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Valoria breathed with contradictory sounds, as if it were two separate bodies divided by a thin wall of disparity and indifference. One breath was delicate like butterflies in eternal spring, its echo fluttering among the towering marble palaces above; the other was coarse and deep, like the endless grinding of stone mills below.
In its spacious upper streets, where marble mansions stood in perfect alignment, their golden crowns and polished tiles kissed the sky, shimmering under the cold sunlight—every corner, every arched window, and every masterfully carved wooden door told a tale of inherited prosperity. Its tall walls, adorned with intricate ornaments and arches from bygone eras, whispered luxury even to the passing wind, swaying under the weight of the rich perfumes wafting from its vast chambers.
There, masterfully designed fountains danced in wide courtyards, their clear waters reflecting the twinkling crystal lights that illuminated the night, casting a cold gleam upon granite-paved paths—paths untouched except by polished shoes of the finest leather or the wheels of lavish carriages drawn by white horses with manes flowing like silk.
This was the world of the Luminous Class, a world where days revolved around extravagant parties stretching till dawn to the sound of sweet music, and million-coin deals sealed over ebony tables inlaid with silver. Meanwhile, the eyes of its residents saw nothing beyond the towering walls of their mansions—walls that served not only to separate them from the Arcanon districts, but from all unwanted misery and suffering.
I remember once—about a year ago—while I was on my way to look for hard labor near Valoria's western gate, the one that separated the two worlds. I passed by one of them. A lady dressed in a silk gown that flowed like a waterfall of pale colors, shifting with every movement. Her graceful foot stumbled on a small pebble that had slipped out of place from the perfect pavement. She didn't fall—just swayed lightly—and looked at the pebble with such disgust, as if it were a venomous worm crawling out of the mud. She didn't bother to move it herself. Instead, she called out loudly to a servant walking two steps behind her, dressed in a fine uniform:
— "Remove this obstacle, Jamie! Can't you see how it ruined my steps?"
Her words carried a refined accent we hardly ever heard in our neighborhood, layered with thick indifference toward anything beneath her status. At that moment, I realized the divide between our world and theirs wasn't just a few meters or a concrete wall—it was a vast chasm of understanding and existence, a difference in how the world itself was perceived.
New Year's Eve had always been the clearest example of this divide. On that cold night each year, the upper streets of Valoria transformed into a masterpiece of light and joy. The celebrations began hours before sunset, with hundreds of crystal lanterns strung between marble columns adorned with golden engravings. Every palace was decorated with thousands of twinkling lights, forming radiant murals on their façades. Dances were held everywhere, public squares filled with nobles in their extravagant clothing, jewels glittering on their necks and hands, fine wine flowing in crystal-clear glasses. The music of grand orchestras echoed from every corner, followed by elegant waltzes and bursts of cheerful laughter that filled the air with celebration. As midnight approached, the countdown began, and the skies of Upper Valoria exploded with fireworks—vivid colors and dazzling shapes like stars briefly adorning the heavens. We could hear the thunderous booms all the way in Arcanon, and see the faint glimmers from afar. But we knew—we were only shadowed spectators.
In the Arcanon districts, New Year's Eve was just another cold winter night—perhaps harsher than most. While the rich lost themselves in celebration, we huddled in our cramped homes that barely shielded us from December's bite. Warmth was a luxury. Food was scarce. The sound of fireworks, despite their distant beauty, only reminded us of the chasm between our world and theirs. There was no celebration—only silence, broken by the moaning of the cold wind sneaking through the cracks, and sometimes, the faint cough of my aunt Venice.
We sat close to a small stove, sharing barley bread and some vegetable broth, listening to the echoes of fireworks lit for another world. My aunt always told me when I was a child:
— "Those lights, my dear, aren't for us. They're like distant stars we can never touch. We must make our own light here."
Those words echoed in my mind every year, strengthening my resolve to live.
But beneath all that splendor, in the hidden, pulsing heart of Valoria—noisy and alive—the city was wrinkling. The twisted alleyways, thick with the scent of dampness and stale bread mixed with the aromas of strange spices brought by merchants from the East, and the sweat of tireless laborers, wove together like diseased veins in the forgotten body of the city.
Here in the Edge, or what they called the Arcanon Districts, life was an unending daily struggle. Every morning, tired hands and thin bodies competed for the simplest chance to earn a day's bread. And every evening, they returned with nearly empty pockets. But the spirit never died. On the contrary, it blazed with a strange resilience.
The buildings here clung to each other as if embracing out of sheer tightness. Their walls were cracked, their windows broken or covered with scraps of worn cloth that barely shielded from the cold air. The noise of hard life never faded—the shouts of street vendors, the laughter and cries of children, the sharp arguments between neighbors that often turned into fights, the ceaseless pounding of hammers from scattered smithies, and the whisper of rumors spreading like wildfire, soon becoming the talk of the hour.
This was the world I was born into. A world where the rich were like distant ghosts, indifferent to our existence—faded images on old oil paintings, lifeless and devoid of true emotion.
It was the first day of January—a month in which the bitter cold introduced itself with unforgiving force in Valoria, even in Arcanon. The air whipped the skin like icy lashes, and a thin layer of frost gathered on wooden beams and stone walls.
I was seventeen, in the spring of my youth, with a strong build despite the lack of food that barely kept us alive. My hands were rough from constant work, the muscles in my arms stood out beneath the ragged shirt that hardly covered my thin body. I had chestnut hair, usually tousled by wind and dust, and hazel eyes that had seen far more than a boy my age ever should.
My day began before sunrise, in those cold, dark hours when the last shadow of night still cloaked Arcanon. I would slip silently from the worn wooden bed, its planks creaking with every movement. There were only two beds in the single room we lived in—one for me and one for my aunt Venice. I tried not to make a sound, not to wake her from her restless sleep, for sleep was a rare luxury for her.
I dressed in my tattered clothes—the patched wool shirt that had become a second skin, thick trousers, and a worn wool scarf wrapped around my neck. Still, I could feel the bite of cold seeping into my bones.
Then I would head out, pushing through the crowd of hundreds of workers in the central Edge Market, the chaotic, noisy heart of Arcanon, searching for any temporary job that might bring in a few coins we desperately needed to survive. Competition was fierce, opportunities were few, and the need was great.
—"Don't be late, my boy. It's raining today."
My aunt's soft, warm voice followed me to the threshold of the worn-out door. It seemed she had woken to the sound of my careful footsteps. Her voice carried a worry that was impossible to miss—a mixture of fear and affection. Yet she always tried to offer me comfort, as if her words could shield me.
Despite her chronic illness, which made her already thin body appear more fragile with each passing day, Aunt Venice was the beating heart of my life—the only light in my dark world after the death of my parents when I was just a small boy. They had left me alone with her to face the harshness of life in this forgotten district.
She sat on her bed, her pale face softly illuminated by the glow of an old oil lamp. She always prepared my daily bread, mixed with wild herbs she gathered from the barren outskirts of the neighborhood. The taste was bitter, but it filled the stomach. She would silently pray for me, her lips moving without sound, asking God to protect me in this dangerous, merciless world.
—"I won't be late, Aunt. I'll be careful,"
I answered her in a low voice, trying to sound confident.
I closed the door behind me slowly, as if afraid the whole thing would collapse from how fragile it was.
Outside, the alleys were slick with mud. The sky was blanketed with heavy gray clouds, and a light rain had just begun to fall, making the ground slippery and puddles form in the deep, uncared-for holes.
The sky was nothing like yesterday's—the one filled with thousands of fireworks that painted joy in the skies above Upper Valoria. Today, it carried a heavy gloom, as if it reflected Arcanon's sorrow and silence after the noisy celebrations of the wealthy.
The scent of fresh rain mixed strangely with the approaching smells of the market—a blend of rotting vegetables, sharp cheap spices, smoke from the vendors' stoves rising in the cold air, and the dampness that soaked into everything: the air, the walls, and the clothes.
A cold wind brushed my face, carrying scattered drops of rain with it. I closed my eyes for a moment, inhaling the thick morning air that weighed heavy in my chest.
I began taking my usual steps toward Primor Alley—a shortcut I often used to reach the market as quickly as possible. The alley was narrow and dark, even in broad daylight. Sunlight barely reached it. The walls of old, crumbling buildings lined both sides, as if they were moments away from collapse. Damp laundry lines hung above like ghosts waving in the shadows, leaving just enough space for a single person to pass.
The ground here was always wet, full of potholes and stagnant puddles that reflected the glow of distant lamps like lurking eyes watching me. At this early hour, the alley was usually quiet, save for the sound of water dripping from the corroded rooftops and the scurrying of rats between heaps of trash.
But today, as I reached the middle of the alley, a noise broke through the usual hum. It wasn't the sound of my footsteps squishing in the mud, or the wind sneaking through cracked walls, or the soft rain tapping on rooftops. It was a sound I didn't recognize—a faint crying, barely audible over the noise of Arcanon. But it wasn't the cry of a child like those I was used to in my neighborhood. Children in Arcanon usually cried loudly and boldly, unafraid to voice their pain.
This cry had a fragile tone—strange, like glass slowly shattering. A sound that didn't belong in this rough, hardened place.
My feet stopped. I froze—caught between surprise and fear. I hesitated for a moment. Any strange sound in Primor Alley might mean trouble. A trap, maybe—someone waiting to rob what little remained in my empty pockets. Or a fight between outlaws who used this alley as a hideout. Strangers didn't come to Primor without a reason—and that reason was usually bad.
My mind screamed, Keep walking! Don't get involved! It's not your problem! You could end up in a mess you can't escape!
But something in that cry… something unbearably delicate and pure, something I never expected in a world so used to cruelty, made me change direction. That sweet tone, laced with fear—it was like a hidden call tugging at a string in my soul. A string I hadn't even known existed.
"Come on, be brave,"
I muttered to myself as my eyes searched the thick darkness that shrouded the alley. The air was cold and biting against the skin beneath my worn scarf. I stepped forward slowly, cautiously, as though afraid the sound might vanish if I moved too quickly.
With each step, the sound grew sharper, and I realized it wasn't just crying—it was a stifled moan, broken by soft, incoherent murmurs.
"Is someone there?"
I called out in a voice barely louder than a whisper, my throat dry and tight with tension. I was afraid of revealing myself—or startling whoever was there. No reply came, but the moaning grew clearer.
I moved toward the source of the sound, deeper into the narrow alley where the damp walls nearly touched, coated in layers of green moss. The smell grew stronger—rotting mold and stagnant water pooled in the dark corners. My steps were careful, my heart gripped by curiosity.
I ducked beneath a low stone arch that covered the entrance to an abandoned building. It looked like it hadn't been touched in decades, blanketed in thick layers of dust and grime.
And there—
In the near-total darkness—
My eyes revealed a scene I never expected to witness in this world I thought I knew...
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