Elias moved like a ghost through the Outer Slums of Valtaros, each step calculated to make no sound. The morning fog clung to the ground, obscuring the filth and decay but not its stench—a miasma of waste, disease, and desperation that had become so familiar he barely noticed it anymore.
He paused at the corner of a crumbling tenement, watching the patrol of Sentinels pass. Their polished armor gleamed even in the dim light, an obscene display of resources in a district where children died of hunger daily. They marched in perfect formation, hands resting on sword hilts, eyes scanning constantly for trouble. For people like him.
Only when they disappeared into the fog did Elias continue, skirting the edge of a festering puddle that had once been a communal well. A bony dog watched him with suspicious eyes but was too weak to bother giving chase.
Today he would risk the Market Quarter. Dangerous, but the alternative was another day without food. His stomach had long since stopped growling, moving past hunger to a hollow ache that clouded his thoughts.
The transition between districts was both abrupt and heavily guarded. A crumbling wall, once part of the original city fortifications, now served as the boundary separating those deemed worthy of protection from those left to fend for themselves. The Market Quarter checkpoint buzzed with activity—merchants' carts being inspected, papers verified, bribes discreetly exchanged.
Elias had no papers and no coin for bribes. He had only his wits and a lifetime of learning where to step, where to hide, when to move.
He slipped into the drainage canal that ran beneath the wall. The smell was overwhelming, but it kept the guards away. They wouldn't soil their polished boots. Pressing his back against the slimy stone, he edged sideways until he reached the iron grate. Three bars were loose, just enough space for someone as thin as he had become.
The Market Quarter erupted around him in a cacophony of sounds and colors. Merchants hawked wares from stalls draped in fabrics dyed in hues that seemed impossible after the dreary grays of the slums. The mingled scents of spices, roasting meat, and fresh bread made his head swim.
Elias adjusted the ragged hood of his cloak, keeping his face shadowed. Anyone looking closely would mark him immediately as slum-born—too thin, too pale, eyes too wary. But markets were busy places, and busy people rarely looked closely.
He drifted among the stalls, fingertips occasionally brushing against small items—testing weight, attachment, the likelihood of being missed. A merchant's apprentice glared suspiciously, and Elias moved on, adopting a slouched posture of subservience.
The day's true prize appeared at midday—a merchant's cart left momentarily unattended as its owner argued with a Sentinel over some petty regulation. The cart held baskets of bread still warm from the ovens, their crusts glistening with oil and herbs.
Elias made no sudden movement. No obvious glance around. He simply drifted closer, seemingly interested in the argument like any bored onlooker. When he moved, it was with practiced efficiency—one loaf slipped into his sleeve, another into the hidden pocket sewn into his cloak. Then he was walking away, unhurried, anonymous in the crowd.
The shout came just as he reached the edge of the marketplace.
"You there! Stop!"
Elias ran.
He darted between shoppers, ducked under a cart, vaulted a stack of empty crates. Behind him, the merchant's continued shouts were joined by the authoritative commands of Sentinels. He rounded a corner into an alley, scrambled up a pile of discarded shipping pallets, and pulled himself onto a low roof.
Lying flat against the sun-warmed tiles, he held his breath as boots pounded past below. When the sounds faded, he allowed himself a smile, reaching into his cloak to touch the stolen bread. It would keep him alive another day.
The journey back to the slums was trickier than the entry had been. The drainage canal would be watched now. He took a longer route, clambering over rooftops where buildings from different districts pressed close together, dropping down into the no-man's land where the official boundary blurred.
His home, if it could be called that, was the hollowed-out remains of a building that had partially collapsed during the last major corruption breach. The Sanctum District had been cleansed and rebuilt immediately. The Market Quarter had been repaired within months. The Outer Slums remained as they were—broken, forgotten.
Elias slipped through a narrow gap in the rubble, navigating the precarious path he'd created through the debris. The space beyond was small but secure—invisible from outside and with multiple escape routes should the remaining structure finally give way.
He pulled his treasures from their hiding places, breaking off a small piece of bread and forcing himself to eat slowly. Too much after days of near-starvation would only make him sick. He carefully wrapped the remainder in a relatively clean cloth, tucking it into a hollow beneath a loose stone in the floor.
As dusk fell, he sat in the small opening that served as his window, watching the slums settle into night. The distant glow of the Sanctum District illuminated the horizon, its gleaming towers and domes a mockery of the darkness below.
Snippets of conversation drifted up from the street, fragments of misery and rare laughter.
"—another one taken yesterday—"
"—marks appeared overnight—"
"—says the Black Maw is hungry again—"
Elias leaned forward, listening more intently. The Black Maw. Even in the slums, people spoke the name with reverent fear. The Church taught that it was divine, a gateway through which the worthy were taken to be transformed into warriors against corruption. The reality, from what Elias had observed, was that the chosen never returned—or if they did, they came back wrong, their eyes haunted, their bodies marked with scars that shouldn't exist.
Night fell completely. In the distance, the barrier lights flickered on, marking the edge of Valtaros where civilization ended and the corrupted Outlands began. The Church maintained those barriers with the same religious zeal they maintained the social barriers between districts—some worth protecting, others expendable.
Elias retreated into his shelter, securing the makeshift door behind him. He removed his worn boots, checking carefully for any signs they might finally be giving out. They would hold a while longer. He counted his meager possessions by touch in the darkness—the knife with its blade worn thin from sharpening, the coil of sturdy wire, the waterskin, the small pouch containing three copper coins he'd been saving for months.
Tomorrow would be another day of survival. Perhaps he would risk the Warborn Pits where fighters drew crowds and crowds meant pockets to pick. Or maybe he would scout the border where the Outer Slums met the Ashbarrens—occasionally useful items could be scavenged from abandoned outposts.
Sleep came slowly, as it always did. In the quiet darkness, Elias allowed himself the one luxury he permitted—a moment to remember when he hadn't been alone. When there had been a small home with a mother who smiled despite their poverty, a father who taught him to identify edible plants growing in forgotten corners of the city, a sister who laughed at everything. Before the corruption had breached the eastern barrier ten years ago. Before he had learned that survival sometimes meant being the one who ran away.
Those memories were dangerous. They made him weak, made him care. In Valtaros, especially in the slums, caring for anything beyond your next meal was a luxury few could afford.
As consciousness finally faded, his last thought was practical: the bread would last three days if he was careful.
He did not dream of the black marks that would appear on his skin by morning.