The man stepped forward, his piercing gaze sweeping over the crowd. "You have been abandoned," he continued. "Left to rot while the city feasts. But I offer you sanctuary. Food, shelter, and purpose."
A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd. People were listening now, leaning in, hungry not just for bread but for something more—belonging.
The man's eyes landed on Rowan. For a brief moment, the world narrowed to that gaze, dark and knowing. Rowan shivered.
"I am Father Gideon," the man announced, spreading his arms wide. "And I welcome all who seek a place among the Risen."
A hush fell over the slums. Rowan swallowed hard. The Risen. He had heard whispers of them before, in the dark corners of the slums where even the desperate feared to tread. A group that promised salvation, yet those who followed them seemed to vanish without a trace.
Rowan's mind churned as he watched Father Gideon address the crowd. The man's words were honeyed, dripping with promises of food, shelter, and purpose. But Rowan had lived in the slums long enough to know that nothing came without a price. The Risen sounded too good to be true, and in the slums, anything that sounded too good to be true usually was.
Elias tugged at his sleeve again, his small fingers trembling. "Rowan, do you think… do you think he's telling the truth?"
Rowan glanced down at his brother. Elias's face was pale, his eyes sunken and shadowed. He looked worse than he had yesterday, his frail body barely holding itself together. Rowan's chest tightened. They needed food. They needed shelter. But joining the Risen? That felt like stepping into a trap.
"I don't know," Rowan admitted, his voice low. "But we can't trust him. People like him… they don't care about us. They just want something from us."
Elias nodded, but his eyes lingered on Father Gideon, a flicker of hope shining through the exhaustion. Rowan hated that look. Hope was dangerous. It made you reckless. It made you forget how cruel the world could be.
The crowd began to disperse, some of the slum rats following Father Gideon as he led them deeper into the labyrinth of shacks and alleyways. Rowan watched them go, his stomach churning with unease. He wanted to believe the man's promises, but every instinct screamed at him to stay away.
"Let's go," Rowan muttered, pulling Elias away from the crowd. "We'll find something else. We don't need them."
Elias didn't argue, but his steps were slow and unsteady. Rowan could feel the weight of his brother's exhaustion, the way his small body leaned heavily against him. They needed to find food soon. But the slums offered no easy answers.
The hours stretched endlessly, the feeble sunlight barely piercing the heavy gray clouds that loomed overhead. Rowan and Elias moved through the narrow, winding streets, their eyes darting into every shadowed corner and crumbling doorway.
They searched for anything—a discarded tin can, a frayed piece of rope, even a moldy scrap of food that might keep them alive another day. But the slums were a barren wasteland, stripped of anything useful by those who had come before.
The scavengers had left behind only broken fragments and the faint, lingering stench of decay, a reminder of how little remained for those who clung to the edges of survival.
Desperation gnawed at Rowan's stomach, a deep and hollow ache. His head swam, his limbs heavy from exhaustion. But he had to keep going. For Elias.
They came across an overturned cart, its contents long since looted. Rowan knelt beside it, rummaging through the debris, his fingers shaking as he lifted a tattered cloth. Nothing. Just old bones, stripped clean. Elias leaned against the cart, his breath coming in short gasps.
"We need to keep looking," Rowan urged, but his voice lacked conviction.
Elias nodded weakly, but his steps dragged more with each passing moment. As they rounded a corner, they spotted a small group of children gathered around something in an alley. Rowan hesitated, torn between curiosity and caution.
"What do you think they're doing?" Elias whispered.
"Let's find out," Rowan said, pulling Elias closer as they approached.
The children were huddled over a wooden crate, whispering in hushed voices. Rowan caught a glimpse of what they were passing between them—small, stale pieces of bread. His stomach clenched. Food. Real food.
One of the children, a girl with matted hair and sharp eyes, noticed Rowan and Elias. She stiffened. "What do you want?" she demanded.
Rowan held up his hands in a placating gesture. "We don't want trouble. Just… wondering if we could trade for a piece."
The girl's eyes narrowed. "Trade what?"
Rowan searched his pockets, but they were empty. He had nothing to offer. His jaw clenched in frustration. "I… I don't have anything."
The girl snorted. "Then get lost."
Elias swayed beside Rowan, barely able to stay upright. Rowan's desperation flared. "Please. My brother—he needs to eat."
The girl hesitated, glancing at Elias. There was a flicker of sympathy in her gaze, but it was quickly masked by hard caution. "You should go to the Risen," she said. "They're giving out food."
Rowan stiffened. "Yeah. I've heard."
She shrugged. "Your choice."
Rowan watched as the children divided the last of their scraps and disappeared into the alley's depths. His stomach twisted. He had hoped for something—anything—but the slums were merciless.
By midday, Elias was struggling to keep up. His breathing was shallow, his steps faltering. Rowan's chest tightened with fear. He had seen this before—the slow, inevitable decline of those who couldn't find enough to eat. He couldn't let that happen to Elias. He wouldn't.
"We'll find something," Rowan said, his voice firm despite the fear gnawing at his insides. "Just hold on a little longer."
Elias nodded, but his eyes were glassy, his face pale and drawn. Rowan's heart ached. He had to do something. He had to find a way to keep his brother alive.
The sun was setting when Elias collapsed.
One moment, he was walking beside Rowan, his small hand clutching his brother's sleeve. The next, he was on the ground, his body crumpled in the mud. Rowan's heart stopped.
"Elias!" he cried, dropping to his knees beside his brother. Elias's eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and uneven. His skin was cold to the touch, his lips tinged with blue.
Panic surged through Rowan. He shook his brother gently, trying to rouse him. "Elias, wake up! Please, wake up!"
But Elias didn't respond. His small body lay still, too still. Rowan's mind raced. He had to do something. He had to find help. But who would help them? The slums had no mercy for the weak.
Then he remembered Father Gideon.
The man's promises echoed in his mind—food, shelter, protection. Rowan hated the idea of going to him, but what choice did he have? Elias was dying. He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't lose his brother.
With a trembling hand, Rowan scooped Elias into his arms, his brother's frail body feeling far too light. He stood, his legs shaking beneath him, and began to make his way through the slums, following the path Father Gideon had taken.
The Risen's camp was hidden deep within the slums, in a part of the city Rowan had never dared to venture. The shacks here were larger, their walls patched with newer materials.
The air was thick with the scent of smoke and something else—something metallic and sharp. Rowan's stomach churned, but he pushed the feeling aside. He had to focus on Elias.
As he approached the camp, a figure stepped out of the shadows, blocking his path. It was a woman, tall and gaunt, her eyes sharp and calculating. She looked Rowan up and down, her gaze lingering on Elias's limp form.
"What do you want?" she asked, her voice cold.
"I… I need help," Rowan stammered, his voice trembling. "My brother… he's sick. Father Gideon said he could help us."
The woman's eyes narrowed, but she stepped aside, gesturing for Rowan to enter. "Follow me."
Rowan hesitated, his instincts screaming at him to turn back. But Elias's shallow breathing spurred him forward. He had no choice.
The camp was unlike anything Rowan had ever seen in the slums. The shacks were clean and well-maintained, their walls adorned with strange symbols that seemed to shift and writhe in the flickering light of the torches.
The air was thick with the scent of incense, masking the underlying stench of decay. People moved through the camp with purpose, their faces blank and their eyes hollow. They didn't speak, didn't acknowledge Rowan as he passed. It was as if they were sleepwalking.
The woman led Rowan to a large shack at the centre of the camp. Inside, Father Gideon sat on a makeshift throne, his hood pulled back to reveal a face that was both handsome and unsettling. His eyes were dark, almost black, and they seemed to pierce through Rowan, seeing everything and nothing all at once.
"Ah," Father Gideon said, his voice smooth and inviting. "You've come to join us."
Rowan swallowed hard, his grip tightening on Elias. "I… I need help. My brother… he's sick."
Father Gideon's lips curved into a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Of course. We will take care of him. You've made the right choice, Rowan."
Rowan's heart skipped a beat. "How… how do you know my name?"
Father Gideon's smile widened. "I know many things. But come, let us tend to your brother. He will be safe here."
Rowan hesitated, his instincts screaming at him to run. But Elias's shallow breathing kept him rooted to the spot. He had no choice. He had to trust Father Gideon. For Elias's sake.