In the heart of Aurelith, within the slums that clung stubbornly to the edges of its magnificent capital, there lived a boy whose name was whispered only by those who knew him. Even then, his name was barely spoken louder than a breath, as though the world itself sought to forget him. His golden hair, once bright as sunlight, had dulled to a pale, sickly grey, weighed down by dirt and despair. His frame, gaunt and frail, was more skeletal than that of a teenager, the harsh realities of his life etched into every hollow of his body.
The slums were a stark contrast to the grandeur of the capital's towering spires and bustling marketplaces. The narrow, crooked streets twisted like veins, filled with the stench of rotting wood and unwashed bodies. Crumbling shacks huddled together as if seeking comfort, their walls patched with scraps of cloth and stolen boards. This was the boy's home—a place where hope was as scarce as the food on his table.
His father had long since succumbed to exhaustion, his body failing after years of backbreaking labor under the kingdom's unforgiving rule. The man had worked himself to death, carving out what little he could for his family until his strength finally gave out. His mother, once vibrant and full of life, now lay in a small, cluttered room. Sickness had taken her voice and much of her strength, leaving her to depend entirely on her son.
And so, the boy worked. He scoured the wilderness beyond the city's outskirts, his hands raw from digging in the dirt for herbs to sell at the Adventurer's Guild. Every bundle of leaves, every root pulled from the earth, was a small payment toward survival. Each day was a race against time, a struggle to stave off the creeping inevitability of his mother's decline.
Each morning, before the city bells rang out to mark the start of another day, the boy would slip out of the shanty he called home. His clothes were threadbare, stitched and patched too many times to count, clinging loosely to his bony frame. His feet, wrapped in scraps of cloth in place of proper shoes, carried him through the slums' filth-ridden streets with practiced silence.
As the sun rose, it cast its light on his hair, hinting faintly at the golden hue it had once possessed. His eyes, pale blue and shadowed by exhaustion, betrayed a flicker of determination as he trudged toward the guild outpost. Over one shoulder, he carried a wicker basket filled with herbs, the day's work heavy despite its modest weight.
The Adventurer's Guild stood as a beacon of opportunity for the brave and the desperate. For the boy, it was both salvation and condemnation, offering just enough coin to keep his mother alive while reminding him of his place at the bottom of society.
As he approached the guild's sturdy wooden doors, the polished steel of the guards at the entrance caught the sunlight, gleaming like the promises of a better life that always seemed just out of reach. One of the guards, a broad-shouldered man with a sharp gaze, stepped forward and blocked his path.
"Who are you, boy?" the guard demanded, his voice as cold as the steel he carried.
The boy froze, clutching the basket tighter. His mouth opened as if to respond, but no words came. What could he say? He didn't have a name worth sharing—none that mattered to people like this.
The silence stretched awkwardly until the second guard, a lanky man with a sneer, waved his companion off. "Don't bother with him. He's just a lowlife from the slums. Doesn't even have a proper name. Let him sell his scraps and be gone."
The first guard hesitated, his brow furrowing as he considered the boy for a moment longer. Then, with a grunt of indifference, he stepped aside. The boy slipped past them, his head low, the shame burning hotter than the afternoon sun on his back.
Inside, the guild was alive with activity. Adventurers in gleaming armor haggled over contracts, merchants shouted about supplies, and the three receptionists behind the counter struggled to keep up with the endless demands. The local guild manager stood in the back, overseeing the chaos with a stern expression, while his assistant took notes with mechanical efficiency.
The boy weaved through the crowd, keeping his head down. He avoided eye contact, knowing better than to invite attention. People like him didn't belong in places like this. Words invited scorn, and scorn led to conflict—something he couldn't afford. If he got hurt, who would take care of his mother?
Reaching the counter, he placed the basket of herbs down and waited silently. A weary receptionist glanced at the contents, barely sparing him a second look. She sighed, slid a single silver coin across the counter, and muttered, "Next."
It wasn't much, but it was all he could hope for. Pocketing the coin, he turned to leave, only to stumble into a tall figure in the crowd.
The man he collided with was tall and imposing, his black hair swept back neatly, his piercing blue eyes sharp and assessing. His dark cloak swirled around him as he turned to face the boy.
"Kid," the man said sharply, his voice cutting through the din of the guild. "Watch where you're walking."
The boy froze, trembling under the intensity of the man's gaze. His lips parted as if to apologize, but the words caught in his throat.
The man's irritation faded as he looked closer, his eyes narrowing with a hint of curiosity. "You…" he said, tilting his head slightly. A small, calculating smile curled his lips. "You might be useful."
Before the boy could react, the man turned and strode away, his boots echoing against the wooden floor. The boy stood rooted to the spot, clutching the coin in his hand as the weight of those words settled over him.
For a moment, he couldn't move. The man's words echoed in his mind: "You might be useful." What did he mean? Why him?
But there was no time to ponder the stranger's cryptic remark. His mother was waiting, and every moment wasted was another moment she suffered. Shaking off his unease, he tightened his grip on the coin and headed toward the section of the guild where goods were sold.
Behind the counter, a tired-looking woman with graying hair sorted through shelves of potions, tools, and supplies with practiced indifference.
"I need a healing potion," the boy mumbled, barely loud enough to be heard.
The woman sighed and pulled a small vial filled with shimmering liquid from a low shelf. "Five coppers," she said flatly.
The boy handed over the coin, receiving a few coppers in change. He cradled the potion carefully, his heart lifting with fragile hope. This would help his mother. It had to.
What he didn't know—what most like him never learned—was that the potion in his hands was diluted with water, its potency halved or worse. True healing potions were reserved for those who could afford them: nobles, merchants, adventurers whose lives held value in the eyes of the kingdom. For the poor, these vials were little more than hollow promises, barely effective enough to stave off death.
As he left the guild and hurried home, the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. The potion felt warm in his hands, but the truth it represented loomed cold and unyielding. In Aurelith, even hope came at a price—a price the boy was just beginning to understand.