Her name rang through the market like a bell:
"Grace of House Luminareth."
I froze. The crowd stirred, murmuring like leaves in a gust. The guards' sneers faltered.
Luminareth. Not the ruling house—Caeloria ruled these lands—but close enough to power to bend common folk to their will. The name carried weight, a mixture of fear and respect. And here she was, golden hair catching the morning sun, gaze steady, dismissing the guards' murmurs with a flick of her delicate hand.
She turned to me, her expression softening, almost maternal. "Stay close, Xavier. The market can be dangerous for children who wander too far."
I nodded, but unease twisted in my stomach. Faces watched me—pity, resignation, whispers I couldn't hear but felt in the press of the crowd. Mothers pulled their children closer. Men averted their eyes. No one spoke, yet everyone watched, as if I were a spectacle of misfortune.
I wanted to ask—why do they look at me that way? But the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I followed her, arms tight against my chest.
Grace's hand rested lightly on my shoulder, guiding me through narrow market streets, past stalls overflowing with fruit, fabric, and the smell of smoke from nearby forges. Her presence was unnerving—poised, deliberate, the golden hair and pale dress almost otherworldly against the dirt and grime of the market. A faint smile tugged at her lips, calm but distant.
"Your mother and sister must be looking for you," she said, voice smooth, almost too gentle. "Let's see if we can find them. It would be best not to worry them, don't you think?"
The further we walked, the quieter the market became. Stalls and shouts faded into the distance, replaced by the steady drip of water from broken gutters, the scuff of our boots on uneven cobblestones, the distant caw of a crow circling the rooftops. The air smelled damp, a mixture of rot, smoke, and the faint sweetness of baking bread carried by the wind.
My stomach twisted. Something felt wrong. Not the alleys themselves—they were familiar—but the world had narrowed. The weight of the townsfolk's eyes still clung to me. Their pity. Their silent judgment. It pressed in harder here, with no witnesses, no noise, no distraction.
Grace moved with ease, every step confident, like she knew every shadowed corner of the city. I followed, small and hesitant, heart hammering in my chest.
We reached a dead end, a square hemmed in by crumbling walls and leaning buildings. The shadows pooled in the corners, swallowing the weak light. Grace stopped, turning to face me. Her eyes glinted in the dim light, unreadable. For a heartbeat, she simply watched, the faint curl of her lips almost kind—but only almost.
Then—boots struck stone. Three men stepped from a side passage, clad in the muted livery of guards. Their armor was worn but well-kept. Each movement radiated practiced precision, trained cruelty.
"The brat," the tallest sneered. "Dragging Lady Grace off alone?"
The second spat at the ground. "Thought you'd play the gallant hero, eh? Pathetic little rat."
The third tightened his grip on a cudgel, eyes hard. "Common trash doesn't get ideas like that without punishment."
Instinctively, I looked to Grace for reassurance, for denial, for a hint that this was a mistake. But she only tilted her head, that faint smile lingering—strangely calm, strangely distant.
The tallest guard jabbed a finger into my chest, hard enough to sting. "You thought we wouldn't notice? Dragging Lady Grace from the market? Trying to trick her into some backstreet ambush?"
"That's not—" My voice cracked. "I didn't—she said—"
The second guard barked a laugh. "Hear that? Common brat thinks he can talk his way out of it."
Before I could catch my breath, the cudgel slammed into my stomach. Air tore from my lungs. My knees buckled. Pain bloomed like fire through my small body, sharp and unrelenting. I collapsed against the stone wall, gasping like a fish on dry land.
"You should be grateful," the guard snarled above me. "Grateful anyone of her standing even noticed you exist. And this is how you repay it? By scheming?"
I clawed for words, bile thick in my throat. "I… I wasn't… scheming…"
I turned, desperate, to Grace. Her hands remained folded neatly before her. No fear. No protest. Only that faint, small smile. Mischief and malice intertwined, hidden behind a mask of serenity.
The guards laughed, circling me. Each blow landed with precision, punctuated by words meant to crush.
"Pathetic."
"Filthy commoner."
"Doesn't even bleed noble red."
The alley shrank around me, pain and fear amplifying every echo of boots and fists. My small arms shook as I tried to shield myself. Each strike was a lesson: here, birth mattered more than courage, more than survival, more than skill.
"You think kindness can save you?" The first guard leaned close, voice a whip. "You're born into dirt. You'll die in dirt. Maybe then, the world will finally be rid of your useless life."
My vision blurred. Yet somewhere deep, a spark refused to die. Memories of my other life—of rooftops, of falls, of trials I had survived—flared. They reminded me: survival is possible, even here.
The second blow sent me sprawling across the stones. My chest burned, lungs screamed. Yet I forced myself to rise, trembling, every motion agony.
"You think you belong here?" The tallest guard spat. "You, a dirt-born wretch, pretending to touch someone like Lady Grace?"
Gagging, I tried to explain. "I—please—"
"Silence!" The second barked. Boot slammed into my side, pain radiating through ribs and shoulder. The ground was slick, rough stones biting my hands as I clawed to push myself upright.
The guards' laughter blended into a single sneering chorus. "Look at him! Pathetic! Commoner! Nothing!"
My small cries went unheard, swallowed by stone and shadow. Each strike carved the same lesson into my mind: here, courage is meaningless. Birth defines value. Pain is constant. Mercy is absent.
The third guard yanked me by the hair, shoving me against the wall. A kick to the side sent me sliding across the cobbles, every joint aflame. I shivered—not just from the blows, but from the helplessness.
Even then, my mind surged: Jake Allan's memories—school beatings, the rooftop, the fall—all converged, sharpening every nerve. I had survived before. I would survive again.
The tallest guard's fist smashed my stomach. "Your courage is meaningless," he said. "Your mind… none of it matters."
Pain burned through me. Each breath was a knife. And yet—inside, a spark flared.
Grace's voice cut through the alley like steel. Calm, serene, authoritative. "Enough."
The guards froze, reluctant but obedient. "My lady?"
"Leave him." Her tone was soft, almost casual, but unyielding.
They shoved me one last time, spat on the cobblestones, and vanished. Silence fell, heavy as stone.
I lay there, body torn, bruised, bloodied, every muscle screaming. Yet beneath it, a stubborn ember glowed: survival. I would endure. I would rise. I would repay this lesson—one day.
The alley stretched silent around me. Grace's faint scent lingered, a reminder that cruelty could wear a golden mask, and even orchestrated pain carried a whisper of control. I did not understand her motives. I did not care. For now, all I could do was lie, small, broken, common—and wait