All right, dear reader, I believe the time has come to abandon prologues and philosophical reflections. You have enough context, enough knowledge about how we arrived at this point. Now, let me take you to the pulsing heart of the story. Like all great tragedies and great triumphs, this one begins in an unexpected place. Not in the marble palaces of Lyris, not in the deep mines of Kalthar. But in the sewers.
Yes, you heard that right. Beneath your feet, in the city's viscera, among rats, slime, and stagnant death. That's where destiny decided to take its first step.
Not with the powerful, the wise, or the nobles. But with me.
Call me what you want – in those days they called me "Rin", but the name changed depending on who I had just robbed. I was a nobody, a street thief. I had no home, no parents, no future. I lived on petty crimes, stealing bread from market stalls, cutting merchants' purses, and when needed, lying better than a nobleman. I wasn't proud of myself, but when the choice is between your morals and your empty stomach, believe me, you choose the bread.
The sewers of Lyris were my refuge, my secret kingdom. While the city lived, breathed, and filled with voices above me, I moved in the shadows. The rich never look down, you know? People walk the streets without thinking about what lurks beneath their feet. That's where I lived, and I managed well enough.
Have you ever wondered how one survives in the sewers? No? I don't blame you. Most people prefer not to think about it. When you live above, you can afford to ignore what's hidden below. But for me, and those like me, the sewers weren't just a place. They were home.
It wasn't a welcoming home, make no mistake. The dampness seeped into your bones, the smell followed you everywhere, and darkness never completely abandoned you. But it had its advantages: no one ever came down to search for you down there. It was a refuge for those who had nowhere else to go, and that was enough.
My favorite spot was an old collection chamber, now unused. Some time ago, I had found broken crates and arranged them to create a kind of bed. I'd also added a couple of worn-out blankets I'd stolen from a rag stall. It wasn't much, but after a day spent slipping through shadows, it was the closest to peace I could imagine.
Surviving was an art. Early in the morning, when the city streets were still half-empty, I would emerge from the sewers to find food. My preferred technique was to pretend to stumble against market stalls. One hand would make something fall to the ground, while the other would slip it into my bag. If the merchant was alert, I would run. If not, I would leave calmly.
Bread was my favorite loot. It was easy to take, and if I managed to find a slightly stale piece, no one would really chase me. But I didn't disdain bruised fruit or some forgotten meat piece either. Once, I even nabbed a leftover cake from a banquet – the best day of my life, I assure you.
I wasn't alone down there. The sewers were an entire world apart, with its own rules and inhabitants. There was Sara, who claimed to be a noble fallen from grace. I never believed her – too much dirt under her nails – but she could sew and often bartered her skills with other desperate souls. Then there was Milo, a toothless old man who swore he had fought in the war against demons. He had a collection of rusty daggers and a tongue as sharp as his improbable stories.
Occasionally, we would all meet in one of the wider tunnels. We would share what we had found during the day – bread, rainwater collected in barrels – and tell each other lies to pass the time. It was a kind of family, if you can call it that. A family made of thieves, liars, and failures. But when night fell and the torches above us went out, there was something comforting in knowing you weren't alone.
Yet, even in the sewers, there were dangers. Rats were not the biggest problem, no matter how large they were. It was people. Desperate people like me, when backed into a corner, could be more lethal than any weapon. Sometimes someone would disappear. No one asked questions. It was safer that way.
But for all its hardship, this life was all I knew. And in some ways, I liked it. I owed nothing to anyone, and no one owed me anything. I survived thanks to my wit, my speed, and my ability. I was free, in the way only a desperate person can be.
I don't know why I woke up in a good mood that day. Perhaps it was the less pungent smell in the air or the unusual silence, as if even the rats had decided to take a break. Or more likely, it was because it was Sara's birthday.
Now, don't misunderstand me. In the sewers, we don't celebrate birthdays with candles and cakes. There are no gifts or songs. But Sara had decided that her day deserved something special, and she had announced, with that slightly ridiculous authority that only she could have, that we would cook a proper meal. Everything we would find would go into her pot, and she would add something of her own – whatever she had been saving for an occasion like this.
It was a crazy idea, and maybe that's precisely why we loved it. On normal days, we shared barely enough not to starve.
"I'm going to the port," I said that morning to Sara while she was fixing one of her worn-out blankets in our communal shelter. I watched her look up with a mix of surprise and apprehension.
"To the port?" she repeated. "Rin, don't be stupid. I don't want you to get killed just for my birthday."
I burst out laughing, trying to mask the lump in my throat. "Get killed? Sara, you worry too much. The port workers are big, bulky, and slow. And I'm small, agile, and clever. Relax."
I walked away before she could argue. The truth? I was scared too. I knew stealing from port crates was dangerous. But I wanted this day to be special.
The sewers brought me, as always, close to the heart of the city. From there, I emerged into the labyrinth of alleys leading to the port. It was a cool morning, and the wind carried the familiar smell of salt and fish. Part of me wanted to turn back: stealing from the market was risky, but at the port... that was another story. There weren't just angry merchants there, but guards, port workers as big as bears.
But that day it wasn't just about me. It was Sara's birthday, and she deserved something special. We deserved something special.
I crossed the alleys like a shadow, my cloak tight around my body to blend with the grayness of the stone. When I reached the port, chaos engulfed me: shouts, crates banging, orders yelled by men with raspy voices. The sun was high and merciless, reflected on the water's surface and the wooden planks of the dock.
I crouched behind a stack of crates and studied the environment. The art of theft, if you want to call it that, is never about speed or luck. It's about patience. You study the movements, listen to the voices, wait for the right moment.
There were three port workers unloading a ship nearby. Two robust men with broad shoulders and a slim but quick woman, giving orders. They were carrying crates full of fresh fish, still dripping with seawater. A pile of open crates had been placed near the dock's edge, probably to sort the contents.
I waited for the port workers to move away. The woman gave a sharp order – something about another crate to bring inside – and the three moved toward the ship's hold.
I moved cautiously, crouching to avoid attracting attention. I felt every step on the planks, the creaking. I reached the stack of crates, my heart beating hard. I slipped behind one, high enough to hide me. Then I peeked.
The fish were large, silver, with glossy eyes and gaping mouths. I took them one by one, trying not to make noise. One, two... Three. I didn't want to overdo it. The more fish I took, the harder it would be to escape.
But just as I was reaching in to take another, a voice made my blood freeze.
"Hey, you!"
I shot off like an arrow, the fish tight in the bag bouncing on my back. Behind me, the port worker was shouting: "Thief! Stop him!" His steps were heavy but fast. I could hear the wood of the dock creaking under his feet.
I darted between workers, bumping into a net seller who cursed me. I dodged a fruit cart and slipped into a narrow alley I knew would confuse my pursuer. The stone walls were damp, the floor slippery. But I knew those streets better than anyone. That was my advantage.
Behind me, the port worker didn't give up. I could hear his short breath, his weight shaking the planks and alleys. "Damn brat!" he was yelling.
I tried to slow him down. I found a stack of abandoned crates and kicked them over. I heard a thud and a curse: he had tripped.
I turned a corner and ended up in a wider street where a group of sailors was unloading a ship. I slid under a barrel, emerging on the other side, while behind me the port worker shouted: "Stop him! He stole my fish!" Some men tried to catch me, but I was too fast.
I knew I couldn't last long. The main dock was too crowded, and every second increased the risk of the guards seeing me. I moved toward the rich merchants' docks, where the largest ships were anchored.
I was about to turn a corner when, in a moment of distraction, I crashed into something. Or rather, someone.
I fell to the ground with a thump. The fish slid out of my bag and rolled on the wet ground. I looked up, confused and still panting, and my heart stopped.
In front of me were three men in shining armor, decorations glinting in the sunlight. Guards. They stared at me with a mix of surprise and curiosity, their hands already ready to grip their weapons.
Behind them, a tall figure wrapped in a black cloak moved calmly. I couldn't see the face, hidden under a hood.
"What do we have here?" asked one of the guards, bending to pick up one of the fallen fish.
I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could say anything, a familiar voice arrived.
"It's him! That little bastard stole my fish!"
I turned and saw the port worker, his face purple, his chest rising and falling. He pointed at me with a trembling finger. "I caught him red-handed! He must pay!"
The guards looked at me with investigating eyes. I felt panic rising. What could I say? I was thin, dirty, with the face of someone who lives in the slums. Guilty without a trial.
Then the figure in the black cloak stepped forward. A woman. She raised a hand and spoke with a calm but authoritative voice that silenced everyone.
"How much are the fish worth?"
The port worker hesitated. "What? Well, it's not much, but it's the principle of the thing! He can't just walk away like that!"
"How much are they worth?" she repeated.
The port worker looked at her, confused. Then he muttered a price. The woman signaled and pulled out a small leather pouch from her belt. She handed it to one of the guards. "Pay him."
The guards obeyed without question. One put the exact amount in the port worker's hands, who seemed not to believe his eyes. "But... but he..." he started to say, pointing at me.
"You're no longer robbed, it has been paid," the woman said, in a tone that allowed no rebuttal. "Now go away."
The port worker didn't dare to argue. He cast one last resentful look at me, then walked away mumbling.
The guards remained motionless, their gazes fixed on me. I felt the weight of judgment in their eyes. But the woman said nothing. She turned and began to walk away, her cloak waving in the wind. One of the guards gave me a warning look, as if to say: You're lucky. Don't try this again.
I remained on the ground, the fish scattered beside me. Only when their figures disappeared among the shadows of the ships did I get up.