The dim glow of a flickering candle cast long shadows against the cracked wooden walls of a small hut. The air inside was thick with dampness, the scent of mildew clinging to the few tattered blankets spread on the floor. Vael sat against the far wall, his arms wrapped around his knees, staring at the frail figure curled up on the makeshift bed.
Elira's breathing was shallow, her thin frame trembling under the weight of an illness she had been battling for weeks. Her once lively hazel eyes barely opened, exhaustion dulling their usual warmth.
"Vael..." Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet the effort it took for her to speak was evident.
He leaned closer, gripping her cold hand. "Don't talk. Save your strength. I'm going to get more medicine."
She tried to smile, but even that small effort seemed too much.
Vael clenched his jaw. He had done everything he could, scavenging scraps, stealing when necessary, even begging when desperation set in. But it was never enough. Not in the slums.
Standing up, he reached for his worn-out cloak, wrapping it tightly around himself before slipping out the door.
The streets of the slums were as cruel as ever, filled with the stench of rotting food, unwashed bodies, and desperation. Fires burned in rusted barrels, casting eerie glows against the dilapidated buildings. Vael moved swiftly through the maze-like alleys, keeping his head down. He had one goal tonight: to get the medicine Elira needed.
But to do that, he needed coin. And that meant borrowing from Garron.
Garron, the self-proclaimed "King of the Slums," ran an underground racket. If you needed money, you went to him. If you couldn't pay him back, you disappeared.
Vael arrived at a rundown shack near the market district. Two thugs stood at the entrance, eyeing him with amusement.
"Look what we got here," one of them sneered. "The rat finally decided to crawl out of his hole."
Vael ignored them and stepped inside. The air smelled of cheap liquor and sweat. Garron sat on a cushioned chair, far too lavish for a place like this. His thick fingers adorned with rings tapped against the armrest as he studied Vael with a grin.
"Back again so soon? You barely paid off your last debt."
"I need more," Vael said, his voice steady despite the fear clawing at his gut. "Elira's getting worse. I need medicine."
Garron chuckled, exchanging glances with the men around him. "You're persistent, I'll give you that. But I'm feeling generous tonight." He leaned forward. "I'll lend you the coin, but you work for me until it's paid off. No excuses."
Vael hesitated. He knew what that meant. Running errands, carrying out threats, stealing—or worse. But what choice did he have?
"Fine."
Garron grinned. "Good lad. Take the money and don't disappoint me."
Vael snatched the pouch of coins and hurried out before he could change his mind.
Vael hurried through the narrow, winding paths of the slums, his heart pounding against his ribs. The stale air reeked of sweat, filth, and desperation. In his hand, he clutched a small pouch of silver—barely enough to afford medicine for Elira.
She had been getting worse. The fever never left her, and her strength continued to wane. Every time he saw her frail body curled up beneath the thin, tattered blanket, it only fueled his determination to save her. He wouldn't let her die—not while he still had a way to fight.
The apothecary was nothing more than a rickety shack with shelves lined with cheap, diluted potions. The old man behind the counter barely looked up as Vael placed his silver down.
"The usual," Vael said.
The apothecary scoffed. "You're lucky I still have some left."
He handed over a small vial of murky green liquid, its contents barely sloshing inside. It was weak, barely better than boiled herbs, but it was all Vael could afford.
As he turned to leave, the door creaked open.
A shadow loomed over him.
Rogan.
The Low Bronze-ranked enforcer of the Black Hounds stepped inside, his towering frame nearly blocking the doorway. His scarred face twisted into a grin.
"Vael," he drawled, cracking his knuckles. "Boss Garron changed his mind."
Vael's grip on the vial tightened. "What do you mean? I just need a little more time."
Rogan snorted. "Time? You already had plenty. The boss ain't interested in waiting anymore."
Two other gang members stepped in behind him, blocking any chance of escape.
Vael forced himself to stay calm. "I just need a few more days. I'll get the money."
"Not my problem, rat." Rogan stepped forward, grabbing Vael by the collar. "Boss says no more extensions. Either you pay now, or we make an example out of you."
Vael's mind raced. He couldn't afford to lose this medicine. If they took everything, Elira wouldn't last much longer.
"Let me at least give this to her," he tried to bargain. "Then do whatever you want."
Rogan sneered. "Oh, don't worry. If she's still breathing by the time we're done, maybe we'll pay her a visit ourselves."
Something inside Vael snapped.
Without thinking, he swung the medicine vial at Rogan's face. The thug barely flinched, but the impact was enough to loosen the grip on his collar. Vael wrenched himself free and bolted toward the door.
A fist slammed into his stomach, knocking the air from his lungs.
Vael collapsed to his knees, gasping, as Rogan loomed over him. "Wrong choice."
Pain exploded through him as a boot connected with his ribs. Another kick, then another. The gang members laughed as they took turns beating him down. Blood filled his mouth, and the world blurred.