The boy first heard those words on a cold night, curled beneath a broken cart at the edge of the slums.
He didn't know who his father was. He barely remembered his mother—only the feeling of her hand slipping from his, the sound of her footsteps fading as she walked away without turning back. At first, he thought she would return.
She never did.
The slums raised him instead.
Rotting wood, torn cloth, and the smell of smoke and salt filled the air. People moved like shadows, guarding scraps of food like treasure. No one spoke unless they had to. No one helped unless there was something to gain.
Except at night.
At night, the stories came alive.
Old men with tired eyes and scarred hands would gather around small fires, their voices low but steady. Children—thin, silent, watchful—would creep closer, pretending not to listen.
The boy always listened.
"They say the King's Hall touches the sky," one man said, staring into the flames. "Marble floors. Gold walls. Enough food to feed a thousand men for a year."
Another scoffed, revealing missing teeth. "Gold doesn't matter. It's power. Stand before the King, and you can ask for anything. Anything."
A third voice cut through them, rough and quiet. "If you make it."
The fire cracked.
Silence followed.
"Most don't," the man continued. "They climb, they fight, they bleed… and then they disappear. Either swallowed by the slums… or thrown into the sea."
The boy shifted slightly, pulling his knees closer to his chest.
"Why go, then?" a child's voice whispered from somewhere in the dark.
The scarred man didn't answer right away.
Finally, he said, "Because for a moment… just a moment… you're not nothing."
The fire burned lower.
The boy stared into it, his reflection flickering in the weak light.
His fingers tightened into fists.
He didn't remember his mother's face anymore.
But he remembered how it felt to be left behind.
And for the first time, as the stories faded into the night, a quiet thought settled deep inside him—
He would not die in the slums.
He would rise to glory!
There is only one path… to stand before the King and speak of your glory.
They say that a lot in the slums.
I used to think it was just another story—like the ones told to make starving kids forget their hunger. But hunger doesn't forget you.
My name is Pantheon.
And that morning, I was starving.
Not the kind of hunger you complain about. The kind that makes your stomach twist so hard you feel it in your back. The kind that makes your hands shake when you try to stand. I hadn't eaten in two days.
I needed work.
Anything. Even a single copper. A scrap. A bone.
I walked the narrow paths of the slums, past broken carts and rotting wood, past people who wouldn't look at me because they had nothing to give. Smoke clung to the air, thick and bitter. Somewhere, someone was cooking—but not for me.
"Work?" I asked a man stacking crates.
He didn't even turn. "Get lost."
I moved on.
"Please," I said to a woman sorting cloth. "I'll do anything."
She pulled her things closer and shook her head.
By midday, my legs felt weak.
If I couldn't earn a coin… I'd have to steal.
Or worse—go into the Dire Forest.
People didn't come back from there. Not whole, anyway.
I swallowed hard and kept walking.
That's when I smelled it.
Fresh meat.
Not scraps. Not rot. Real meat.
The scent pulled me forward before I could think, weaving through narrow alleys until I found him.
A man stood behind a rough wooden table, sleeves rolled, hands red. A boar lay across the surface, already cut open. Flies buzzed low, but he didn't care. His knife moved clean and precise, like he'd done this a thousand times.
I stepped closer.
"Sir," I said, my voice dry. "I can work."
He didn't look at me.
"Everyone can work," he muttered. "Not everyone's worth paying."
"I am," I said quickly. "I won't mess up. I just… I just need one chance."
The knife stopped.
Slowly, he looked up.
His eyes were sharp. Tired. The kind that had seen too much and cared about none of it.
"What's your name, boy?"
"Pantheon."
He let out a quiet breath, like the name meant nothing to him.
"I'm Drakr," he said. "And I don't hire beggars."
"I'm not begging," I said, even though I was. "I'll earn it."
He studied me for a moment—my shaking hands, my hollow face, the way I kept glancing at the meat even though I tried not to
Then he grabbed the boar and shoved it slightly toward me.
"One chance," he said.
My heart started pounding.
"If you ruin it, you get nothing. Not a scrap. Not even the guts. Understand?"
I nodded quickly.
He tossed me the knife.
It was heavier than I expected.
"Skin it," Drakr said. "Clean. No tears. Then open it properly—don't burst anything inside. Use the cloth there. If you spill the guts…" He shrugged. "You're done."
I stepped up to the table.
The smell hit me harder now—iron and heat and something thick underneath. My stomach twisted, but I forced it down.
One chance.
My hands trembled as I pressed the blade to the boar's skin.
I could feel Drakr watching.
If I failed… I'd be back to nothing.
Or worse.
I tightened my grip.
And cut.