After a breakfast of hard bread and thin broth, the two brothers headed out to the marketplace. It was mid-morning by the time they arrived, the streets already bustling with the sounds of haggling and chatter. Vendors shouted out their wares—fresh produce, salted fish, bolts of rough-spun cloth—and the scent of roasting meats mingled with the acrid smell of coal smoke in the autumn air.
Mr. Thorne's stall stood near the center of the square, a ramshackle arrangement of wooden crates and faded tarps, but his presence there was commanding, almost larger than life. The older man spotted them as they approached, his lined face breaking into a grin.
"Adélard! Leon!" he called, waving them over. "Thought you two might've run off for good."
Adélard smiled back, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just busy yesterday," he said lightly, glancing around the square. "But we're here now."
Mr. Thorne nodded, but his gaze sharpened as it landed on Adélard's arm. Even under the rough sleeve, the bandage was visible, stained dark. "What happened to you, boy?" he asked, frowning deeply.
Adélard opened his mouth to reply, but Mr. Thorne was already rummaging through his coat. He pulled out a few coins and pressed them into Adélard's hand.
"Don't try to bluff your way through this," Mr. Thorne warned. "Go see old Brennan by the well. He'll patch you up proper."
"I'm fine," Adélard started, but Thorne waved him off impatiently.
"Don't be a fool. You can't work if you're bleeding out all over the place. Go on, now."
Adélard hesitated, glancing at Leon. His brother looked up at him, eyes wide and questioning, but there was no way to say no without raising more suspicion. So, with a tight nod, he turned and made his way across the square, ignoring the curious looks of passersby.
As he disappeared into the crowd, Mr. Thorne turned to Leon, smiling kindly. "Your brother's a stubborn one, isn't he?"
Leon nodded slowly, his gaze still on the spot where Adélard had vanished. "Yeah. He's always like that."
Thorne chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Well, I suppose you need to be, in times like these." He paused, then leaned down slightly, dropping his voice. "Tell me something, Leon. Do you like playing football?"
Leon blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Uh… yeah, I guess."
"Not just 'I guess,'" Thorne said, his tone almost conspiratorial. "I've seen you kicking around with the other boys when you think no one's watching. You've got talent, lad. Real talent."
Leon shifted uncomfortably. "I… I don't know about that."
"You should be playing properly," Thorne pressed gently. "There's a club in the neighborhood—just a small thing, mind you, but they've got tryouts coming up. I know the coach. Could put in a word for you, if you're interested."
Leon's heart leapt at the offer, but then he remembered Adélard's warning look, the unspoken tension that had lingered in their flat for weeks now. "I… I don't think I can," he murmured. "We've got… family stuff. I'd have to ask my brother first."
"Of course," Thorne said, not missing a beat. He straightened, his gaze thoughtful. "But think on it, all right? You've got potential, lad. It'd be a shame to waste it."
Leon nodded slowly, but his thoughts were already elsewhere. Family stuff. It sounded so weak, so small, compared to the reality of what was going on. He wanted to play, desperately—but not if it meant leaving Adélard to face whatever shadows were creeping into their lives alone.
Meanwhile, Adélard was threading his way through the narrow alleys on the opposite side of the square, heading not to the well but to a far more dangerous destination. The wound on his arm throbbed with every step, but he ignored it, pushing onward until the familiar silhouette of Rourke's warehouse loomed ahead.
The door creaked as he slipped inside, the familiar smell of musty wood and damp stone filling his nose. He found Rourke in his usual corner, surrounded by ledgers and crates, his sharp gaze flicking up as Adélard entered.
"Back so soon?" Rourke murmured, raising an eyebrow. "I expected you to take the day off after last night's little… adventure."
"I need answers," Adélard said bluntly, stepping forward. "And I'm not leaving until I get them."
Rourke's lips curled into a smile, but there was no warmth in it. "Is that so?"
"Yes," Adélard said tightly. "You told me I could see my mother again if I did what you asked. But I need to know—how long is this going to go on? How long until I see her? Is she even safe?"
Rourke's smile faded. He leaned back, studying Adélard with a gaze that seemed to strip away every pretense, every layer of resistance. "You're getting bolder, Adélard. I like that." He tilted his head slightly. "But you're also asking dangerous questions."
"Just tell me," Adélard insisted. "I need to know."
For a long moment, Rourke was silent. Then he sighed softly, folding his hands on the table. "She's safe. For now. But things are… complicated."
"Complicated how?" Adélard demanded.
"There are others involved," Rourke said, his voice low. "People who don't like loose ends. And your mother, bless her heart, is a very loose end indeed."
Adélard's chest tightened. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Rourke said calmly, "that as long as you keep doing what I ask, she'll be protected. But step out of line, make too much noise, and… well, accidents happen."
The world seemed to tilt around Adélard. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe evenly. "You're saying she's a hostage."
"I'm saying she's leverage," Rourke corrected softly. "You knew what this was when you agreed to it, Adélard. You put yourself in this position. Now you have to live with it."
Adélard swallowed hard, his throat dry. He'd known, deep down, that Rourke was using him. But hearing it laid out so plainly—it made his skin crawl. Still, he had no choice. Not if he wanted to keep Leon safe.
"Fine," he ground out. "But I'm not going to be your puppet forever."
Rourke's smile returned, sharp and dangerous. "We'll see about that."
The tension between them crackled, but Adélard forced himself to step back, to turn away. He'd gotten what he came for—confirmation that his mother was alive, that she was safe for now. It would have to be enough.
When he returned to Mr. Thorne's stall, his arm freshly bandaged and his thoughts churning, Leon was waiting. His brother looked up, relief washing over his face.
"You're okay," Leon said softly.
"Yeah," Adélard muttered, forcing a smile. "Just a scratch, like I said."
Mr. Thorne nodded approvingly as Adélard stepped back into place. "Good lad. Now, back to work, eh?"
Adélard nodded absently, but his mind was elsewhere—on Rourke's words, on the invisible chains binding him tighter and tighter.
For now, he'd keep his head down. He'd work, he'd wait, and he'd plan.
But one day… one day, he'd find a way out.
And when that day came, he'd tear Rourke's world apart.