A fist swung at my face, fast and heavy. I ducked, mud sucking at my boots, the alley's reek of sweat and rot clawing into my lungs. "What you got, runt?" the scarred boy growled, his voice thick with liquor and spite.
Three years older, broad as a barrel, he towered over me, his pack of slum rats snickering behind him. Their eyes glinted in the barrel fire's glow, hungry and mean.
I gripped Elias's wrist, his thin bones trembling under my fingers. "Nothing," I said, keeping my voice flat. My heart thudded, but I didn't let it show.
The pouch at my belt sagged—empty, useless—but they wouldn't care. In the slums, you didn't need proof to take. You just did.
"Liar." He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing us, jagged against the muddy ground. Elias pressed against me, his breath hitching. "Rowan—" he whispered, timid as always.
I didn't look at him. Couldn't. One slip, and we'd both pay.
"Shut it," the boy snapped at him, then grinned at me, all teeth and malice. "That pouch—or your brother's shirt. Pick fast."
His pack edged in, boots splashing filth, their laughter sharp as broken glass.
My gut twisted. Elias's shirt hung off him, tattered and thin, but it was all he had against the cold. I wasn't strong—ten years old, scrawny from hunger—but I was quick.
Fighting five of them head-on would end us, but I couldn't just stand here either. My hand twitched, brushing a chunk of wood half-buried in the mud. Not much, but enough.
"Take it," I muttered, yanking the pouch free and tossing it at his feet. He kicked it open, saw nothing, and his face darkened. "Wasting my time?" he hissed, lunging.
I grabbed the wood and swung—weak, sloppy, but it cracked against his arm. He howled, clutching the spot, more shocked than hurt. His pack hesitated, just a heartbeat. I shoved Elias ahead. "Run!"
We bolted, his small legs stumbling as I dragged him through the muck. "Fuckin' rats!" the boy roared, and their boots pounded behind us, curses echoing off the shacks.
The alley twisted ahead, narrow and black, leaning walls like a beast's jaws. My chest burned, legs screaming, but I didn't slow.
Elias's gasps rasped beside me, his hand slipping. "Rowan—I can't—"
"Move!" I hissed, sharper than I meant. Their shouts were too close, bouncing off the damp wood—five sets of boots, splashing through puddles, gaining ground. My eyes darted, frantic. A stack of crates loomed ahead, half-rotted, leaning against a shack.
I veered toward it, yanking Elias with me. "Hold on," I muttered, then kicked the bottom crate hard. It toppled, splintering, spilling moldy rags and trash into the path.
Someone yelped, hitting the mud with a wet thud, curses flying. It wasn't much—just a stumble—but it gave us a breath.
The alley split, one path curving left, the other straight into shadow. I pulled Elias right, but a hand grabbed my collar—too close, too fast.
One of them had caught up, his breath hot on my neck. "Gotcha!" he snarled, yanking me back. I twisted, elbowing wild, catching his gut.
He grunted, grip loosening, and I tore free, dragging Elias with me. My sleeve ripped, the sound loud in my ears, but we didn't stop.
A gap between shacks—tight, rusted metal jutting out—glinted ahead. "There!" I pushed Elias through, his skinny frame scraping past.
I followed, metal biting my arm, pain swallowed by the rush. We crouched in the stink, breath held, as they thundered by. "Where'd they go?" one snarled, voice thick with rage.
"Gonna gut 'em!" Another laughed, high and wild, fading as they took the wrong turn.
Their voices melted into the wind's howl. I exhaled, shaky, the cold sinking into my skin. Elias huddled close, shivering, his cracked lips trembling.
"Are they gone?" he asked, soft and trusting.
"Yeah," I said, peering out. The alley was empty, but the dread stayed, heavy as wet rot. The slums never let you rest. Not really.
We crawled out, mud clinging to us. Night stretched wide, sharp with decay, the air biting through our rags.
Elias's ribs poked under his shirt, his cheeks sunken from days without food. "I'm not that hungry," he mumbled, his voice a faint lie.
I heard the rasp in his throat, saw the drag in his step. He wouldn't last long like this.
"We need something," I said, mostly to myself. Three years older, and I was all he had. At ten, I knew the slums chewed up hope.
At seven, Elias still thought I'd save him. I hated proving him wrong.
The streets coiled on, a tangle of filth and shadow. Scavengers clawed at trash piles, hands quick, eyes dead. A baby's wail cut through, shrill and ignored.
The wind carried laughter from the city beyond the walls—bright, mocking, a world we'd never reach.
My jaw tightened, hate simmering under my skin. Hate for them. Hate for this place. Hate for the emptiness gnawing at us.
A woman staggered past, her hair matted, a bottle dangling from her hand. She muttered to herself, words slurring—something about debts and knives.
Her gaze flicked to us, empty, then away.
No help there. No help anywhere. I pulled Elias closer, his small frame trembling harder now. The cold was sinking deeper, and the night was just beginning.
We rounded a corner, and a figure leaned against a shack—a scavenger, wiry and hunched, his coat patched with grime. He scraped a bent spoon against a tin can, the sound grating.
His eyes flicked up, glinting in the dim. "Stay sharp, kids," he rasped, voice low and bored. "Don't trust the hooded man.
Talks pretty—better world, full bellies. Hmph." He shrugged, turning back to his can. "Ain't my problem."
I kept moving, pulling Elias along. His words stuck, though—low and odd, like a splinter I couldn't dig out.
A hooded man promising things? Sounded too good, and good didn't last here.
Most didn't care enough to warn—just kept their heads down, scraping by. Still, it nagged at me, a shadow I couldn't shake. Elias's hand tightened in mine, trusting me to figure it out.
Ahead, a pile of refuse slumped against a wall—rotting cloth, a broken jar, something glistening wet. I knelt, digging through it, fingers numb.
A scrap of bread—moldy, half-eaten—tumbled free.
I snatched it, brushing off the worst of the green. Not much, but better than nothing. "Here," I said, pressing it into Elias's hand.
He took it, eyes wide, and nibbled slow, like it might vanish. I kept digging, desperate—maybe there was more.
A rat skittered out, hissing, its teeth bared. I flinched, kicking at it, but it was gone, leaving nothing but damp rot and a shard of glass that sliced my finger.
I cursed under my breath, blood welling, the sting sharp against the cold.
The sun was long gone, shadows drowning everything. My stomach growled, a hollow ache matching Elias's shallow breaths. That scrap wouldn't hold us long.
I scanned the ground again, eyes darting for more—a crust, a bone, anything. But the slums were barren, picked clean by faster hands.
"Rowan," Elias whispered, voice quaking. "It's cold."
I didn't answer. What was there to say? The cold was a blade, cutting through us, settling deep. I pulled him closer, his small body shaking against mine.
Shelter was a lie here—every ruin, every corner owned by gangs or worse. We were on our own, always had been.
A rustle sounded—soft, too close. My head snapped up. A shape darted between shacks, low and quick, gone before I could focus.
My pulse spiked, the scavenger's words echoing. Stay sharp. I tightened my grip on Elias, pulling him faster. "Keep up," I muttered, scanning the dark. The night was alive, watching us.
Ahead, a faint glow flickered—men huddled around a fire, their eyes hard and tracking us. One spat into the flames, his stare lingering too long. I kept my head down, steps quick. Don't stop. Don't look.
My chest tightened, the weight pressing harder. Elias needed more than a scrap. I needed a way out. But the slums gave nothing—just more dark, more threats.
"We'll find something," I said, voice low, forcing it out. "I promise."
He nodded, but his eyes were dull. That promise was old, worn thin by too many empty nights.
The wind rose, carrying the city's laughter again, taunting us. My fists clenched, nails digging in. I'd keep him alive. Had to. For him. For me.
But as the night closed in, sharp and cruel, that promise felt fragile, slipping away like ash in the wind.