The streets shimmered under a pale morning light, swept by a wind that carried the scent of warm bread, polished leather, and expensive perfumes. Hidden in the shadow of a narrow alley, Kael watched in silence. His arms were crossed tightly over his empty stomach, as if he could muffle the hunger that clawed at him from within. The cold had seeped beneath his skin, but that wasn't what troubled him most. Survival that day wasn't slow and creeping-it was immediate. He had to eat or collapse.
He crept forward, silent as dust on stone, barefoot and cautious, each step perfectly avoiding sharp gravel and unwanted attention. His torn and oversized clothes fluttered in the breeze like the tattered flags of a lost cause. Each footfall brought him closer to forbidden territory-the part of the city ruled by the Altaris-where even the air felt heavier. In these opulent streets, being quiet wasn't enough. You had to be invisible. And Kael, despite the filth and rags, was far too visible.
His gaze landed on a perfect target: a stand brimming with freshly baked bread, the steam still rising from golden crusts. The baker was preoccupied, his attention fully absorbed by a well-dressed customer. Kael didn't hesitate. He lunged like a shadow, his hand reaching for a loaf with practiced speed. But just as his fingers grazed the bread, a voice exploded behind him-a sharp, outraged bark. Before he could flee, a powerful hand yanked him back by the shoulder.
He was thrown onto the cobblestones with brutal force, his back slamming hard against the ground, stealing the air from his lungs. Looming over him was a man, richly dressed, eyes filled with disdain. This wasn't just a vendor-it was an Altaris noble. His garments spoke of status and wealth, his posture of authority long practiced and rarely questioned. His fury burned like fire in the morning chill.
"You dare steal in front of me?" the man hissed, hauling Kael to his feet by the collar before slamming him back against the wall. Kael tried to speak, but no sound came out. What could he say? Words didn't matter to people like this. He tried to twist free-but a punch struck him hard in the face, sending his head cracking against the stone. Light burst behind his eyes.
Another blow followed, a knee driven deep into his gut. The breath rushed from Kael's lungs as he crumpled, a broken puppet dropped in the dirt. His cries didn't even form. Around them, a crowd began to gather. No one stepped in. They whispered, they judged, some even smirked. Children pointed. A boy like Kael didn't earn sympathy. He earned scorn.
The beating continued. Kael curled into himself, trying to shield his ribs, his face, anything-but the noble's boots found him again and again. The pain was no longer separate: it merged into one overwhelming blur. Blood dripped from his nose, his lips, his chin, mixing with the dust. He wasn't angry. There was no room for anger-only a creeping numbness.
Then came the words-words that cut deeper than any fist.
"You're nothing. You shouldn't have been born. Filth like you belongs in the gutter."
Kael shut his eyes. He tried to slip away into the dark corners of his mind, to a place where none of this could reach him. But even his thoughts weren't safe.
At last, the noble stopped. Panting from the exertion, he stepped back, brushing invisible filth from his coat as if touching Kael had soiled him. Kael lay motionless on the ground, barely breathing. Blood smeared his face, his eyes swollen, one side of his mouth split open. He didn't move. He couldn't.
The crowd began to disperse, bored now that the show was over. Whispers trailed behind them like smoke. "Just a street rat," one murmured. "He deserved it," said another. And just like that, the world moved on, leaving Kael broken on the stones, forgotten once again.
Only one person stayed behind: a girl about his age, standing at a distance, her eyes wide with something between pity and fear. She didn't say a word. She simply watched, her fingers twitching by her side as if unsure whether to approach or turn away.
Kael finally stirred. A groan escaped his lips, more breath than voice. He forced one arm beneath him, then another. Every movement sent lightning through his bones. But he pushed, dragged himself inch by inch toward the wall. There, he slumped, his back to the stone, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps.
He didn't cry. There were no tears left in him.
He didn't speak. There were no words that could carry the weight of what he felt.
But in his heart, a flame smoldered. Not rage-not yet. Just a quiet, steady defiance. One day, he thought, this world would remember me. One day, they'll see me not as a rat-but as something greater.
And he would make sure of it.