Cassian walked out of the old man's tent with the book in hand, holding it casually like it was just a piece of scrap. The night air was quiet, the moon hanging high, throwing a pale glow over the line of shabby tents.
He looked back once more.
The old man was curled up on his mat, unmoving. Peaceful. Too peaceful.
"Wow, he fell asleep real fast," Cassian murmured. He hesitated for a second before lowering the flap quietly.
Then he turned away.
His own tent was just a few steps down. Compared to the old man's, his was like a palace. At least it didn't smell like something had died inside. He kept his space clean, not because he was neat or anything, but because rats made terrible roommates.
Inside, everything was in its place — his old shirt folded on a box, two spare pants hanging from a stick, and a few rags that passed as towels. Nothing fancy. Just organized.
His "bed" was a mat laid on a pile of dry hay. It wasn't comfortable, but it didn't stab him like the rocky ground outside, so he called it luxury.
Cassian sighed as he threw the book somewhere — probably into the corner where other useless junk lived — and flopped down on his mat.
He tore off his shirt and stretched, exposing a body that looked like it had lost a fight with starvation. His ribs stood out, and his flat stomach growled in protest.
"Damn it…" he muttered, clutching his belly. It had been four days since he last ate properly. One meal a day, sometimes none. His body was giving up.
He thought of the academy. Of the rich bastards in their fine robes eating spirit beast meat and exotic fruits while the cleaners starved behind the walls.
"They can't even feed us properly," he whispered bitterly. "Even horses eat better than this."
He turned to the side, curling into himself. The hay rustled under him, and the cold air nipped at his skin.
Maybe tomorrow would be better.
Probably not.
He let out a final sigh and closed his eyes. Sleep came quickly — or maybe it was just exhaustion dragging him down.
⸻
But sleep wasn't kind.
Every time his stomach twisted, he woke up again.
Every time he closed his eyes, the hunger pulled him back.
He'd drift in and out, half-asleep, half-starving, counting the seconds until morning.
When dawn finally came, his eyes were red, and his throat was dry.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes and yawning. The world outside was already moving, footsteps, chatter, the sound of something being dragged.
He wore his shirt and stood up weakly, bones aching, and pulled open his tent flap.
The first thing that hit him was the smell , sharp, bitter, and sour. Then came the noise.
He turned left and froze.
The old man's tent was being dismantled. Two workers were folding the mat, another was kicking the rubble aside. His few belongings were piled carelessly in a corner.
Cassian blinked, his brain slow to catch up. Then it clicked.
He rushed over. "Hey! What are you doing? Why are you moving his stuff?"
One of the men straightened up, frowning. His expression made it clear he didn't appreciate being spoken to by a cleaner. His clothes were a bit better, and on his chest hung a small bronze tag with a hammer engraved on it, the maintenance badge.
Great. Even the maintenance guys looked down on them.
He gave Cassian that look, the one that said don't talk to me, you piece of trash.
Cassian clenched his fists. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words stuck in his throat. What was the point? Nobody here respected cleaners. Not even the damn workers.
He was about to turn away when he noticed her.
A girl stood nearby, watching everything with cold eyes. She wore the academy's uniform, dark blue with silver edges, but what caught his attention was the black rope tied around her arm.
Punishment mark.
Cassian knew what it meant. Students on punishment were stripped of privileges and made to do menial labor for a few days.
He blinked, watching her lift one of the old man's boxes with surprising ease.
Her face wasn't familiar, but her posture screamed "I hate being here."
Cassian's mind started spinning. Maybe, just maybe, she'd be easier to talk to than these idiots.
Alright, think, Cassian. Maintenance guys hate me, nothing new. But this girl… punishment tag means she's suffering too. Maybe I should try my luck. Worst case? She ignores me. Best case? She actually talks. And if she's cute, hey, that's a bonus.
He rubbed his neck and glanced at her again.
"Maybe," he muttered under his breath, "I should give it a shot."