Chapter 8: The Dangerous Streets
The slums had their own unspoken laws, a cruel set of rules that dictated survival. Elias had learned quickly that to live here, one had to be invisible or feared. He was neither.
The morning air was thick with the scent of rotting wood, unwashed bodies, and the ever-present dampness that clung to the cracked stone streets. The heat from the sun did little to dry the filth, only making the air heavier, more suffocating. Flies hovered over puddles of stagnant water, their tiny wings buzzing in the ears of beggars too weak to swat them away.
The city was alive, but not in the way a thriving place should be. It pulsed with quiet desperation, each breath a struggle, each step a gamble. Merchants fought for customers, their voices edged with irritation rather than enthusiasm. The crowd moved in a rhythm dictated by hunger and necessity, their gazes downcast, their shoulders hunched.
Elias moved through them carefully, learning to mimic their silent caution. He was beginning to understand what it meant to belong here—not in the way a man belonged to his home, but in the way a parasite clung to its host. Unnoticed. Forgotten.
Then he saw the boy.
The child couldn't have been older than seven, his limbs thin, his clothes barely holding together. He moved quickly, slipping through gaps in the crowd, a shadow flitting between bodies. Elias's sharp eyes caught the subtle movement of his fingers—a practiced swipe, a quick retreat.
The loaf of bread he stole was barely worth the risk.
The merchant was faster than Elias expected. A thick, calloused hand clamped around the boy's arm, yanking him back with a force that sent the child stumbling.
"Thief!" the vendor bellowed, shaking the boy hard enough that his feet barely touched the ground.
The crowd barely reacted.
Elias felt his stomach tighten.
The boy's wide eyes darted around, searching for an escape, for mercy. But he would find none here.
A well-fed enforcer stepped forward from the fountain nearby, his grin slow and cruel. "Rules are rules," he said, his voice almost lazy. "Can't have every rat in the city thinking they can take what they want."
The merchant hesitated before nodding. "Teach him a lesson."
The enforcer wasted no time. His hand shot out, striking the boy across the face.
The sound was sharp, cutting through the market's dull hum. The boy yelped, the stolen bread tumbling from his fingers. It hit the dirt and was gone in an instant, snatched by another pair of hands from the crowd.
No one moved to help.
Elias forced himself to breathe.
The boy's lip trembled, but he did not cry. Crying meant weakness. Weakness invited more cruelty.
Elias knew that lesson well.
His legs twitched, his instincts screaming at him to do something, but he couldn't.
He had been that boy once—caught, beaten, left to fend for himself. And no one had saved him.
No one ever did.
His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms.
He turned away.
Each step was heavier than the last. The boy's cries clung to his ears, an echo of his own past. He had once been the one trembling beneath cruel hands. But there had been no savior for him.
And now, he was no different.
His stomach twisted violently, but he kept walking.
Was this what survival meant?
To become like them?
The deeper into the slums he walked, the worse the streets became. The main thoroughfare at least had the illusion of life. Deeper inside, past the first few rows of markets and housing, was where true desperation festered.
Shacks lined the narrow alleyways, their doors barely hanging onto rusted hinges. Filthy rags hung in place of proper curtains, and the few people who lived here barely stirred from their corners. The sound of coughing, hacking, filled the air, a constant reminder that disease thrived in these conditions.
The air was thicker here, filled with something more than just rot and filth. Something unseen. Something dangerous.
He could feel the eyes on him.
Waiting. Watching.
Elias moved carefully, avoiding eye contact with the figures lurking in the shadows. He knew better than to hesitate—hesitation was an invitation for trouble.
A low murmur of voices caught his attention. A small gathering had formed around what looked like a collapsed figure. Elias hesitated, then edged closer.
A man lay sprawled in the dirt, his body unnaturally still. His clothes were better than most here, his boots not yet worn through. But his face was gaunt, his lips cracked. A knife wound marred his side, the dark stain spreading across his tunic.
Elias stared.
He was dying.
A woman crouched near him, rifling through his belongings with deft fingers. She found a small pouch and tested its weight.
"Not much," she muttered.
A second figure, taller, shifted impatiently. "Enough for a meal. Leave the rest."
No one tried to help him.
No one even cared.
The slums did not grieve for the dead.
A pair of sharp eyes flicked toward Elias.
A moment of silence.
Elias knew better than to linger.
He turned away, walking as if nothing had changed. But he could feel it—a presence now watching him, weighing his worth.
He had made a mistake.
By the time Elias returned to the blacksmith's forge, the sky was dimming, the air thick with the scent of iron and burning coal. The forge master, a burly man with arms like tree trunks, barely glanced at him.
"You're late," he grunted.
Elias bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment. No excuses, no explanations. That was how things worked here.
He picked up a sack of coal, the weight familiar, the burn in his muscles expected. He had worked here long enough to know his place.
But his mind was elsewhere.
The boy. The beaten child, curled on the ground.
The dying man, stripped of everything, left to rot in the streets.
He had learned something today.
He was weak.
He had known this before, but today it had been proven again. If he had been stronger, he could have helped that boy. He could have stolen what he needed without fear. He could have walked these streets without having to constantly look over his shoulder.
Elias clenched his fists.
One day, he would no longer be at the mercy of this world.
One day, he would have power.
The slums had their rules, but so did the world beyond them. Strength. Knowledge. Deception.
These were the currencies that mattered.
He had none of them yet.
But he would learn.
He had to.
End of Chapter 8.