I am Maribel Holloway, age 15, and I am a worthless street rat.
I walk along the market street of Cairndorn, the capital of Arcadia, surrounded by bustling crowds. The noise of bartering voices and the clatter of cartwheels on cobblestone fills the air. People carry sacks and baskets, others push carts laden with food or goods, weaving between the ornate storefronts and street vendors that line the wide thoroughfare.
Cairndorn is said to be the jewel of Arcadia, a city of unmatched wealth, power, and beauty. Its gleaming marble storefronts, meticulously crafted archways, and magically cleaned streets exude an air of prosperity. Merchants boast wares from across the world, their carts overflowing with vibrant produce, shimmering fabrics, and exotic trinkets. From a distance, it feels like a utopia of abundance.
But I know better.
This city is a mirage. Beneath the polished surface lies a kingdom of unbearable inequality, where the elite hoard unimaginable wealth while the masses fight for scraps. Look closely at the market, and the truth becomes clear.
Among the crowd, the nobles stand out like peacocks in a flock of sparrows. They parade through the streets in extravagant carriages or on foot, their finely tailored clothes adorned with gold embroidery and magical jewels that glint in the sunlight. Slaves and servants trail behind them, carrying their purchases and catering to their every whim. They move through the market with an air of entitlement, and look at commoners like me with distain.
The commoners are the majority of those who fill these streets. They shuffle between the stalls, their threadbare, hand-stitched clothes marking them as the working poor. Their faces are weary, their postures hunched from the weight of survival. They can't afford the luxuries displayed in the marble shops; instead, they haggle over wilted vegetables and cheaper goods sold by street vendors.
I see the mothers clutching small bundles of bread, rationing what little they can afford for their children waiting in cramped, crumbling homes back in the commons. Fathers scour the market for work or for anything to fill their families' empty stomachs. I see the desperation in their eyes, the same desperation I've felt countless times.
These are my people.
We are the worthless street rats of Cairndorn, scorned by the nobles who hold this kingdom in their gilded hands. They look at us and see filth, a nuisance that sullies their pristine city. To them, we are invisible until we inconvenience them.
I know this because I've lived it. The hunger. The shame. The feeling of being crushed under the weight of a world designed to keep people like me at the bottom.
Still, I walk these streets, my injured leg aching with every step, determined to make it to the next meal, the next quest, the next small victory. Because no matter how worthless they think I am, I'm still here. In addition to being a street rat, you could say I am also a survivor.
Ahead of me, a fat nobleman in gilded robes waddles along, his gaudy jewelry clinking with every lumbering step. Beside him walks his equally overfed wife, her fingers adorned with enough rings to pay for a lifetime's worth of food for a commoner family. Following close behind are two slaves, a rabbit and a feline beastkin, each carrying massive, heavy totes on their backs.
The slaves walk with their heads bowed, their eyes fixed on the ground. They shuffle forward with calculated care, trying to strike the impossible balance: staying close enough to their masters to avoid reprimand for "falling behind," but not so close as to be accused of "getting in the way." It's a cruel trick because the truth is, it doesn't matter. The nobles will beat them regardless, just to assert their dominance and remind them of their place. Afterward, they'll justify the abuse with some fabricated offense.
I stop and watch as the pair of waddling pigs make their way into the high-end tailor's shop Imperial Threads. My hands ball into fists at my sides. I hate them. I hate all of them.
What's worse, I hate how badly I want what they have.
If I had their wealth, their power, their status, surely I would be better than them. I wouldn't beat people for imaginary slights or treat anyone as less than human. I know I wouldn't.
I follow them to the shop and linger outside, pretending to look at the window display. I can already imagine the scene inside. That fat sow is about to buy a dress so extravagant and expensive it could feed one hundred people for a year and enough fabric to cloth them as well. Meanwhile, her slaves are dressed in old, torn, ill-fitting rags.
I glance down at myself, my own ripped and threadbare clothes are badly in need of replacement. My pants have a bloody hole in the right calf where that razor boar caught me this morning. Second leg injury in an arc. I sigh and roll my shoulder, the sore from the beating I took from those damn overgrown pigs. Everything I own is worn, damaged, or barely holding together. My armor has cracks in the leather. My daggers' blades are dulling fast. I look like a joke.
I shuffle away from the shop, favoring my injured leg. Five copper coins. That's all I have to my name. Five measly coppers and the endless ache of my injury.
At least last time, Mr. Shadow had been there to help. Three weeks ago, he'd saved me with a potion after I sustained an injury from fighting a horned rabbit. Without his help, I wouldn't have been able to afford healing. The thought of what I might have had to do to survive otherwise sends a shiver through me. I tremble, consumed by fear and disgust at the memories I fight to keep buried. He saved me from becoming prey to the world's worst monsters, the one that don't kill your body but destroy your soul.
I've survived that monster before. But the scars remain, indelible and raw.
A cold chill washes over me as I instinctively clutch my stomach, trying to quell the painful tightness and nausea that thought conjures. No. I push those thoughts aside, forcing the memories back into the shadows where they belong. Leave the trauma in the past. Move forward. Survive.
To distract myself, I turn toward the neighboring fancy restaurant, The Golden Chalice. The tantalizing aroma of grilled meats wafts from its windows, momentarily pulling me away from my despair. Peering inside, I see nobles seated at lavishly decorated tables draped in white cloths, adorned with fresh flowers and golden cutlery. They laugh and eat with abandon, dining on food I could never dream of affording.
With a scornful glance, I turn away, slipping into the narrow alley between The Golden Chalice and Imperial Threads, the tailor's shop next door. Bitterness rises in me like bile.
These nobles who produce nothing sit in their gilded halls, feasting, while the commoners and slaves who labor to create everything are left to starve. What gives them the right to such comfort?
The answer is simple: magic.
The nobility's ability to use magic sets them apart from the rest of us. Every noble child is afforded an education, one that includes training in the magical arts. By age twelve, most of them are sent to the Arcadian Academy of Magic, where they hone their skills, solidifying their power and place in society.
Meanwhile, for commoners, magic remains a distant dream. The schools and books needed to learn magic are so outrageously expensive that they are out of reach for nearly everyone. The few commoners who do learn magic, like me, inherit the knowledge from their families, remnants of better days when their ancestors were more fortunate.
Magic isn't tied to noble blood, commoners are just as likely to have talent. That's why nobles restrict magical education and hoard knowledge. They fear what would happen if commoners had the power to stand against them. It's fear, not superiority, that keeps us oppressed.
I come from a long line of adventurers. My father, my mother, and their parents before them made their living completing quests and hunting monsters for the kingdom. My grandparents' generation even found great wealth in their service to this land. But everything changed when Queen Arin died.
King Edric and his court of nobles ushered in sweeping reforms to the economy. They adopted slave labor as the primary workforce and drastically increased the cost of attending the magic academy. Over time, the economy shifted. The cost of healing potions, equipment, and repairs soared, making the risks of adventuring outweigh the rewards. Slowly, the profession that had sustained my family crumbled. We fell into poverty, and that poverty eventually led to my parents' deaths.
They died when I was twelve, unable to afford the healing they needed after their final quest.
In the years before their deaths, my parents had trained me to become an adventure like them. They taught me everything they could about magic, hoping I could follow in their footsteps and carve out a better life for myself. They held onto hope that we were suffering a temporary period of misfortune that would soon turn around.
They turned out to be wrong.
Through their lessons, I discovered I have a rare affinity for dimensional magic. While my mana reserves are average at best, this rare affinity allows me to wield a type of magic that most mages struggle to use safely.
The first dimensional spell I've mastered is Flash Travel. It allows me to teleport short distances instantly by creating micro-portals that I jump through, bypassing all space and matter in between. However, the spell has its limitations. The mana cost increases based on the mass traveling through the portal, which forces me to wear lightweight gear. The mana cost also increases with the size of the portal, so I create portals the exact size and shape of my body from my narrowest angle. Even then, I can only use the spell about four times before I'm completely drained.
I come to a stop against the wall just outside the kitchen of The Golden Chalice. Activating my Prey Detection ability, I watch as glowing red profiles of every living thing in the building come into view, visible even through walls. I see nobles seated in the dining hall, indulging in their meals. In the back storage room, mice nibble away at a bag of grain. And in the kitchen, the cook scratches his backside as he tends to the grill.
Imagine the faces of those pompous pricks if they knew about the "secret seasoning" on their meat.
Inside, I watch as servers move in and out, but the kitchen is never empty. Frustration gnaws at me as I silently will them to leave. Come on, step out. You're thirsty. Go grab a drink, I think, as if I can push them with sheer determination. But I've done this before. I know patience is key.
Finally, the moment arrives. From the dining hall comes the unmistakable sound of an angry noble raising his voice. Through my detection, I see one server rush out to fetch the cooks while the other stands frozen, enduring the berating. Predictable. These entitled pigs always complain, as if the world exists solely to cater to their whims.
The cook and his assistants leave the kitchen to deal with the commotion, and the space is empty at last.
This is it.
I open a portal beneath my feet, just big enough for me to fall through, reappearing on the other side of the wall inside the kitchen. I exit a second portal positioned just above my height, landing gracefully on the floor. Without wasting a moment, I dart to a shelf and grab three loaves of bread. Prize in hand, I return to the wall, creating another portal to slip back into the alley unnoticed. In the blink of an eye, I'm back outside, the stolen bread hugged tightly to my chest.
Success!
I take a moment to catch my breath, the adrenaline coursing through me. I've done this countless times before, but the thrill never fully fades. Bread won't solve all my problems, but for now, it'll keep me going. That's all that matters.
I pulled a cloth bag from my pocket and stow the loafs of bread in them as I start walking toward the main street again. I exit the ally into the light and bustling activity of the market street. I quickly put distance between The Golden Chalices and myself. My hurried strides worsen the pain in my leg but take me away from the market and toward the commons.
I don't hurry out of guilt. No, there's none of that. I hate this city. I hate its nobles. I hate this kingdom. They deserve far worse than stolen bread for what they've done to me, for what they've taken from me.
My parents would be disappointed. They would never have resorted to stealing.
When the noise of the market finally fades behind me, I slow my stride, scanning the streets of the commons for a place to rest. The dirt paths are lined with worn-down apartments, their facades crumbling under the weight of neglect. Not far ahead, I notice a skinny little boy, no older than five, sitting on the ground outside one of the buildings. His tiny frame trembles as he cries softly.
This is nothing new. Suffering is the norm here.
I limp over and take a seat beside him. "What's wrong, kiddo?" I ask, forcing a smile.
The boy looks up at me, tears streaming down his face. "I'm hungry," he whispers.
"Well, you're in luck," I say, pulling out one of the loaves from my bag and tearing it in half. "You can have some of mine."
"Really? For me?" His wide eyes light up as I hand him the bread.
"All yours, kid."
To my surprise, he doesn't eat it. Instead, he leaps to his feet, clutching the bread like a priceless treasure, and bolts toward the apartment, yelling, "Mom! Dad! Come quick, I've got food!"
I watch him go, a faint smile tugging at my lips.
What a good kid.
I take a bite of my own half-loaf, but it tastes bitter now. My chest tightens, and tears blur my vision. It hadn't even crossed my mind that he might have a family—that he wouldn't selfishly eat it all himself. It's funny how having nothing can make people so generous.
I'm happy for him. Truly, I am. But why am I crying? Why does my stomach churn as if I've swallowed stones?
I miss my parents so much.
Lost in thought, I don't notice the shadow that falls over me until it stops in front of me. I glance up at a short, hooded figure who stands silently, their face hidden. Before I can speak, they crouch and place a vial at my feet.
"Hey, wait, who are you?" I call out as they stride away without a word, heading toward the market.
I pick up the vial, its glass glinting faintly in the fading sunlight. I recognize it immediately, a healing potion, high-grade and similar to the one Shadow gave me three weeks ago. Curious, I activate my appraisal skill to confirm its authenticity. It's real, but... this person couldn't be Shadow. They're far too short.
As I ponder that curiosity, I take the topper off the potion and drink it. Instantly I am bathed in a faint green light and my injuries heal completely, good as new.
I go back to eating my bread, which seems to have regained some of its taste. As I chew, my thoughts linger on the hooded figure. Who were they? And why would they help someone like me?
I've long since grown used to the idea that I'm nothing more than a worthless street rat—homeless, unwanted, and invisible to the world. My days are a constant fight to survive, scraping by with what little I can find or steal. Kindness? That's a luxury I stopped expecting a long time ago.
And yet, here I am, holding the proof of a helping hand extended to me, unasked and without strings. This moment, this act of kindness—it feels foreign, almost unreal.
My parents taught me their final lesson when they died. I learned that I'm on my own and no one will save me. Even people you help—people you might call friends—will abandon you when it matters most. My parents' comrades, their so-called friends, wouldn't spare a single coin to buy the potions that could have saved their lives.
And yet… in the last three weeks, I have twice been given the same potion that could have saved their lives, free of charge and with no strings attached.
"What a strange day," I mutter to myself, standing and testing my freshly mended leg. There's not a hint of pain left.
The sun hangs low in the sky as I start my journey home, or rather, to the place where I sleep. Home is too generous a word for it. I weave through the dirty streets and narrow alleyways of the commons, crossing a rickety wooden bridge over the drainage canal. My destination lies on the inner side of the city's outer wall.
I descend a slight embankment where the canal flows toward the wall, its path barred by a thick iron fence that lets wastewater escape but prevents anyone from slipping in or out. Just inside the stone archway over the canal, on the city side of the fence, there's a short, cracked wooden door set into the wall. Its presence had been hidden by an enchantment that had only recently expired when I stumbled upon it.
I pull open the old wooden door and crouch to step inside. Beyond it lies a hidden passage within the wall—an old smuggler's hideout, long abandoned. Whatever merchandise was once stored here is long gone, leaving behind only a few empty crates and cracked pots.
I've done my best to make the place livable, though my efforts are modest. A few tattered blankets serve as a sleeping pad. A wooden box stores what little food I have. Water sits in chipped pots, and a metal basin doubles as a bath and laundry tub. It's far from comfortable, but it's the best I can manage.
I set my cloth bag, with its remaining loafs of bread, into the storage box. Exhausted, I lay down on my makeshift bed.
The room is dark and silent, but my mind is far from still. My body aches from this morning's boar hunt and the wound I barely managed to mend, but it's the weight in my chest that saps my strength. The weight of failure.
I hate this life. I hate what I've become. I've spent countless nights thinking about ending it all. And yet… I refuse. I refuse to let the people who took everything from me claim my life as well. One day, I'll take from them what they stole from me.
These thoughts churn endlessly in my mind as I slip into the darkness of sleep.