Aren?
When was the last time someone called me that?
She remembered me. Even after I forgot who I used to be.
It scraped against the inside of my skull like a rusted blade.
The name didn't feel real.
Didn't belong to me anymore.
It was when my mother...
I stopped.
Couldn't go there.
Not now.
Her voice trembled again.
"Aren… please… take my son."
I stared.
"Take the tickets in my pocket," she whispered. "They'll get you out. Far from here. Far from the Church. He's Giftborn… if they find him—"
She coughed—wet and raw. Her hand twitched, reaching toward me.
I just knelt there, frozen.
"They'll take him," she said, barely audible. "Like they took the others."
My mouth opened.
"Reyda, I… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I didn't know, I didn't—"
"Please," she said. "I'm begging you."
Sensing the desperation in her voice.
Her fingers brushed mine.
Weak. Cold.
But steady.
I flinched.
"Reyda, I'm a terrible person."
My voice cracked, thin and dry.
"I've done things—unforgivable things. I kill. I steal. That's all I do."
I couldn't look at her.
Couldn't face what I'd done.
"I don't know how to take care of a kid. I don't know how to protect anyone."
My throat closed around the words.
"I killed his mother. I—"
I finally looked down.
Her face was pale, lips trembling with effort. Blood clung to the corners of her mouth. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths. But her eyes—
They weren't afraid.
They weren't angry.
They were… clear.
Soft.
She looked at me like she was seeing someone else.
Or maybe like she remembered someone I forgot how to be.
Then, her voice cut through the silence.
"Aren," she whispered.
"I don't know… why. Or how it came to this…"
She coughed, the sound wet, sharp. But her eyes stayed on mine.
"I should hate you."
Blood touched her lips, but she swallowed it.
"But I don't. Gods help me… I don't."
"I still see you. And I—"
Her breath caught.
"I forgive you."
It shattered something I didn't know was still there.
Forgiveness?
From her?
Why?
Why would anyone forgive me?
After everything?
After this?
"The slums rot us from the inside," she whispered. "Make us do things… things we never thought we would."
Her voice trembled—
but her eyes still burned with that quiet fire.
"I've done things too. But we can't let this place decide who we stay. Not forever."
She coughed again, pain tearing through her.
"You're not who they say you are," she rasped.
Her fingers twitched in mine. "You were never that."
She swallowed. Blood, maybe. Regret.
"I trust you, Aren."
Her voice was barely a breath.
"You're all that's left."
Her eyes found mine—wet, clear, unflinching.
"I said I'd change the world once…"
A pause. A hitch in her chest.
"Didn't get the chance."
Another pause. Her grip faltered.
"So I'm giving it to you."
Her lips cracked into something almost like a smile.
"Give him a world worth growing up in."
My heart stuttered.
Like it had been frozen for years and was just now learning how to beat again.
Something stirred in my chest.
Not pain. Not anger.
Something warmer.
Worse.
Hope.
I nodded. Slowly. Almost afraid to say it out loud.
"I'll do it."
Her body relaxed slightly.
Her face softened, like a weight had finally been lifted.
"I swear I'll get him to safety," I said.
"I couldn't save you. Or my brother. But maybe… I can still do something."
She smiled. Just a little.
Then it faded.
Her arms went limp.
Breath stopped.
Eyes—
Empty.
I reached out and closed them gently.
"Thank you" I whispered.
The quiet that followed wasn't peaceful.
It was hollow.
The kind of silence that makes your ribs feel like they're echoing.
I stood. My knees cracked beneath me. I felt older than I was.
Like the years caught up all at once.
I moved around the house with slow, deliberate hands. Not out of respect. Not exactly.
But because for once—I didn't want to take.
I wanted to preserve.
I found a faded canvas satchel hanging near the door. It held a blanket, a rusted flask, some strips of dried root. Not much.
In Reyda's pocket, just like she said, I found the tickets.
Real ones. Ink-stamped and everything.
She'd really done it.
She'd gotten a way out.
I turned. He was still there—curled on the mat, untouched by the chaos.
The glow had faded from his skin, but not from the room.
Something lingered.
Some weight in the air.
Like the light had burrowed in and refused to leave.
I knelt beside him. Studied him.
He looked younger than I remembered Kaelen being.
And smaller.
Ribs sharp. Wrists too thin. Hair a tangle of soot and straw.
Three years old.
I should've struggled to lift him.
But I didn't.
He was light—too light.
Slum-born.
Undernourished.
The kind of small that doesn't come from age, but absence.
I wrapped him gently in the blanket, tucked the half-wilted flower behind his ear.
He didn't stir.
Just kept breathing, soft and even, like the world hadn't shattered.
I hoisted him up.
He barely weighed more than a sack of potatoes.
"You're lucky," I muttered. "I've carried worse."
And I had.
Kaelen, once. After he tripped running through the alley behind the bone-burners. Split his knee open on a rusted pipe. Wouldn't stop crying.
I carried him all the way home.
He stopped crying halfway through.
Fell asleep against my shoulder like the pain forgot how to reach him.
This boy—he didn't cry.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't wake.
Just let me carry him.
Like he trusted me.
Like he didn't know what I'd done.
"You're not gonna make this easy, are you?" I whispered.
No answer.
Didn't expect one.
The streets outside were darker now.
Lanterns burned low in the distance. The air was thicker. Quieter.
This part of the city slept hard when it could sleep.
And when it didn't—things came out that didn't wear names.
I slipped through the back, keeping low.
The satchel dug into my shoulder. The boy's breath tickled against my collar.
I moved like I always did—quiet, invisible. One shadow among many.
But tonight felt different.
Like something was watching.
Or maybe just waiting.
The streets bled shadows.
I moved like I always had—
Through alleys no one used.
Over broken fences.
Under rusted scaffolds where the guards never looked.
I knew every corner of this city that the Church didn't care to clean.
Years of slipping through cracks had taught me where the lights didn't reach.
The boy didn't stir.
His warmth pressed into my back, his weight a constant reminder of the promise I didn't ask for.
And somehow—
A promise I didn't ask for.
But couldn't let go.
The docks loomed up ahead, crouched in the fog like sleeping beasts.
Crates stacked high. Ropes creaking in the wind. Smoke rising from the kilns behind the warehouses.
Just like the ticket said.
Third kiln. West row.
I turned the corner and froze.
A cart sat there—big, canvas-covered, oxen already hitched. The kind that wouldn't get stopped for questions.
The driver was climbing up onto the seat.
I stepped out of the shadows.
"Wait."
He turned. Rough-faced. Square build. A scar across his brow.
His eyes narrowed.
"You're late."
"Still here, aren't I?"
"Where's the woman?"
I didn't answer right away. My fingers twitched at my side.
"She's not coming," I said. "It's just me and the kid now."
His eyes flicked to the boy over my shoulder.
He didn't like it.
"Wasn't the deal."
"The deal was two tickets," I said. "There are two of us."
A beat passed.
The oxen snorted.
"Doesn't look like he paid."
"He's three," I said flatly. "You want him to count it out in coppers?"
He scowled.
I stepped closer.
"You were paid. You're not losing coin. So stop wasting time and open the damn tarp."
He looked at me for a long second.
Then he sighed.
"Get in. Before I change my mind."
I climbed in without another word.
The tarp closed behind us. The wheels groaned into motion.
And just like that—
We left Dravorn behind.