I woke up around 10:00. The attic was dim, lit only by the soft gold of late morning filtering through the cracks in the warped wood. Most of the women were still asleep. Tangled in thin sheets in their rented rooms, curled up in the corners of our shared space, or sprawled across mattresses that should've been burned a decade ago. My mother was beside me. She always came back up here. Even when she was tired. Even when she was hurting. Even when she made more coin staying in a room with them. She came back to me. Her heat was my heat. Her heartbeat, my lullaby. I didn't move at first. Just scooted closer, pressed my face to the place between her neck and shoulder, and breathed her in. Sunshine and sunflowers.
She took a bath before coming up, no matter how late it was. No matter how tired. She always made sure she didn't smell like them. Only like her. Only my mom. She sighed in her sleep, low and soft, the way she did when she was just starting to wake. Her arm looped around me, pulling me closer. I went willingly, sinking into her chest like I was a baby again. Because I still was for her. She kissed my forehead without opening her eyes. "Good morning, my baby," she whispered, voice scratchy and sweet.
"Morning," I murmured back. For a while, we just stayed there. Her fingers played lazily with my hair, and I let my eyes drift shut again. No rush. No reason to get up yet. The tavern wouldn't open for a few more hours. I'd already killed a man this week, so surely I could take one morning off.
Eventually, she sat up and stretched, the blanket falling from her shoulders. Her long black hair spilled down her back like shadow silk. My hair matched hers. Same color. Same waves. But her eyes were different, emerald green, sharp and kind all at once. That's what the men called her here. Their Emerald. But she was mine. I was hers. She was mine. She touched my cheek, where the scab had dried, and frowned. "This didn't happen from someone just trying to rob you."
I looked down. She cupped my chin and tilted it gently. "You don't have to lie to me, Drenriel. I already know what this city does to boys like you. To boys with magic."
"It wasn't a gang," I said quietly. "It was one man. But he had my name."
Her fingers stilled. I didn't give her the letter. Not yet. I didn't want her to worry more than she already did. She was already giving every piece of herself to keep me alive. To keep all of us alive. She pulled me into her again, tight this time. Fierce. "I don't care who sent him," she said into my hair. "If they come back, you do it again. You hear me? You survive."
"I will."
"I mean it." She leaned back just enough to look me in the eyes. "You're not like the others, baby. You've always had more magic than any of them. You came out of me screaming with power in your lungs."
"That's not why they want me dead," I muttered. "It's not just the magic."
She blinked. "Then what is it?"
"I don't know." I did. I just couldn't say it. Not yet.
She smoothed my hair again and kissed my forehead. "Whatever it is, they'll have to go through me first."
I smiled faintly. "Then they're doomed."
She laughed, that low, musical laugh that made the attic feel warmer, safer. She reached for the dented tin comb on the crate beside the bed and began pulling it through my hair with gentle strokes. "We've got a delivery today," she said, switching to her sing-song voice. "Fresh meat from the butcher. You want to help me unload it?"
"Sure."
"And maybe sneak a sausage when no one's looking?"
I grinned. "I'd never."
"Liar," she said, kissing my temple. "My beautiful little liar."
I dressed quickly in clean clothes, well, clean-ish, and helped her down the creaky ladder to the tavern below. The place smelled like spilled ale, stale sweat, and pine soap. A woman was already wiping the counters, humming to herself. A few of the regulars slept slumped over their tables, snoring through empty tankards. My mother moved like she belonged here. Because she did. I moved like I didn't. Because I didn't. Not forever. Someday, I'd get her out of here. Out of this slum, out of this life. I would go to a magic academy. I didn't care how much it cost or how much blood it took. She deserved more. She deserved everything. But first, I had to figure out who wanted me dead. And why.
I helped my mother and the butcher haul everything into the cold room. It smelled like blood and salt, the air sharp and damp. The room was little more than stone and rune, but it worked. It kept things fresh. My job was to keep it powered. I touched the glowing mark above the door, etched deep into the stone, carved long before I was born, and let the blue magic flow through me. Blue was instinctual. Easy. Like breathing. It moved like water, soft and cold, filling the cracks and soaking into the old lines. Peaceful, if I let it be. Violent, if I wanted it to be. I kept this rune charged daily. The owner Mira took the service off our rent. Said it saved her coin. Said my magic was "just handy enough to be useful."
Most people would be drained after fueling a rune this size. I wasn't. Not even close. We grabbed sausages and eggs, protein, the good kind. That was the deal. Keep it running, take what we need. My mother always made sure the food went to the kids first. After all, we were the next shipment of bodies the city would burn through. Might as well start strong.
By noon, most of the women were up and working, slipping into the painted dresses they wore for the men. Most of the children were already outside in the yard or doing chores. We all had chores. Today, breakfast was my mom's shift. Every woman rotated, cooking one day at a time. She was the best at it. She always made the eggs taste like real food instead of powder and sadness. I swept the floor. That was my job. But the moment I walked into the common room, I stopped cold. The tables were still dirty. Crumbs. Sticky rings from tankards. Dried sauce. Everything left exactly how it was after last night's dinner rush. I scowled. That wasn't my job. I could do it. I could snap my fingers and summon a breeze to push the grime into neat piles, swirl the dust out the door. Easy. Stupid easy. But I wouldn't. That wasn't. My. Job. I stormed up the stairs, jaw tight, already knowing who'd skipped their damn job. Jack.
Lazy, smirking little shit. Twice my size and over twice my age. Twelve years old and already too big for his own skin. Always dragging his feet unless there was food or coin involved. His job, he waited tables and wiped the tables before bed. That's how he paid for his place here. That's how he earned the bunk he was drooling on. I didn't knock. I kicked the mattress hard. "Get up."
He groaned and rolled over, face buried in the pillow. "Screw off, Dren."
"You didn't wipe the tables."
"I said screw off." He tossed an arm toward me, half-hearted. I kicked harder, this time, right in his side. He yelped, rolled, and came up swinging. The first punch missed. The second didn't. His fist cracked against the side of my head, hard enough to make my vision blur. I stumbled back, hand to my temple. "You wipe 'em!" he snapped. "I was up all night helping the cook. You think I give a rat's ass about some crumbs?"
I stood there, stunned for half a second. Then I lunged. We crashed to the floor, fists flying, limbs tangled. He was stronger, heavier, and he didn't fight fair. He wrapped an arm around my neck and slammed me down hard enough to knock the air out of me. The boards shook under my back. I clawed at him, tried to roll, but he pinned me easy. My head hit the floor again. Pain burst behind my eyes. I could've stopped him. I could've used air to shove him off, or ice to freeze his hands. My magic burned, begging to be used. But I didn't. Because my mother's rule was law. No magic against the other children. Ever. My mother's rule wasn't about fear. It was love. I loved her too much to break it.
Jack didn't have any he could use. Not even a spark. So I took the hits. His knuckles split my lip. My cheek stung. My ribs throbbed from where he'd kneed me. When he finally pushed off me, he was panting and grinning like he'd just conquered the world.
"Stay down," he muttered, chest heaving. I didn't move. Not because I was scared. Because if I stood up, I wasn't sure I could stop myself. He turned, started to leave. The smug bastard. Something in me snapped.
"One day," I said, my voice low but clear, "when I'm in the Academy and you're cannon fodder, in the mine, or dead, I hope you remember this moment."
He froze. I pushed myself up on one elbow, wiped the blood from my mouth, and met his eyes. "And know the only reason I didn't murder you right now is because of my mother."
For a heartbeat, he just stared at me. Then he backhanded me across the face, hard enough to make stars burst behind my eyes. My head snapped to the side, and I hit the floor again. The boards cracked under me. My ears rang. He didn't say a word as he walked out, leaving me there, bleeding and shaking with rage. I lay still, staring at the ceiling. Someday, I promised myself. Someday, no one would ever touch me again.
I walked down to the common room, my jaw tight, blood still crusted on my lip. My cheek throbbed where Jack had hit me. Every step made the floor creak like it knew better than to get in my way. The tables were still filthy. Sticky rings. Crumbs. Dried stew. Fine. I'd clean them. I'd clean everything.
I threw out my hand and let the magic explode. Water burst from the air, wild, cold, unstoppable. It slammed against the tables, sprayed across the floor, splattered the walls. I kept going until everything dripped and ran and drowned. The noise filled my head, louder than my heartbeat, louder than my anger. Then I switched. Air magic hissed to life, fierce and sharp. I pushed it out with a scream that tore my throat raw. The wind howled through the room, sending every drop of water out the open door in a single violent wave. Trash and scraps went with it, slamming into the alley wall in a wet pile. The tavern was spotless now. Too spotless. Too quiet.
I stood there shaking. My hands wouldn't stop. My chest burned hot, too hot, like something inside me was boiling. Blue magic was supposed to feel cool, calm, like water and breath. But this wasn't calm. This wasn't peace. This was heat. I stared at the pile of garbage outside. My anger clawed for somewhere to go. It wanted to burn. "Your job's done, Jack," I whispered, voice trembling. "Hope you like my work."
The magic pulsed. The air shimmered red for the first time. Thin lines crawling down my arms, veins of fire beneath my skin. My heart slammed against my ribs. The pile outside caught first, a soft hiss, a spark, then flame. It spread fast. Paper curled. Grease ignited. The stench of burning filled the air, thick and sweet. The whole heap went up like it had been waiting for me to snap. I didn't move. Couldn't.
The fire reflected in the window, orange, gold, red. It looked alive. Beautiful. Terrifying. My hands shook harder. I didn't even know what I'd done. I'd never used red magic before. I wasn't supposed to. Not many in the Yellow District could. But it felt good. Too good. The flames roared higher. My heart roared with them. For the first time in my life, I was scared of my own power. But I didn't stop.