wavered. "Joric, you shouldn't"
"Someone had to!" Joric cut her off, his face flushing. "Little Anya hasn't eaten in two days! What were we supposed to do?"
Orin said nothing, just observed Joric's defiant posture, the tight set of Elara's jaw. They were his companions, his anchors in this new, strange life. And for the first time since he became Orin, a part of Ryo stirred, a protector's instinct he thought long buried.
The next evening, Joric didn't return from his chore run in the city. The orphanage buzzed with hushed whispers.
Gribble just grunted, "Good riddance to bad rubbish. One less mouth to feed." But Elara was frantic.
"They took him, Orin! The Iron Grasp! I saw them, near the old warehouses by the docks!" Elara's eyes were wide with terror, clutching Orin's sleeve.
"Joric went for more food for Anya, and they caught him. They said he owed them. Said he'd work for them now."
Orin's mind, usually so calm, felt a cold knot tighten. "How many?" he asked, his voice even.
"Three, maybe four of them! Big men!" Elara choked back a sob. "We have to do something! He'll be hurt, Orin, or worse!"
"Tell Gribble?" another child, a nervous boy named Finn, whimpered.
"Gribble would beat us all for 'starting trouble'," Orin stated flatly, the pragmatism of his past life chillingly evident. He looked at Elara, then at Finn.
"Fighting them directly is suicide. We need a plan." His gaze drifted over the rough, worn map of the city he'd meticulously memorized, focusing on the dock district. "Where exactly did you see them?"
Elara pointed, her finger trembling, towards a cluster of derelict warehouses near the grimy edge of the docks. "That one... the one with the broken sign. I saw them drag him inside."
Orin nodded slowly. "Their main hideout, then. Dangerous. Probably multiple guards." He turned to Elara. "Stay here. Watch for Gribble. If anyone asks, you haven't seen me."
"Orin, you can't go alone!" Elara protested, fear warring with trust in her eyes. "They'll—"
"I won't be alone," Orin interrupted, his voice holding a quiet, unnerving certainty. "You're coming with me." He glanced at Finn, who immediately blanched. "You stay. You're too slow." Finn swallowed hard, nodding rapidly.
The moon hung low over the rooftops of Ventus, a sliver of pale light cutting through the perpetual smog of the docklands. Orin moved like a wraith, Elara a surprisingly agile shadow behind him. He guided her through narrow gaps between buildings, over precarious stacks of crates, and along slick, shadowed walls. He wasn't relying on Magi, which hummed faintly in the distant city spires, or Aura, the dull, unreachable thrum within him. He relied on the brutal lessons of Ryo: the precise placement of a foot, the optimal angle of a climb, the subtle shift in air currents that hinted at a hidden presence.
"Whisper," Orin breathed, pressing himself against a damp brick wall as he heard heavy footsteps approaching. "Stay low."
They waited. Two burly figures, reeking of stale ale and sweat, passed by, their conversation slurred. "Damn kids," one grumbled. "Always causes trouble. Boss ain't happy."
"Joric," Elara whispered, fear tightening her voice.
Orin didn't answer. He was already analyzing. Two guards. Complacent. Loud. Unobservant. He pointed to a high, open window on the warehouse's second floor. "We go in there."
Elara stared. "How?"
Orin didn't explain. He simply began to scale the rough wall, finding purchase in crumbling mortar and loose bricks, his movements efficient, almost Spider-like. He pulled himself up, then reached down, his small hand surprisingly strong as he helped Elara up. Inside, the warehouse was a cavern of shadows and stacked cargo. A single lantern cast flickering light from below, illuminating a rough table where two more figures sat playing cards. A grimy, rusted cage stood nearby, and inside it, a hunched figure.
Joric.
The air was thick with the scent of stale smoke and despair. Orin took a deep, silent breath, his senses reaching out. His Aura, though sealed, still provided him with an acute awareness of his surroundings—the creak of floorboards, the subtle shifts in the guards' weight, the rhythm of their breathing. He scanned the room, identifying every exit, every potential weapon, every weakness.
"They're too many," Elara whispered, her eyes wide.
"No," Orin corrected, his voice a barely audible rasp. "They're sloppy."
He moved first towards a stack of old fishing nets, pulling them free. Then, a rusty pulley system hanging precariously from a high beam caught his eye. A quick, precise tug on a nearby rope, unseen by the guards, dislodged a heavy crate from a stack. It didn't fall on them directly, but crashed down with a deafening thud just feet from their table.
Chaos erupted. The guards yelled, leaping to their feet. Orin didn't hesitate. As they rushed to investigate the noise, he slipped across the floor like a shadow, grabbing a loose, sharp metal pipe. The first guard to reach the crate was met by a low, sweeping kick to the ankles, sending him sprawling. Before he could react, Orin brought the pipe down, not on his head, but with a sharp crack to his shin. The man howled, clutching his leg.
The second guard turned, startled. Orin didn't engage. He threw the pipe towards a stack of barrels filled with liquid, causing them to clatter loudly and spill. The pungent smell of cheap spirits filled the air. Distraction.
"Orin, the key!" Joric's voice, hoarse from the cage, cut through the noise.
Orin's eyes darted to the key hanging on a nail near the gambling table. One of the guards, the leader by the look of him, was already rushing towards him, a heavy club raised.
Too slow. Too wide. Orin's mind calculated. He ducked under the swing, his smaller size an advantage. He didn't try to grapple. Instead, he twisted, aiming a precise, open-palmed strike at the guard's temple. It wasn't strong enough to knock him out, but it was enough. The man staggered, disoriented for a crucial second. Orin snatched the key from the nail with fluid speed.
He was at the cage in an instant. The lock was crude, but even with his small hands, the key turned. Joric, bruised but defiant, stumbled out.
"Let's go!" Orin urged, his voice devoid of triumph, only urgency.
The other guards were recovering. Shouts filled the warehouse. But Orin was already leading the way, not back the way they came, but through a hidden crack in the back wall he'd spotted moments before. He knew the labyrinthine alleys of Ventus better than any guard.
They ran, not stopping until the sounds of the Iron Grasp faded behind them, replaced by the familiar cries of gulls and the distant city hum. Joric was panting, bruised, but grinning. "You did it, Orin! You really did it!"
Elara embraced Orin tightly, a mixture of relief and trembling fear. "Orin… that was… how did you…?" Her voice trailed off, unable to articulate the unnatural efficiency she'd just witnessed.
Orin simply shrugged, his expression unreadable beneath the moonlight. The danger was past. The objective achieved. He was just a boy from the orphanage. But for a fleeting moment, in the quiet triumph of the night, Orin knew he was much more. He was Ryo, the assassin. And though his power was sealed, his blade, unseen, was unbroken.