The abandoned building that Morgan once used as a refuge now teemed with quiet movement.
Children darted out, sweeping debris, patching holes with scraps of cloth and wood, and lighting small lanterns made from melted candle stubs. The faint glow cast trembling shadows against the cracked walls, giving the place a fragile sense of life. For the first time since Big Rat's downfall, the air did not feel hopeless.
Morgan stood by the doorway, arms crossed, observing. Her sharp gaze followed each movement — who worked diligently, who slacked, who stole glances toward the food pile when they thought no one was watching. She didn't need to raise her voice. Her presence alone was enough to command order.
The children — the little rats — had been taught fear by Big Rat. She intended to teach them something different: discipline.
"Stop patching that side," she said quietly, her voice carrying in the stillness. "The wood there's too rotten. Shift the planks to the far corner — make it an entryway instead."
The boy she spoke to nodded quickly and ran to obey. Morgan's lips curved slightly, not in satisfaction, but in acknowledgment. They were learning to listen, and that was the first step.
By noon, she gathered them all. Around twenty of them — ranging from small pickpockets to teenagers who'd once run errands for Big Rat — sat before her in a rough circle. The room smelled faintly of dust, sweat, and the thin soup they'd managed to cook from leftover scraps.
"You're all here because you've got nowhere else to go," Morgan began. "But things will be different from now on."
Her tone was even, calm — but every word carried weight. "No more stealing from markets. No more snatching purses or working as runners for thugs. You do that again, you'll bring trouble here, and I won't tolerate it."
A murmur spread through the group. One of the older boys, tall and wiry, frowned. "Then what are we supposed to do? Beg?"
Morgan's eyes locked on him, cold and unflinching. "You'll work."
He blinked. "Work?"
"I'll find small jobs," she said. "Hauling crates, cleaning stalls, sorting trash at the market — anything that doesn't draw too much attention. You'll earn enough to eat, and we'll use what's left to keep this place running."
The boy opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again when he met her gaze. She was not someone to debate with.
Morgan continued, "For now, we need a better base. This building is too exposed. The next few days, I want you to search for somewhere quiet — someplace people don't go often. A ruin, an old sewer junction, a warehouse. But don't act suspiciously. Understand?"
The little rats nodded in unison.
"Good," she said, standing. "You'll report back to me every night."
As they dispersed, Morgan lingered by the window, watching the capital's sprawling alleys. The city breathed like a beast — loud, hungry, unpredictable. It devoured the weak and spat out their bones.
But she wasn't weak anymore.
She could feel it — that faint, pulsing energy beneath her skin, the lingering resonance of her magic. Her connection with the misty moths had grown stronger since her week of seclusion. Now, when she closed her eyes, she could almost sense their movements in a wider arc, their fragile wings painting faint impressions in her mind.
Her moths were no longer just eyes. They were threads — an extension of her awareness, a living map of shadows.
That night, Morgan left the children to rest and moved through the city under the veil of darkness.
Her destination lay beyond the merchant quarter — a cluster of rundown buildings near the southern wall. It was there that the Red Snake gang, one of the lesser, but ruthless groups, had made their base. This new gang rises after the fall of Big rat's gang. They take some of the network and assets of big rat in that area. Their leader, a man named Garrick, had taken the inn after driving out the old owners. Rumor said they guarded more than just coin — something of value taken after the fall of Big Rat.
Big Rat's stash.
Morgan's fingers tightened around her cloak. If the tavern owner's information was true, that money was enough to secure food, protection, and supplies for her growing network. Enough to give them stability — or the start of something larger.
She stopped on a rooftop overlooking the inn, crouching low.
Lanterns glowed dimly in the lower floors, but the top levels were quiet. She counted guards — four outside, two patrolling the back alley. All drunk.
Typical.
A faint smirk tugged at her lips.
She closed her eyes and summoned her mist.
Soft light gathered around her hand, shimmering faintly in the night air before scattering into a dozen pale moths. They fluttered out silently, slipping through the gaps between bricks and under doorframes.
Her senses extended — like tendrils brushing through the air, tasting sound and motion. The moths moved through rooms heavy with the smell of ale and unwashed men. She "felt" laughter, heard metal scrape on wood, the clinking of cups. Then… silence.
A wide cellar beneath the inn, colder, heavier. The faint glint of coins.
There it was.
Morgan opened her eyes, her expression calm. She couldn't move yet — too many still awake. But the moment they left…
She waited.
Hours crawled by. The moon dipped low. One by one, the voices died down. The guards slumped in their chairs, half asleep.
Then the sound came — boots, rough voices, and the creak of wagons. The Red Fangs were leaving.
Morgan tensed, focusing. Through her moths, she watched as the gang loaded crates onto carts, curses echoing in the night. It seemed they were joining the larger conflict brewing near the city's outskirts — territory wars were always bloody this time of year.
When the last cart rolled away, silence returned.
Perfect.
Morgan moved swiftly, gliding from the rooftop to the ground like a shadow. Her boots made no sound as she approached the inn. The front was locked, but a narrow window in the back had already been cracked open for ventilation. She slipped through, landing soundlessly on the dusty floor.
The inn smelled of beer, mold, and old smoke. She passed through the empty hall, guided by the faint awareness of her moths. Down the stairs — creaking, groaning wood threatening to betray her every step.
At the basement door, she paused. Her moths confirmed no presence inside. Slowly, she pushed it open.
The cellar was small but cluttered — barrels, sacks, crates, and dust-covered shelves. In the far corner lay an overturned table, and beneath it, a trapdoor.
Morgan knelt, brushing away the grime. A faint lock glimmered in the dim light. She drew a thin blade from her boot and slipped it in, working with practiced precision until the lock gave a soft click.
The air below was colder — and smelled faintly of metal and old coins.
She descended carefully, her fingers brushing the stone walls. Then she saw it.
A chest, heavy and iron-bound, half-buried under cloth and straw. The emblem carved into the lid was unmistakable — Big Rat's crude insignia.
Her chest tightened slightly at the sight. A relic of a dead man's greed.
Morgan exhaled and pulled it open.
Gold coins. Silver. Jewels. Not much by noble standards, but enough to keep twenty mouths fed for a season — and enough to start something of her own.
She closed the chest, steadying her breath. Then she began packing the contents into several smaller pouches, easy to carry, easy to hide. Years of surviving in the underbelly had taught her one thing — never take more than you can run with.
When she was done, she looked around one last time.
The faint hum of her moths filled her awareness — calm, steady. But beneath it, she felt something else. The cold pull of intuition. The sense that someone — or something — was watching.
She froze.
Silence.
Then a faint creak above, footsteps — heavy and deliberate.
She slipped into the shadows, pressing herself against the wall. A sliver of light fell through the trapdoor as it opened. A man's voice cursed softly.
"Damn it… forgot my flask."
The Red Snake hadn't all left.
Morgan held her breath as the man descended halfway, muttering to himself. Her hand gripped her blade. If he turned around—
A moth landed silently on his shoulder, its wings pulsing faintly.
The man paused, brow furrowing. He brushed at it. The moment his hand moved, Morgan was already behind him. A quick motion — the hilt of her dagger striking the base of his skull.
He slumped without a sound.
Morgan caught his body before it hit the floor, lowering it carefully.
"Bad night for you," she whispered, expression unreadable.
She slipped out the way she came, melting into the night before anyone else stirred.
By the time dawn broke, Morgan was back at the hideout bringing with her a few pouch of coins and some bread.
The children were stirring awake, rubbing their eyes, whispering softly among themselves. When she entered, they froze — then brightened when they saw what she carried.
She tossed the bread onto the table. The smell of the hard bread was enticing for the children but nobody move.
"Take this," she said simply, "It will keep you from hunger for a while."
A collective murmur of awe spread through the group. The younger ones' eyes widened, while the older ones exchanged glances — half grateful, half disbelieving.
Morgan watched them quietly. "Remember what I said. No stealing. No useless risks. We survive by being smart, not desperate."
Then, softer — almost to herself — "We'll need to plan our next steps."
While the children was eating, Morgan ask them of any updates regarding the new base she commands them to find. Every one of them tell her of many possible hideouts for there base. But Morgan was not satisfied, living in an abandoned ruin of a workshop or hidden gutters does not suit her any longer. She needs somewhere livable, with the money she had now it won't bother her to live in an inn for months without working. But she needs a true base not just for her but for this children that she accepts.
The boy who'd first spoken to her back at Big Rat's base — the tall, wiry one — raised his hand. "A small manor was for sale near the outskirts of the capital. There's also a building for sale near the square, it's been for sale for months but nobody buy it until now."
Morgan looked at him for a long moment.
This child was sharp. He knows I have the money to buy any of those two.
"What's your name?" Morgan asked.
"I have nothing." A pity. She thought.
"Then you would be called Gerald from now on. A name after the first prince."
The boy nodded slowly, satisfied.
Names had power. In her old world, names shaped brands, movements, legends. Here, they'd shape survival. For this children abandoned by this city. A name is something they would never think of. For them, survival is first.
Finally, she said, "You don't need a name. Not until you've earned one." Addressing the other children in front of her.
Morgan turned away, her gaze drifting to the faint glow of morning over the rooftops. The capital stretched before her — vast, corrupt, and teeming with hidden opportunities.
She could still hear the church bells faintly in the distance.
The church moves quietly, she thought. But so will I.
Her moths shimmered briefly in the corners of the room before fading into mist.
She smiled faintly.
"Let's get to work," she whispered.