A knock at the door signaled the rhythm of another evening settling in. The shop stirred with quiet motion, the scent of fresh bread and spice hanging thick in the damp underground air. It wasn't the scent of luxury, nor indulgence, just necessity, baked into loaves and exchanged in careful trade. The flickering lantern light stretched long shadows across the shelves, giving the small space an intimacy that felt both warm and fragile, like a place held together by willpower more than stone.
Elizabeth moved through the shop, taking silent inventory, her sharp eyes flicking toward Castin now and then, not with hostility, just quiet assessment. Her hands worked with practiced efficiency, but there was tension in her shoulders, a tightness in the way she stacked supplies. Not exhaustion. Not exactly. It was something else. Something held back.
Castin knew that weight. He'd seen it before in people who carried everything because they had no choice. They didn't ask for help, didn't wait to be asked if they needed it. They just kept moving forward, because if they stopped, if they let even one thing slip, then everything they held together might collapse.
Emma, on the other hand, made no effort to be subtle. She leaned against the counter, chin propped on her folded arms, staring at him openly, unabashedly amused.
He let the silence stretch before sighing through his nose. "What?"
"Nothin'." A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Just lookin' at ya."
He arched a brow. "Yeah? And?"
Emma shrugged, her smirk widening. "You always look this grumpy?"
A short huff of air left him. "You always ask this many questions?"
"Only like all the time." She shot back without missing a beat.
He studied her for a moment, then shook his head with a smirk of his own. "Right. Well, enjoy the view."
Emma giggled before turning away, seemingly satisfied.
Elizabeth let out a quiet sigh through her nose but didn't comment. Castin caught the way her fingers paused for a fraction of a second before continuing. Just listening. Always listening.
Castin shifted his gaze toward the shop entrance, watching customers come and go in quiet efficiency. No money changed hands, just goods for bread, necessity for necessity. Down here, survival wasn't about wealth. It was about having something useful.
"You always get this many customers at night?" he asked, watching Edgar wipe down the counter with practiced ease.
"Bread's best fresh," Edgar said, setting aside a basket of warm loaves. "And people down here don't have a set schedule. Some work through the nights. Some sleep when they can."
Emma swung her legs idly. "Papa says everyone's got their own rhythm, like a dance. You just learn the steps if you want to keep up."
Edgar chuckled, ruffling her fur. "Something like that."
Castin smirked, but noted the sharpness in Elizabeth's movements as she worked. Always listening. Always watching. Always holding everything together.
"Need an extra set of hands cleaning up?" he asked, already feeling the ache in his ribs but unwilling to sit idle.
Edgar glanced at the flour-dusted bowls near the sink. "If you're up for it."
Before Castin could move, Elizabeth spoke for the first time.
"Just don't make more of a mess." She didn't look at him, her voice even, measured. Not rude, not welcoming. Pragmatic.
Castin pushed himself up, wincing at the stiffness lingering in his muscles. The bruises had faded to deep yellow and purple, pain easing but not gone. Healing, but not yet whole.
The warmth of the shop, the quiet rhythm of tidying, the soft crackle of a low-burning lantern, these things grounded him in a way he hadn't expected. No running. No fighting. Just a broom sweeping over stone, quiet conversation, and the weight of exhaustion that didn't come from battle.
Reaching for a bowl, his fingers brushed over something rough. A carving, nearly hidden in the wood.
He leaned in, running his thumb over the tiny rat's face, etched with small, careful hands. The craftsmanship was rough but deliberate. It reminded him of when he used to carve as a child, imprecise, but full of intent. He remembered hunched shoulders, a knife biting into wood, the need to leave something behind, even if no one noticed.
"Who carved this?" he asked, voice thoughtful.
Edgar, still kneading dough, barely glanced up. "Hmm?"
"This." Castin tapped the tiny carving. "Looks like a kid's work."
Edgar wiped his hands on a cloth and stepped closer. For the first time since they'd met, his usual guardedness eased.
"…Eli used to do that," he said after a pause, voice quieter. "Left little marks like that wherever he went."
"Eli." Castin nearly whispered.
Something tightened in Castin's chest. The same tightness when you say something you know you aren't supposed to.
Edgar nodded, brushing his fingers over the carving. "Said it made places feel like home."
Emma, unusually quiet, spoke up. "There's more, you know. Around the city. Papa says Eli left them everywhere."
Elizabeth let out a quiet breath, setting down a crate a little too firmly. Not anger. Not quite. Just something she had no room to say aloud.
"He always had a habit of getting into everything," she muttered, eyes still on her work. "Carving up furniture included."
It wasn't an invitation for conversation.
But it wasn't a shutdown either.
Just a glimpse behind the wall.
Later, as the night deepened and the shop quieted, Castin sat near the hearth, Emma curled up in a chair beside him, lazily swinging her feet. The embers glowed softly, painting the room in shifting gold and shadow.
"Did you have kids?" Emma asked suddenly, voice thick with the edges of sleep.
Castin hesitated, then exhaled. "Yeah. A daughter."
Emma perked up slightly. "What was her name?"
"Elena."
Emma seemed to roll the name over in her head. "Was she nice?"
A faint smile ghosted over Castin's lips. "She was stubborn. Smart. Always wanted to figure things out on her own."
"Did you and Elena ever do anything fun?"
Castin huffed. "Nah, kept her locked up all the time."
Emma snorted. "Liar."
He shook his head, amused. "Yeah, we did fun stuff. This one time, I took her to a fair. One of those old ones, with carnival games."
Emma's eyes lit up. "Did you win her something?"
"A stuffed owl. Took me five tries, but I got it."
Emma grinned. "That's not bad."
She perked up suddenly. "The Lantern Archway Festival is happening soon. You should take me!"
Before Castin could answer, Elizabeth's voice cut in sharply from behind them.
"No."
Emma turned, frowning. "But Mama—"
Elizabeth clenched her hands, inhaling sharply through her nose. "You are not going."
Emma's brows furrowed. "But Castin's nice, not like…" Emma's voice trailed off as she was pulled into another room, her voice uncertain, unable to finish the thought.
The walls of the shop were only so thick, so Castin could still hear Elizabeth's voice wavering, but the steel of it was still there. "I do not trust that man with you. You are my only daughter. Look at what happened to your brother the last time he trusted a human—" Castin could tell she caught herself, as if she had just crossed a line she'd sworn not to.
Castin felt the air shifting. The atmosphere growing incredibly heavy. The palpable sense of dread a child of divorced parents knows. The silence in the eye of the storm.
Once, when he was younger, he had fireman-carried a friend out of a burning building. They had both been drinking, too much, too recklessly, and one of them, though neither could remember who, had left the stove on. The fire spread fast. Smoke thickened the air. The heat clawed at his back as he stumbled through the doorway, his friend's dead weight pressing down on his shoulders, every step feeling like it might be his last. That kind of weight. The kind that drove his heels into the ground, that set his muscles ablaze and just not from effort, but from desperation. The kind of burden that stayed with you, long after the flames died out.
That was what this felt like.
Through the thin walls, Castin could hear their muffled voices, Emma's pleading, Elizabeth's breaking.
The weight of grief neither of them had fully put down.
A moment later, Elizabeth returned to the main room, wiping her eyes, face unreadable. She picked up where she had left off in cleaning, as if nothing had happened.
The silence settled again, thick and unmoving.
"It's late," she muttered. "Maybe you should head to your room."
Castin exhaled, then steadied himself. Enough was enough.
"Elizabeth," he said, voice even. "Can we talk outside?"
Here's the corrected version of the passage, ensuring that Castin does not refer to the Rat King as human:
The door shut behind them with a quiet click, leaving the muffled warmth of the bakery behind. Outside, the underground streets stretched in shadowed corridors, dim lanterns casting elongated silhouettes over the damp stone walls. The air was thick with the scents of earth and distant smoke, but in the hush of the evening, all Castin could hear was Elizabeth's slow, measured breaths.
She stood rigid, arms crossed tightly over her chest, staring into the dark expanse ahead as if she were bracing for something she already regretted. Castin took a step forward, waiting to see if she would speak first. She didn't.
"Alright," he exhaled, voice even but firm. "What's your problem with me? You think I'm dangerous? Say it."
Elizabeth remained motionless, her fingers pressing hard into her arms, nails digging into the fabric of her sleeves. Then, with a quiet inhale, she turned toward him, her eyes sharp with something closer to steel than anger.
"I don't trust you," she admitted, each word clipped and deliberate. "I don't trust your kind. And I don't trust the Rat King for thinking you belong here."
Castin let the words settle between them before nodding once, as if testing their weight. "Because I'm human?"
"Yes." She didn't hesitate, and it was almost a relief, at least she wasn't trying to soften the blow.
Castin tilted his head slightly, watching her. "That's real bold, considering the Rat King let me in."
Elizabeth's jaw tightened. "The Rat King is not human. He has lived in this city longer than you can imagine. He understands us."
"And I don't?"
She let out a sharp, hollow laugh, shaking her head. "You've been here for days, Castin. That's not trust. That's not proof. That's just… time." She took a step closer, her voice lowering. "You think I don't see what's happening? Emma looks at you like you're safe. Like you belong. And she's a child. She doesn't understand."
"And you do?" Castin challenged. "You understand everything about me? About who I am?"
"I understand enough."
Something in her voice, something raw, unraveling, made him pause. The way she clenched her jaw, like she was holding something back by sheer force of will. The way her arms stayed crossed, as if keeping herself from breaking apart.
"You don't know me," Castin said, softer now. "You're not even trying to."
Elizabeth exhaled sharply, as if she wanted to laugh but couldn't find anything funny. "You think that matters?" She shook her head, stepping back, as if distance could keep her steady. "You don't get it. You don't need to know someone to be hurt by them."
The words hung between them, stark and unyielding. For a moment, Castin wasn't sure if she was going to continue. But then, something in her snapped.
"You think you can just walk in here and act like one of us? Like this place is some kind of adventure for you?" The dam cracked, and her voice rose with it. "You don't know what it's like to have everything ripped away because of someone like you. Someone we trusted."
She swallowed hard, her breath uneven. "My son is dead because of a human."
There it was. The truth, laid bare.
Elizabeth's hands trembled at her sides, as if saying it out loud had made it real all over again. "Because we trusted a man who didn't deserve it. And now you waltz in here, and I see my daughter smiling at you like it's safe, like it's fine, like history isn't about to repeat itself."
Her voice cracked. The weight of it was pulling her under, suffocating, drowning her in something too heavy to carry alone. And she had carried it alone for so long.
Castin didn't speak right away. Didn't rush to fill the silence with empty reassurances or platitudes. He let the grief settle, let it sink into the space between them.
Then, finally, quietly, he spoke.
"I know what it's like to lose someone and not have time to fall apart."
Elizabeth turned her head sharply, as if stung by the admission.
"I know what it's like to be the last one standing."
She let out a hollow breath, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. "What, you think because you lost someone, you get it?"
"No." Castin's voice was steady. "I think because I lost someone, I won't pretend like I do."
Elizabeth shook her head, but something in her shoulders shifted. The weight of too many sleepless nights, too many years spent holding everything together, was pressing down harder than before.
Her breath hitched, and she turned away, arms wrapping around herself. "I can't do this."
But then the first sob slipped out, unbidden, unrestrained. And suddenly, she couldn't stop it.
Her whole body trembled. The walls she had built around herself were cracking, and the grief that had been held in for too long came rushing through. She pressed a hand to her face, as if trying to shove the tears back, but it was too late.
Castin moved without thinking.
Not out of pity. Not out of obligation. Just because he understood. Because when someone was drowning, you didn't ask if they wanted help, you just reached out.
A hand on her shoulder. Firm, steady.
She stiffened. Like she wanted to shove him away. Like she should.
But then, she leaned in.
Not much. Just enough.
Then, finally, she broke.
The sobs hit her like a collapse. Her legs wavered, and before she could stumble, Castin caught her, holding her steady as the weight of everything came crashing down.
Her fingers curled into his shirt, gripping tight, as if she was afraid of falling apart completely.
And he let her.
She didn't speak. Didn't need to. The grief that had lived in her chest for so long was no longer silent, no longer buried beneath duty and fear. She had fought for too long to be strong. Now, for this moment, she wasn't.
Time passed, seconds, minutes, maybe more, before Elizabeth finally pulled back, wiping her face with the sleeve of her shirt. Her breathing was uneven, but the storm had quieted.
"I'm fine," she muttered, voice rough.
Castin didn't argue. He just nodded. "I know."
She hesitated, then, almost reluctantly, spoke again. "Emma likes you."
He didn't respond, just let her find the words.
"I don't." A pause. Then, softer. "But I don't hate you either."
Castin nodded again, understanding what wasn't being said.
Elizabeth took a steadying breath before turning back toward the bakery door. Before stepping inside, she glanced at him one last time.
"Don't make me regret this."
Then, without another word, she disappeared into the lantern-lit warmth of home.
Castin remained outside for a moment longer, exhaling slow, letting the cool underground air settle in his lungs.
Something had changed.
Not completely. Not all at once.
But something.