As the sun set, casting elongated shadows over Baurous, the city's rhythm shifted. Weary workers, their day's labor evident on their faces, slowly made their way home. They sought solace in the company of family or in the peace of solitude, eager to leave behind the day's monotony.
As night fell, a different crowd emerged. These nocturnal inhabitants flocked to the bustling pubs, the epicenters of the city's social life. Here, in the lively atmosphere of camaraderie and revelry, they thrived.
Laughter and voices intertwined, weaving the social fabric of the city. Here, stories were shared, and friendships were both forged and tested amidst the good-natured teasing and camaraderie.
The busiest pub in Baurous epitomized this nightly transformation. Inside, the kitchen came alive like an awakening beast. It was a whirlwind of motion and sound—a tempest of culinary activity. Servers, nimble as dancers, maneuvered through the cramped space, their arms laden with food, swiftly noting down the desires of hungry patrons.
Amidst the sizzling pans and the sharp scent cutting through the rich aroma of meats, the chef commanded like a general. His booming voice pierced the noise, orchestrating the chaotic symphony with a maestro's finesse.
He demanded perfection and speed in such a confined space that, from a distance, it resembled a theatrical play.
In a corner of the bustling kitchen, a determined young boy, barely fifteen, stood. His hands, quick and precise, danced with the knife as he expertly sliced through pork.
As he worked, slivers of fat and meat piled neatly beside him. Each slice was a careful balance between avoiding the chef's booming reprimands and earning his night's wage.
With his task done, he wiped his hands on his stained apron. Taking a deep breath, he navigated the chaotic kitchen, skillfully avoiding collisions with the bustling staff. He pushed open the back door, stepping from the kitchen's frenetic energy into the alley's relative calm.
His hands, wrapped in bandages, told of many nights spent working swiftly. They throbbed with the subtle pain of minor cuts and burns.
He moved his wrists in slow, deliberate circles, massaging the overworked tendons. Each rotation was a quiet battle against the deep-seated fatigue in his muscles.
"It would be soon!"
Lost in thought, the boy reached into his pocket, searching for the familiar, slender form of a cigarette. It was less for pleasure and more for a brief escape from reality.
His moment of solitude was abruptly disrupted. A shadowy figure appeared, moving silently with purpose. Before the boy realized it, he was pressed against the wall.
A hand clamped over his mouth, silencing him before he could shout for help. The other hand tightly grabbed his left wrist, stopping his fingers from reaching the hidden pocket knife.
"Listen up, you worthless shit!"
As the boy struggled to regain his composure, he recognized his assailant: his landlord. The man was a hulking figure, a mix of muscle and fat, creating a daunting presence. His weathered face, marked by a harsh life in the northlands, bore yellowed, missing teeth, often bared in a menacing snarl.
His gaze, partially obscured by thick eyelashes, betrayed a life of hard living, with the left eye notably incomplete. Dark, sunken bags under his eyes spoke of long nights and troubling habits.
His attire mirrored his habits. He wore an old black leather jacket, creased and worn with age, with its fur lining just visible at the edges. His legs were clad in faded, frayed military pants, completing the image of a man who cared little for appearances and focused solely on practicality.
"Listen up, I don't care about your fancy tricks or whatever, but I ain't taking any bullshit from you. You're gonna get me an injection from that alchemy shop, the one that's all white with a green glow. It's for pain, got it? And if you don't, you better haul your sorry ass outta this city, 'cause I ain't playing around!"
Muffled words tried to escape the boy's lips, hindered by the hand clamped over his mouth. "What are you talking about?"
The landlord's boot struck the boy's stomach with brutal force, sending waves of sharp pain through his body. He doubled over, collapsing onto the hard cobblestone. His body instinctively curled up, his arms clasping his midsection in a vain attempt to alleviate the throbbing pain.
As he gasped for air, the landlord's pungent odor assaulted his senses. The foul mix of stale sweat and old tobacco was overwhelming, choking him further. The man, looming above, nonchalantly spat on the ground beside the boy and spoke.
"You think I'm a damn fool, huh? You, living in that crumbling shack that's probably haunted to the gills, somehow always have food and those fancy pills. You're a damn thief, kid! I don't give a rat's ass. You're getting me that injection tonight!"
He spat again beside the boy before turning away, his heavy boots echoing against the ground as he muttered to himself.
The boy gradually regained his strength, using the wall for support as he rose to his feet. Each breath was labored, the lingering pain in his stomach a dull reminder of why he worked so hard in the kitchen.
Focused, he started his walk home. His steps, though shaky at first, grew steadier as he traversed the familiar path. The warning from his landlord gradually faded as he walked through the familiar streets and landmarks.
As his house came into view, he felt a surge of urgency. He straightened up, ran his fingers through his messy hair, and smoothed his clothes. It was important to appear calm to keep his grandmother from worrying.
He took a deep breath to calm his nerves and ease the pain. Then, he gently opened the door and stepped into the comforting embrace of home.
Here, he could leave his challenges at the doorstep, living by the wisdom of those who had endured much — let the street belong to the street.
His home stood modestly, a small structure primarily crafted from wood, with a sturdy stone foundation. Age had marked the building, evident in the weathered planks and occasional patchwork repairs made with inexpensive materials. A short, creaky staircase, worn from years of use, led up to the front door.
The roof was an eclectic mix of wood, clay, and straw. Small holes punctuated the roofing, evidence of the ongoing battle with leaks that often appeared during heavy rains, requiring strategic placement of bowls throughout the rooms.
Inside, the house mirrored its external simplicity, yet it was imbued with a warmth that transcended its limitations. The boy's eyes lit up with familiar comfort as he surveyed the room.
Shelves and surfaces were adorned with an assortment of items collected over the years by him and his grandmother. Bottles of various shapes and sizes, a collection of well-worn books, aged artifacts, and remnants of magical tools filled the space.
The room was dominated by the heating steam tool, strategically placed in a corner to maximize its efficacy. This device, their most valuable possession, radiated warmth throughout the house.
It was a significant investment for the boy, representing a year's worth of savings, a sacrifice made willingly to ensure his grandmother's comfort during the harsh cold seasons.
"Oh, Joah, is that you?" came a voice from the kitchen.
His grandmother was busy making tea when he entered. The smell of steeping tea mingled with the aroma of fresh bread she had picked up earlier. Steam curled from the kettle, and the warm bread lay invitingly on the counter.
She was a small woman in her sixties, moving with a grace that defied her age. Her ever-present smile warmed her face and echoed the kindness she carried within.
She placed two cups on the small table with careful, precise movements, then settled into a chair. Taking a sip of her tea, she nodded contentedly.
"It's alright, dear, quite alright. These herbs are better than the last ones I got from Hone. You know, I heard she was feuding with Amer. I always said they weren't meant to be together."
Joah sat across the table and greeted her. "Hi, Grandma."
"Oh, and did you hear about that elderly gentleman, the storyteller from Hone? Poor Arryin was weeping her heart out, saying his tutor got nabbed by the church!"
"Which old man?"
"You know, the guy who always tried to snag more ale than his pockets could hold. Word is," she leaned in, her eyes widening with intrigue, "it was an exorcist who captured him!"
"An exorcist? Why did they arrest him?"
"I'm not sure, but Hone mentioned that Arryin's been silent since then. People around here think maybe he was up to no good with those kids. Let me tell you, these streets aren't as safe as they used to be, back in my day, thirty years ago."
She then pushed two pieces toward Joah. "Eat up, my dear, you have to be hearty and strong for those Academy exams."
"By the way, did you get the newspaper?"
"That little thing delivered for us," she pointed at the ceiling, to a small hole barely visible in the dim light. "I think we're getting another leak soon. Oh, and I left the newspaper on your bed."
Joah looked up and sighed with a tired smile. "Soon, Grandma. In three years, I'll make enough to bring us to Martimus, and we'll find a better home far from here."
She chuckled as she poured herself more tea. "Don't you worry about an old lady like me, dear. Go chase those dreams of yours. I'm just a sack of tired bones here, waiting to reunite with your grandpa up in heaven. You've put in so much effort for those exams, don't worry about me."
Joah stood up to go to his bedroom, resisting the urge to hold his stomach. "No, I made a promise to Dad, and I'll keep it."
His grandmother sighed, her head drooping as she whispered, "I hope he's in a better place."
For those who endured the city's whispered secrets and faced battles beyond their control, challenging the law felt inevitable. Joah was no exception.
He yearned for a better life, but the means to achieve it eluded him. Guided by life's lessons, he chose to learn the ways of the streets, embracing a life of instinctual cunning and strategic evasion. With each foray into the world of illicit gains, the thrill of avoiding capture coursed through him.
His actions were not driven by a lack of morality, as his father had instilled strong values in him. Instead, it was his unwavering creed that made it easier to navigate this path. In his mind, he kept things simple, only taking what was necessary and refraining from indulgence or greed.
Tonight, like many nights before, he ventured into the darkness. His actions were not solely for himself but for his only family. "I'm going to bed early, Grandma."
"Alright, dear, have sweet dreams."
Joah moved with quiet precision, dressing in black while acutely aware of his grandmother sleeping in the next room. He handled each garment with deliberate care, ensuring not a single sound would reveal his late-night venture.
Fully dressed, he moved toward the window, guided by the moon's soft glow. He skillfully slid through it, stepping onto the rooftop without a sound. Cloaked in his new identity, he merged with the shadows, his movements silent and seamless.
He navigated the rooftop labyrinth with ease, gracefully jumping from one building to the next. His footsteps were soft, almost inaudible, as he melted into the darkness of the suburban night.
The evening's sounds surrounded him. In the distance, dogs barked, and the occasional cat added to the nocturnal music.
Each house contributed its own sounds: whispers of affection, clashes of arguments, bursts of laughter, hums of music, frustrated outbursts, and sweet declarations of love. Far off, the heavy footsteps of patrolling soldiers echoed, resonant and vigilant.