Chapter 1: Chapter no.1 Cahara of the South
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"Cahara, you must listen to your caretakers."
"Cahara, stop that, you miscreant."
Those words echoed in his mind, day in and day out, like a drumbeat. He'd heard them more times than he could count as a kid, yelled by voices that never softened, never explained, never cared. He didn't know what they meant, really. Words like that didn't have much meaning for a child who'd never been taught anything besides how to duck when a hand came swinging. And that was life in Jettaiah's orphanage—a place they pretended was for kids like him, but really, it was a hellhole built so the adults could pocket the Sultan's endowments.
The Sultan's endowments were given to any place that helped the poor, the orphans, the elderly, and the widows in the Eastern Sanctuaries.
But for kids like Cahara, it was more like a prison than anything else, and even that was putting it nicely. Most of them didn't learn their names until they'd been there a few years. Instead, they learned the value of silver and copper, how many coins could buy a stale loaf of bread, or if they were lucky, a strip of dried meat. And to get it, they had to earn it—usually by scavenging the streets, scrounging for scraps, and sometimes begging, if they were desperate enough.
The streets of the Capital of the Eastern Sanctuaries—Jettaiah—spread out around him like tangled roots, dusty and chaotic. They were filled with the sounds of shouting vendors, the rattling wheels of carts, and the mixed scent of spices and filth, heat and sweat. The narrow alleys and bustling markets were lined with stone houses and crumbling plaster, with banners in faded colors swaying lazily in the warm breeze. The richer parts of the city were a world apart—clean, grand, shining. But for most of them, their world was these cramped alleys, shadowed archways, and the scent of cheap incense trying to mask the stench.
Cahara's eyes landed on a fruit stand, where a vendor was haggling with a richly dressed woman. His stand was piled high with dates, pomegranates, and figs, all glistening under the sun, their colors so bright they made his mouth water just looking at them. He watched as the vendor, a man with rough skin and a thick mustache, tried to convince the woman to buy a bundle of dates.
"Only the finest, madam!" he called, holding up the dates proudly. "Grown under the Sultan's own blessed sun! Sweet as honey, ripe as love itself!"
The woman, veiled in layers of fine fabric dyed in deep indigo and green, eyed him skeptically. Gold coins were sewn into the edges of her veil, and her hands glittered with rings. She tilted her head, her voice muffled but sharp. "Are they fresh, though? Last time I bought from you, they were dry as stones."
"Madam, you wound me," the vendor said, pressing a hand to his chest as if deeply offended. "I swear upon my mother's grave, they are fresh! One taste, and you'll know!"
Cahara crept closer, close enough to smell the sweet scent of the fruit mixing with the dust in the air. His stomach twisted with hunger, and he couldn't help it—he stretched out his hand, giving a small whimpering sound, hoping the woman might notice him. But her gaze flicked past him as if he were nothing more than part of the scenery. The vendor barely spared him a glance before brushing him away like a stray cat.
But he wasn't leaving empty-handed.
As soon as the vendor turned back to the woman, Cahara slipped his fingers into the pile of dates and snatched one, tucking it into his palm. The rough skin of the fruit felt like a treasure against his fingers. He thought he'd gotten away with it, but then—
"You damn street rat!" The vendor's voice was harsh, his hand already raised. His cane came down on Cahara's shoulder before he could move. The pain jolted through him, sharp and white-hot, and he let out a scream, loud and raw, crumpling to the ground. For a moment, he felt the sting not just in his shoulder but in his chest—a flash of shame, anger, and something even darker that he didn't have a word for yet. But instead of crying, he glared up at the man, lips curled back in a silent snarl, fists clenched tight around the stolen date.
The woman gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "What is wrong with you?" she shouted, her voice indignant. "It's just a simple date!"
The vendor stammered, flustered, as people began to gather around, curious eyes darting from Cahara to him. "No, no, I didn't—I wasn't—"
He was floundering, distracted, and that was all Cahara needed. While the vendor stumbled over his words, Cahara snatched two handfuls of dates, feeling their cool firmness against his skin. With a quick shove, he sent even more scattering to the ground. Before the vendor could even shout, Cahara was up and running, dates clutched tight to his chest.
The world blurred around him as he ran, his heart pounding faster than his feet hitting the ground. The people in the crowd just stared, and no one moved to stop him. Maybe they were too busy watching the vendor scramble to pick up his precious fruit, or maybe they just didn't care enough to chase after a kid.
For a few moments, as he darted through alleyways and around corners, Cahara felt something he rarely did—free. Completely and utterly free, like his soul yearned for this, like nothing could touch him, like he didn't have to worry about tomorrow or about whether he'd go hungry. He ran until his legs burned, until he couldn't feel the ache in his shoulder anymore, until the streets grew quieter and cleaner around him.
Finally, he stopped in a corner, gasping for breath. His stomach twisted with hunger, and he shoved a date into his mouth, the sweet, sticky flavor exploding on his tongue. It was softer than anything he'd eaten in days, almost syrupy, the taste soaking through every bite. Even though his body was exhausted, he chewed slowly, savoring it, letting it linger on his tongue like a small victory.
As he caught his breath, Cahara glanced around, realizing he'd ended up in one of the nicer parts of the capital. The houses here were taller, brighter, their windows decorated with colorful glass, their doorways clean and arched. Through one window, he saw a family gathered around a table, laughing, sharing a meal together. They were dressed in clean, warm clothes, their faces lit with soft, comfortable smiles.
His chest tightened, something hot and heavy coiling in his stomach. He'd never had that. A family, a home, people who actually cared. The closest he'd ever come to that was watching from the shadows, invisible to everyone else. But maybe… maybe he could find a way to have a piece of it. If he couldn't have a home, then maybe he'd steal it, bit by bit.
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Life had gotten a little better once Cahara had managed to escape the orphanage. He'd stayed just long enough to pick up the basics—reading, writing, a few scraps of knowledge—and then he'd slipped away, leaving behind the cold walls, harsh words, and empty hands. The streets of Jettaiah weren't kind, but at least they were honest. He'd survived as a burglar, stealing what he needed, always watching his back. Every day was a gamble, a life lived in constant fear and danger. But it was still better than the orphanage.
And then the civil war erupted.
The Eastern Sanctuaries were thrown into chaos. It was a bloody conflict between a father and his sons. The Sultan had a brood of heirs, but only two were true contenders for the throne. Prince Ali, the ruthless and ambitious favorite, had the backing of the Janissaries, the elite force loyal only to him. The other, Prince Demha, gathered his own army to fight for his right, unwilling to surrender. The entire empire fractured as nobles, soldiers, and even peasants chose sides, often to their ruin.
Cahara knew what that meant for him: no more safe corners to sleep, no one to look the other way when he picked a pocket, and no stolen food from street vendors who were too busy arguing over which prince was the rightful heir. A life like his couldn't exist in a city at war; he'd either get caught up in the chaos or starve. And with the authorities hunting down anyone they thought wasn't loyal enough, he knew his only real option was to find a place in one of the mercenary bands.
What do you think about this being the buffer for the first prison break?
Cahara took whatever jobs he could get—scouting for minor skirmishes, running supplies, blending into one small-time mercenary group after another. It was rough work, surrounded by men who'd just as soon slit his throat as share a drink. But he kept his head down, learning the rules, the lines you don't cross, and gathering whatever scraps of coin he could along the way.
During those gigs, though, he kept hearing about one man: the Highwayman. This mercenary had built up a reputation that bordered on myth, known for his brutal, almost animalistic tactics. Cahara heard stories of entire caravans disappearing, with only a handful of survivors crawling back with tales of spiked traps hidden underfoot, or supplies laced with poison left to lure the greedy and the desperate. The Highwayman didn't just rob his targets—he shattered their minds first, used the road itself as his weapon.
People whispered the name with a mix of fear and respect, calling him the Highwayman because he made the highways themselves treacherous. Every step, every path, every bit of ground could be a trap when he was around. And now? The man was rotting in some cell, his name still carrying enough weight to keep men uneasy even while he was chained up.
Cahara figured getting him out could be a ticket to bigger things—an easy way to earn the man's favor, if he played it right.
The prison was dark, damp, and reeked of mold, rot, and the sour scent of despair. Cahara's footsteps were light as he slipped down the shadowed corridor, keeping low, his eyes sharp. He'd already taken out a couple of guards, all with a few dirty tricks he'd picked up over the years—quick, silent, and messy. No one would be raising an alarm tonight.
He reached the cell block, where he spotted the man he'd come for. The Highwayman was locked up in a cramped cell, chained but oddly calm, as if the chains were nothing more than an inconvenience. Cahara approached, his heartbeat steady, his hands sure.
"You waiting for an invitation, or just enjoying the view?" he whispered, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The Highwayman's eyes flicked up, assessing Cahara with a faint, knowing smile. "Not every day a young pup comes strolling into a prison block. You with the mercenaries?"
"Something like that," Cahara replied, fiddling with the lock. The metal clicked and creaked as he glanced over his shoulder, the sound of footsteps echoing down the hall. "You want out or not?"
The Highwayman stretched his wrists, testing the slack in his chains, that amused smile never leaving his face. "I'll take my chances with you over these iron bars, that's for sure."
The lock gave way with a satisfying click, and Cahara swung the cell door open. But before the Highwayman could step out, a guard rounded the corner, drawn by the noise. Cahara's pulse quickened, but his hands moved on instinct. He dropped low, scooping up a handful of dust from the cell floor, and flung it straight into the guard's eyes. The guard stumbled, blinded, just as Cahara surged forward, his knife slipping from his sleeve and into the guard's side. The guard gasped, a wet, strangled sound as Cahara twisted the blade, watching the man's life drain away with a calm that surprised even himself.
"Quiet, quick, and no hesitation." The Highwayman's voice was soft but edged with approval as he watched Cahara yank the knife free, wiping it off on his sleeve. "You've got more stones than most of these so-called mercenaries."
"Can't afford to hesitate," Cahara replied, his voice as steady as his grip on the blade. "Not if I want to make it out alive." He looked the Highwayman over, his calm, calculating gaze meeting Cahara's. "What'd they lock you up for, anyway?"
"The usual. Taking what's mine. They don't like it when a man makes his own rules," the Highwayman said, his voice low and rough, giving Cahara a sharp, calculating look that seemed to cut right through him. "And you? Why would a mercenary risk his neck breaking out a stranger like me?"
Cahara shrugged, keeping his tone casual, though his pulse drummed in his ears. "Saw the bounty on your head. Figured if you were worth that much to them, you must be good at what you do." He let a sly grin spread across his face. "Or dangerous enough to be useful."
The Highwayman grinned back, nodding in approval. "Smart lad. The dangerous ones are the only ones worth keeping close." His gaze drifted to the guard Cahara had left sprawled out cold on the floor. "Though by the looks of it, you're no saint yourself."
He didn't answer. What could he say? He wasn't some holy figure—never had been, never would be. He stepped over the guard's body, waving for Jarek to follow, the two of them slipping further into the shadows of the dim corridor. With each step, he felt the darkness settle over him like a familiar cloak.
"So what's your name, boy? Or should I just call you Reckless?"
"Cahara," the young man replied, glancing sideways at him. "And you?"
"People call me Jarek," he said, his smirk widening. "At least, the ones who don't owe me silver or blood do."
They reached a fork in the corridor, and up ahead, Cahara caught sight of another guard patrolling, his lantern casting a faint glow over the stones. Jarek held up a hand, signaling him to stop. His eyes gleamed with something almost gleeful as he glanced back at Cahara.
"Tell you what, Cahara," he whispered. "You want to learn a trick?"
Cahara hesitated, curiosity and caution warring inside him, then nodded. "Sure."
Jarek picked up a loose stone from the floor, crouched low, and with a flick of his wrist, sent it bouncing off the opposite wall. The sound echoed just enough to catch the guard's attention, his head turning toward the noise, distracted. Jarek moved forward like he'd done it a hundred times before, slipping behind the guard in a heartbeat, his arm looping around the man's throat in one fluid motion. There was a struggle, brief and silent, before the guard went limp, sinking into Jarek's grip.
Jarek looked back at Cahara, a grin on his face, as if it were nothing more than a game. "See? Half of fighting is making them think they're in control, right up until they're not. Keep your opponent guessing, and they'll make all the mistakes for you."
"Dirty tricks, huh?"
"The only kind worth knowing." Jarek gave Cahara a pat on the shoulder, his grip firm but not unfriendly, almost fatherly in a twisted way. His eyes, though, were still sharp and searching, never letting their guard down. "Stick with me, lad, and you'll learn more than just dirty tricks. You'll learn how to stay alive in a world that's got no place for men like us."
It wasn't like Cahara had many options left, anyway. He'd been surviving by the skin of his teeth, clawing his way through Jettaiah's streets with nothing more than grit and a few stolen skills. A guy like Jarek could teach him things he'd never learn on his own. And he had a feeling that wherever this man was going, he was bound to leave a path behind him, a trail of chaos and silver, and maybe even a bit of freedom if Cahara played his cards right.
In the days that followed, a few favors here and there for Jarek earned Cahara a place in his merry band of criminals and ex-mercenaries.
Life with the mercenaries was a rough rhythm of survival—dirty, dangerous, and relentless. Cahara had gotten used to a life on the streets, but this was different. They weren't just out for scraps anymore; they were out for blood, for spoils, for whatever they could tear from the world with their bare hands. Each raid left him a little more hardened, a little less like the kid who once picked pockets just to get through the day. Here, among Jarek's band, he had a purpose. And as twisted as it was, he felt a strange kind of pride in it.
The nights were thick with smoke and sweat, fires casting orange light on the faces of men who looked like they belonged to the wild. After each raid, they'd gather around the fire, counting what they'd taken—silver, jewels, weapons, food, anything that could be used or sold. Laughter and shouting filled the camp, echoing off the trees like a twisted song of victory.
Jarek would sit a bit apart, leaning back against a tree, his scarred hands working methodically to sharpen a blade. The firelight danced along the edge, making the steel glint with an almost predatory gleam. Around him, the others laughed and boasted, but there was an unspoken rule to never get too close. He was like the alpha wolf of the pack, respected and feared. Cahara had seen men twice Jarek's size look away when he fixed them with that cold, calculating stare.
But Jarek was different from the rest of them. The others bragged about how many men they'd cut down, how much they'd taken, but he was quiet, a faint smile on his face—a thin, dangerous curve of the lips that told you he knew more than he was saying.
"The empire's crumbling," he said one night, his voice cutting through the noise of the camp. The men around him quieted, their attention drawn like moths to a flame. "They're tearing each other apart, weak and vulnerable." He looked straight at Cahara, his gaze piercing in the flickering light. "And weak men deserve to lose what they have."
Cahara shifted, feeling a discomfort settle in his gut, but he tried to keep his tone casual. "So what, we're just supposed to pick their bones clean?"
Jarek's chuckle was low, almost sinister. "No, boy. We don't just pick at scraps. We take the whole damn feast." He looked around at the men, his voice steady and firm, each word landing like a stone. "While they fight their little civil war, men like us will rise, take what's ours, and leave them with nothing. That's how you get power."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the group, a dangerous kind of excitement sparking in the air. Some of the men raised their mugs, laughing darkly as they clinked them together in a toast.
"Here's to power," muttered one of the older mercenaries, his voice rough and ragged from years of shouting orders and surviving battles. "May the rich fools lose it all to men with the balls to take it."
"Aye," another one chimed in, a wiry guy with a scar that ran from his cheek to his lip, making his smile look twisted. "Their silver belongs to whoever's bold enough to reach out and grab it."
Jarek didn't raise a mug or join in the toast. He just watched them, that thin smile still on his face, as if he were already three steps ahead of them all. His hand went to his shirt, and he pulled out a coin—a gold piece, worn and scratched from years of use. He'd do this after every raid, flipping it in his fingers, watching it with an intensity that didn't match the act.
Cahara had seen the coin up close once. On one side was the profile of a man's head, blindfolded, his expression serene but unreadable, like he'd accepted his fate. On the back, there were two overlapping circles with a line at the top—a symbol resembling a sun. Jarek had called it "luck" when Cahara asked once, but he suspected it was more than that.
"Luck, or a promise?" Cahara asked him again that night, his voice barely above a whisper.
Jarek's gaze flicked to his, a rare softness slipping through his usual steel.
"Same thing, in this world." He tucked the coin back beneath his shirt, like it was a talisman holding him together.
The other men didn't question it. Some saw it as a quirk, some as a ritual, and some, like Cahara, probably felt there was something more to it. It wasn't just a charm. It was like a reminder—a symbol of everything he'd taken, everything he was willing to take.
As Cahara watched him, he felt a strange mix of admiration and fear. Jarek was ambitious, maybe too ambitious, and it was clear he wasn't just looking to survive. He was looking to dominate, to carve out a place for himself in a world that didn't want him.
"Think we'll actually win this one, Jarek?" one of the men asked, his voice thick with doubt as he downed the last of his drink. "The Empire's not as weak as it looks."
Jarek's gaze hardened. "If you want to survive, you better start thinking bigger," he said, his tone sharp. "This is more than just surviving now. It's about taking what we deserve. The Empire, the nobles, they're bleeding power right now, and they won't get a second chance if we hit them hard enough."
Then came Jarek's so-called master plan—the one that was supposed to change everything. He'd made a deal with Prince Ali's forces, the kind of arrangement that turned Cahara's stomach but kept his mouth shut. Raids, he said, raids that would chip away at Prince Demha's resources, leaving him scrambling while Ali's side swept in and took whatever they wanted. And what did they get out of it? Gold, weapons, supplies. The kind of stuff that kept them fed and armed, and Jarek knew exactly how to spin it.
With this little bargain, their mercenary group—the Lovers, as Jarek called them—suddenly had better gear, sharper blades, and supplies they'd only dreamed of. Cahara never understood the name, why Jarek had picked it. When someone had asked, Jarek had given one of those cold, vague answers: "A persistent lover never forgets his target." Cryptic as always, but that was Jarek. Half the things he said were as much a mystery to Cahara as the man himself.
But those raids were different now. They felt smoother, more efficient, with the supplies and support they were getting from the prince's side. Cahara even managed to pick up a scimitar—its blade curved, honed to a deadly sharpness, the metal gleaming in the firelight after every raid. Its weight was perfect, balanced in his hand like an extension of his arm. Alongside it, he got a leather vest that fit snug, stitched with small metal rings across the chest for added protection. It was a damn sight better than anything he'd ever owned.
They hit convoy after convoy, each raid more dangerous than the last, but they were making it work. Until one day, their luck finally ran out.
It was supposed to be a simple raid—hit the supply line, grab what they could, and slip out before anyone knew what hit them. But as they closed in, shadows moved out of the darkness, blocking the path. They'd walked straight into a trap, surrounded on all sides. A sudden silence hung in the air, the kind that made every instinct in Cahara's body scream to run, but he'd been here long enough to know better than to bolt without a plan.
A shout went up, and chaos followed.
Swords clashed, metal screamed against metal, arrows hissed past, too close for comfort. Cahara swung his scimitar at the first soldier who lunged, his blade cutting into the man's side, warm blood spraying onto his hand. The soldier crumpled, but two more took his place, pushing them back, pressing in. He fought like hell, but the odds were impossible. They were outnumbered, outflanked, and any hope they'd had of a clean escape vanished in an instant.
Cahara looked around, saw Jarek fighting, that familiar cold glint in his eyes as he moved through the battlefield like it was his dance floor. Jarek barked orders, swinging his blade with a ruthless efficiency, but even he couldn't change the numbers. And then, in the middle of the frenzy, it hit Cahara: This isn't worth it. Not anymore.
He didn't hesitate. This was the moment he'd planned for, just in case things went south. He grabbed a torch from a fallen soldier, setting a nearby cart of supplies ablaze. Flames roared up, spreading across the dry wood, creating a barrier between him and the soldiers. Screams echoed through the night as the fire spread, crackling and popping, smoke billowing up to cover his escape.
He ducked into the shadows, keeping low, his breath sharp and quick as he darted through the confusion. Soldiers scrambled, trying to put out the flames, shouting orders to each other. It was chaos, pure and perfect, the exact distraction he needed. He didn't look back.
Every nerve in his body screamed for him to keep going. He could feel the heat of the flames at his back, the scent of burning wood and flesh thick in the air, but he forced himself to stay focused. He slipped through the dark, weaving through the trees, his scimitar in one hand and his heart hammering like it was trying to burst out of his chest. He'd made it out. He'd actually made it out.
As the sounds of the battle faded, he allowed himself one last look over his shoulder. The camp was a blur of fire and shadows, Jarek and his Lovers lost in the inferno. A strange mix of relief and guilt twisted inside him. He'd abandoned them, yes. But in a life like this, survival meant knowing when to cut your losses.
"Sorry, Jarek," he muttered under his breath, swallowing down the last of his guilt. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "You can keep your ambitions. I'll take my freedom."
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Freedom.
It was what he'd always wanted, wasn't it? Cahara had spent years scraping and clawing his way through life, chasing it, trying to pull it into his grasp. And he knew he wouldn't find it in the Eastern Sanctuaries. The civil war, the bloodshed—it was a cage, no matter how much ground you covered.
He'd made plans, set up connections. He had enough silver saved to buy his way into another nation, maybe even start over. Finally, he'd have the freedom he'd been starving for.
But then he heard the news.
Jarek had been captured. Not killed, like Cahara had assumed, but thrown in a prison cell, waiting for a public execution. The prince wanted to make an example out of him, a warning to anyone foolish enough to challenge his rule.
And here he was, skulking through these gods-forsaken prison corridors in the dead of night. The damp air clung to him like a curse, heavy with the stench of old blood and rot. His footsteps were soft, each one sinking into the silence. He slipped past shadows and snoring guards, his heart pounding against his ribs, as if it were trying to tell him how foolish this was.
What was he even doing here? He pressed his back against the cold stone wall, feeling the chill seep into his bones as he let out a shaky breath. I'm a damn fool, he thought bitterly, gritting his teeth against the frustration bubbling in his chest. I should be halfway to the border by now, not skulking around in some cursed dungeon like a stray dog.
The torchlight flickered just ahead, casting erratic shadows that danced along the walls, and he forced himself to stay still, to think. A knot of anger twisted inside him, frustration at himself, frustration at… what? The part of him that couldn't just walk away from this? The part that still felt bound to Jarek? Or maybe it was guilt clawing at him, though he didn't want to admit that.
He muttered under his breath, trying to make sense of it. "You taught me better than this, Jarek. Loyalty's a chain, you always said. And yet… here I am."
But why? Loyalty? Pity? Maybe some twisted sense of duty? He didn't know. All he knew was that he couldn't rest until he saw Jarek again, just once. Maybe for closure. Maybe for answers. Or maybe just to know if Jarek felt any regret.
Finally, he reached Jarek's cell.
Jarek was chained to the wall, a shell of the man Cahara once knew. His legs—Gods, they'd cut off his legs, just left him with charred stumps like some sick punishment from hell. His face was hollowed, pale as death, but his eyes… his eyes still burned with that same fierce defiance, like he was daring anyone to see him as beaten.
He looked at Cahara, that smirk forming on his cracked lips, somehow smug even in chains. "You look like you've seen a ghost, boy," he rasped, voice rough, broken. "Didn't think you'd come crawling back."
Cahara avoided his gaze, feeling his fists clench at his sides. "Didn't think I would, either." The words came out barely louder than a whisper. "I don't… I don't even know why I'm here."
Jarek chuckled, a harsh, grating sound that echoed in the empty cell, tinged with bitterness. "Ah, that's your problem, Cahara. Still too soft for this world. Still letting foolish things like doubt and guilt weigh you down." He shook his head slowly, the chains around his wrists clinking softly. "I thought you would have figured it out by now… that weakness will get you killed."
The words sank in, settling into that bitter part of Cahara, the part that had always felt like he was failing somehow, that he wasn't cut out for this life. He clenched his jaw, the anger bubbling up from deep inside, but he kept his mouth shut, staring at the floor to avoid Jarek's eyes.
Jarek looked at him with that piercing gaze of his, even in his broken state. It was like he could see every thought, every doubt clawing at Cahara, even the ones he tried to bury. He'd always had that way of looking at people, like he knew exactly where they'd break.
Maybe he was right—maybe Cahara was soft. But standing there, looking at Jarek chained and crippled, he couldn't shake the feeling that whatever Jarek had chased, whatever had driven him to this… it wasn't worth it.
And for the first time, Cahara didn't feel like he had anything left to prove to him.
Cahara watched as Jarek's chained hands lifted that damn coin and let it dangle in front of him, his gaze locked onto Cahara's, a strange look in his eyes, like he was challenging him to understand something he couldn't even begin to grasp.
"Tell me, Cahara," Jarek said, his voice low but steady, with that damn smirk still on his lips, "did the gods themselves lead you back here, or was it just your own damn fool heart?" He held up the coin, symbols worn down from who-knows-how-many years of handling. "The gods were subject to fate, too, you know. Or was it choice?"
Cahara felt his brow furrow, trying to figure out what Jarek meant. He opened his mouth, but he had nothing to say. Gods, fate, choice… these were things he'd never given a second thought. His whole life had been about survival, about finding his next meal or avoiding someone's knife. And here Jarek was, talking about gods and choices as if they were real, as if they mattered.
Jarek's smirk grew, like he could see the confusion plastered all over Cahara's face. "Think about it, boy," he said. "There was a time when even the gods had to gamble on their own lives. Legend says the Sun God—king of the gods, mind you—sacrificed himself for humanity. And why?" He chuckled, twirling the coin between his fingers. "Because of a single coin flip. That's what our lives are worth. A whim. A gamble. Heads or tails."
Cahara stared at him, feeling that same knot of confusion tighten in his gut. "So… even the gods were just playing games with fate?"
Jarek shook his head, his chuckle dark and hollow. "Games? Hah. No. Not games. Just choices, wrapped in the illusion of fate." His voice softened, a rare tone for him, almost as if he was talking to himself more than to Cahara. "Maybe the Sun God knew what he was doing. Maybe he didn't. But in the end, it was a single flip of a coin that sealed his fate." He held the coin up again, staring at it like it held answers to questions Cahara had never asked. "Is that what gods are, Cahara? Powerful beings who still bow to the same cursed coin as the rest of us?"
Cahara's chest felt tight, something clawing at him from the inside as he looked at Jarek, chained and broken, yet somehow still full of that dark, defiant fire. For a moment, he almost understood. Almost. But it was like trying to catch smoke. It slipped through his fingers before he could grasp it.
Then Jarek asked him, his voice low and challenging, "Tell me, boy… when you've got nothing left—no power, no allies, no escape—do you still have a choice, or are you just at fate's mercy? Is it courage to fight the odds… or just stupidity?" He shook the coin, watching it sway like a pendulum, and for a moment, Cahara felt like he was the one chained there, tied to whatever dark thoughts Jarek was laying out in front of him.
He swallowed, his throat dry. He couldn't tell if Jarek was trying to pass on some kind of wisdom or just spit venom at him in his final hours. And yet… he felt something. An ache. Or maybe it was regret. Maybe it was pity. He'd followed Jarek, learned from him, and now… now he was trying to teach him something he didn't know if he wanted to understand.
"If fate's a chain," Jarek murmured, almost as if confessing, "then choice is the shackle on the other end. You think you're free, boy, but this world… it gives you a choice just to make you think you're in control. Heads or tails, it doesn't matter. You still end up right here, chained and broken." His smirk faded, his eyes turning hollow and dark, like the fire had finally burnt out. "We're all at fate's mercy, even if we pretend otherwise."
Cahara stood there, not sure what to say. Every word out of Jarek's mouth shook something loose in him, made him question things he'd never even thought about. Was Jarek right? Was it all just a game? A coin flip, heads or tails, and they were all pretending they had a say in it? Cahara wanted to argue, tell him there had to be more to it than that, but the words died in his throat.
Then Jarek's voice softened, and he looked at that coin like it was the only thing left in the world that mattered. "Tell me, boy… if I flip this coin, is it fate or choice?"
The coin dangled there in the torchlight, a relic from some old game played by gods and mortals alike. And for a moment, Cahara felt its weight—not just as a piece of metal, but as everything it symbolized. Every choice he'd made, every twist of the path that led him here, standing in this cell, looking at a broken man who'd once been his mentor. He wanted to know the answer. He wanted to believe there was one. But as he looked at Jarek, he realized maybe it didn't even matter.
"Does it even matter?"
Jarek's mouth twisted into a grim, weary smile, his hand poised to flip the coin. "Maybe not. But it's all we have."
With a flick of his thumb, Jarek sent the coin spinning into the air, tumbling end over end, glinting in the dim light until it landed with a soft clink on the stone floor. Cahara's eyes followed it, but he didn't reach for it. In that moment, he felt like he'd grasped the meaning of everything Jarek had been trying to tell him—and at the same time, he understood nothing at all.
Jarek leaned back, eyes closing as if he was finally resigned to whatever fate was waiting for him. "Heads or tails, Cahara," he murmured. "The gods, the kings, even men like us… we're all slaves to that coin."
Cahara watched him for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the silence settle around them. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Jarek behind in that cold, dark cell. As he stepped into the shadows, he heard one last sound—the faint, bitter echo of Jarek's laughter, a hollow, empty thing that followed him all the way out of the prison.
Cahara didn't stick around for Jarek's execution. Didn't see the point. Jarek had played his last hand, and now… well, he had to play his. He'd slipped out of the Eastern Sanctuaries, found another mercenary group heading out of the empire, just one more nameless face looking to make his way somewhere, anywhere, other than here.
They had this old, tattered map of the surrounding regions spread out in front of them in the back of a rickety cart. Every empire, kingdom, and nameless land sprawled out in ink and smudged charcoal. Cahara took out his coin, running his thumb over its worn edges, feeling the weight of it like some kind of goodbye. The Eastern Sanctuaries were nothing but memories now—bloody, tangled memories.
With a shrug, he flipped the coin, his eyes closed tight, only opening them in time to watch it land.
Kingdom of Rondon.
His gut twisted in that split second of regret. Rondon was the furthest from the Eastern Sanctuaries, the most distant place on the map, like the coin had a twisted sense of humor. But then, the thought hit him, like a whisper out of the dark: No, that's perfect.
He leaned back in the cart, smirking to himself, wondering if a place like Rondon would be any different. Would the faces be kinder? Would life finally make some damn sense? But after months of traveling—grimy inns, dirt roads, crossing through more lands than he cared to count—he got his answer.
It wasn't any different. Not really.
The Kingdom of Rondon was a whole new playground, sure, but it played by the same damn rules. A dagger here could get him just as far as it did back in the Sanctuaries, and the silver flowed freely if he didn't mind getting his hands dirty. The city's underworld had deep pockets, filled with people desperate enough to pay for anyone willing to make their problems disappear.
He settled into the rhythm of it fast. Dirty jobs, quick cash, and a steady place in the city's shadowed corners. Every job left a new scar or a fresh stain, but he found himself numb to it. Nights were loud and filthy, with ale-stained tables and faces blurred by torchlight, each man boasting louder than the next, each woman laughing just a bit too loud.
During the day, he kept to the alleys, lurking like the city's own shadow, picking up contracts or watching for marks. The knife became an extension of his hand, as familiar as the scuffed leather vest he wore. He could feel the same empty hunger gnawing at him, always pushing him to the next job, the next fight, the next roll of the dice. The Kingdom of Rondon might have been miles from the Eastern Sanctuaries, but it was just another cage with gilded bars.
At night, when he'd lay on whatever straw mattress he could afford, that coin would find its way back to his fingers, and he'd feel its weight pressing down on him. Jarek's words would slip back into his mind, uninvited. Choice or fate? Heads or tails?
He'd try to shut it out, but it was always there, like a ghost in the room. The city might've been brimming with silver and shadows, but even surrounded by it, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was just spinning in place, the same bloody game, the same cursed coin flip that never seemed to land anywhere new.
So, he stayed, and he played the game, not because he had faith in it but because it was all he knew. In a way, that was the freedom he'd fought for: the freedom to choose the same path, again and again, even when he knew it'd lead nowhere.
-------------------------
At midnight, the moon cast just enough light to keep the shadows thick. Cahara moved through the streets with a simple plan in mind: rob the biggest brothel in the capital. The city was in shambles—plague, famine, children disappearing, a rise in nationalism that made it nearly impossible for an outsider to find work, even as a hired blade. Even the underworld was crumbling, and in a kingdom teetering on collapse, the brothel was one of the only places still worth robbing. Desperation had a way of keeping business steady there.
The streets were nearly empty, save for the occasional beggar or drunk stumbling through the muck. Buildings loomed above, their stones dark and cracked, windows like empty eyes watching as he passed. This place was as rotten as the rest of the kingdom, steeped in a filth that seemed to cling to everything—the walls, the cobblestones, even the air he breathed. The scent of stale ale and damp wood hung heavy, mixing with the foul stench from the alleyways where the refuse piled high.
When he reached the brothel, he slipped around to the side entrance, taking a moment to scan the area. The main street was still busy enough that no one would notice him slipping in. He took a slow breath, steadying himself, and pressed his back against the wall, listening for the sound of footsteps or voices.
The latch was easy to pop, just a quick twist of his pick, and he was inside, closing the door with barely a sound. The scent hit him hard—heavy perfume, the kind that sticks to your clothes for days, mixed with the underlying stench of sweat and something else, something sour. He crept down the narrow hallway, his footsteps careful and silent on the wooden floorboards, following the faint glow of candlelight leading him up the stairs.
The owner's room was exactly where he'd expected it to be—behind a thick, oak door at the end of the hall, the brass handle polished from years of use. Cahara crouched, taking out his tools, and got to work on the lock, feeling the familiar thrill of the tumblers shifting under his touch. The door clicked open, and he slipped inside, letting the darkness settle around him.
The room was grand, by the standards of a crumbling kingdom. Plush velvet drapes hung by the bed, and a thick, wine-red carpet muffled his footsteps. The walls were covered in rich, dark wood, and the furniture looked old but expensive, like it had been bought by someone who wanted to feel important. He spotted the safe right where he expected it, tucked beneath a painting of some lord, sneering down from his gilded frame.
He crouched in front of it, fingers working over the lock, feeling the pins fall into place. Almost there…
Then, he heard it. The soft sound of someone opening the door behind him.
He froze, his heart plummeting like a stone. He turned, hand tightening around the hilt of his dagger, ready to knock out whoever had snuck up on him, but his breath caught.
A woman stood there, framed by the dim light from the hallway. Long white hair cascaded down her back, her skin pale as moonlight, her lips a dark red against the ghostly pallor of her face. Her eyes—grey, unreadable—met his, and for a split second, he was just… still. She was hauntingly beautiful, like something out of a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.
He forced himself to shake it off, shifting his weight, readying himself to strike, but before he could move, she spoke. Her voice was soft, calm, and cut through the silence like a blade.
"There's a second safe under the fireplace."
He blinked, thrown off balance. "What?"
She closed the door behind her, and for a second, he could've sworn she was smirking. Without another word, she walked past him, her steps light, almost as if she were floating. He fully expected her to call for help, to sound an alarm, but she simply left him to his work.
He turned back, heart pounding as he crouched by the fireplace, his mind racing. And there it was—a hidden compartment with a bigger chest. A quiet laugh almost escaped him as he opened it, the sight of gold coins filling the sack in his hand. By the time he slipped back out into the night, his thoughts were a tangled mess.
Who was she? Why didn't she snitch? And why the hell was she helping him?
The next day, he expected the guards to be on high alert, rumors swirling through the streets. But there was nothing. No talk of a robbery, no extra patrols, nothing at all. It was like it had never happened. And he couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something, that there was more to this woman than a beautiful face and a cold stare.
So, that night, he went back.
This time, he didn't bother with the side entrance. Cahara walked right in through the front door, blending in with the crowd. The brothel was a different world tonight—the grand stone pillars outside glowing with warm light from the lanterns, casting a welcoming glow across the crowded street. But inside… it was all a mask. The perfume was thicker, cloying, nearly suffocating. Laughter filled the air, but it was hollow, forced. The women moved like actors on a stage, their smiles wide and empty.
Then he saw her.
She was speaking with a few orphan girls, their faces round and dirty, their clothes patched and worn. Her white hair gleamed under the candlelight, her pale face calm and composed, and as soon as he stepped inside, her eyes found him.
She greeted him like he was an old friend, her gaze steady, unreadable. She offered him a sly smile, one that held more than a little amusement, and said, "Back already? I didn't peg you for the repeat-customer type."
He forced a smirk, shrugging like it was nothing. But inside, he was anything but calm. This woman, whoever she was, wasn't afraid of him. She was the one in control here, and for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why.
"Maybe I just couldn't stay away," he replied, trying to keep his tone light, like he wasn't caught off guard.
The girl didn't recognize him, Cahara thought. No one here had any reason to connect him to the thief from last night. He was just another customer slipping through the doors of the brothel.
"Well, it's five silver for the night." The girl behind the counter looked up at him with a smirk. "A night with the Queen of the Stars—Celeste." She gave him a wink, her tone as casual as if she were selling bread.
Five silver. The audacity of it made him almost laugh. Five silver could buy him two full days' worth of food, maybe even a new pair of boots if he bargained hard enough. He didn't come here to be robbed, yet… there was no denying his curiosity. Celeste. He'd come this far. He wanted answers.
He let out a sigh and counted out the coins, feeling the weight of each one in his hand before dropping them onto the counter. They clinked, the sound sharp in the otherwise murky air. He was probably an idiot for doing this. But he needed answers.
The girl took the coins, slipping them into a small box behind the counter. "Room's upstairs," she said, tilting her head toward the darkened hallway. "And… enjoy yourself." The hint of a smirk in her voice made it clear she thought he was just another lovesick fool.
Cahara followed the corridor, the dim light barely enough to see by. The brothel was quieter here, the laughter and music from downstairs fading into a distant hum. When he reached her door, he took a moment to steady himself, hand resting on the brass handle.
Then he stepped inside.
The door clicked shut behind him, and he couldn't help but feel the weight of that faint sound—a trap snapping shut. The room was dim, with just enough candlelight to throw soft, warm shadows along the walls, giving everything a blurred, almost dreamlike look. Or maybe it was just her.
Celeste moved through the room with a kind of practiced grace, each step as smooth as silk sliding over skin. Her white hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the candlelight in a way that made it glow, framing a face that wore both amusement and mystery. She had this sly smile that seemed to know more than it let on, a smirk that hinted at secrets he'd never touch.
She looked at him, her lips curling as she took him in, and teased, "What? Never seen a woman undress before?"
Cahara shot her a smirk back, trying to keep his voice steady. "Not one who could have me arrested for fun."
"Honestly," she continued, tilting her head as if sizing him up, "I thought you'd be long gone by now, hiding somewhere dark and safe."
He raised an eyebrow, leaning against the edge of the bed like he was comfortable, even though every muscle was tensed. "Maybe I like a little danger. Thought I'd see what all the fuss was about."
"Oh, I'm sure you did." She took a step closer, and he could feel the warmth of her presence—a contrast to the chill that slid down his spine. Her voice was soft, almost purring, but there was an edge to it. "Or maybe you just couldn't resist the charm of a woman who caught you red-handed." Her eyes gleamed, and he noticed how they held both steel and warmth, that light grey intense enough to see through stone. "You thieves… always so confident until you're cornered."
Cahara chuckled, trying to hide the flicker of nerves that sparked under his skin. "Confident, huh? I don't remember being the one who closed the door and locked me in here. Almost feels like I'm the one being hunted."
She laughed softly, a sound that held just enough genuine amusement to be disarming, but with a mocking undertone that made his stomach tighten. She stepped closer, brushing her fingers along his shoulder as she circled him. Her touch was light, almost like a whisper against his skin, but it sent a faint shiver down his spine.
"Oh, you poor thing," she whispered, her voice low and playful. "Do you feel trapped?"
His eyes followed her, caught between curiosity and caution. He didn't dare look away, not with the way she held herself, like she was in complete control of the space—and him, if she wanted to be. Her body was… captivating. Delicate and refined. The way her hair tumbled over her shoulders, the curve of her waist, the faint rise and fall of her chest with each breath—it was all deliberate, all crafted to hold attention like a web spun just for him.
And he hated that it was working.
He kept his smirk, but there was a part of him that felt… uncertain. She had him cornered here, but not in the way he expected. There was something in her eyes, something sharp and intelligent, that made him feel like a pawn on her board, a piece in a game she'd been playing long before he ever stepped foot in this room. He'd thought he could charm his way through this, maybe even figure her out. But now, under her gaze, he wasn't so sure.
"Feeling trapped?" she repeated, leaning in close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath. Her fingers trailed down his arm, slow and deliberate, lingering just enough to send another shiver along his spine. "Good. Means I'm doing my job."
Cahara met her gaze, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Not yet," he replied, his voice low, steady. "Though I have to admit, I'm starting to think you might be more dangerous than I am."
Celeste leaned in, so close he could feel her warm breath against his ear. Just as he started to speak, she surprised him with a playful nibble, her teeth grazing his skin in a way that sent an unexpected shiver down his spine.
"Dangerous? Hardly. I'm just a girl trying to make a living." She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, a gleam of mischief flashing there. "And I like to keep my customers… entertained."
Cahara raised an eyebrow, playing along. He couldn't help but watch her move with that confident, predatory grace, every step carefully measured. Her gaze held something more than simple flirtation; it was sharp, calculating, like she was reading him as easily as she might read a book. This was more than just a game of seduction.
He grinned, letting his eyes linger on her, waiting for her to make the next move. "Funny. I thought I was the customer. Feels like you're the one setting all the terms here."
She tilted her head, her fingers brushing against the edge of his collar, and he felt a chill run down his spine despite the warmth of the room. "That's because I am," she murmured, her voice soft but firm. "This is my game, thief. And in here… you play by my rules."
For a second, his smile faltered, the weight of her words settling over him. There was something intense in her gaze, something that told him she was more than capable of keeping control. But he recovered quickly, letting a smirk slide back onto his face as he leaned a little closer, challenging her.
"All right, then," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "Tell me—what are your rules?"
Her smile grew, a look of satisfaction dancing across her face. "Rule one… don't ask too many questions."
Cahara's gaze drifted over her, unable to pull himself away. There was an undeniable beauty about her—every line, every curve seemed deliberate, almost sculpted. Her skin was smooth, catching the flicker of candlelight as her robe slipped just enough to reveal a glimpse, nothing too much, but enough to leave his thoughts tangled. Her movements were slow, each gesture like a silent invitation that carried a controlled elegance.
There was a perfection to her, a balance of allure and mystery that felt both inviting and dangerous. He couldn't tell if she knew the effect she was having on him or if it was all just part of her carefully crafted game. But in that moment, as he took in the details—the curve of her shoulder, the way the candlelight played off her skin—Cahara knew she had him caught, if only for now.
"Rule two… you don't touch unless I say you can."
He raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk widening as he played along. "Got it. Anything else?"
Her grin turned wicked, a glint of something dark and possessive flashing in her eyes. "Yes. Rule three… I always get what I'm owed."
She sauntered over to a small table and picked up a glass of wine, her fingers delicate around the stem as she turned back to him, holding it out with a knowing look. He reached to take it, his fingers brushing against hers for a brief moment, the contact sending a surprising warmth up his arm.
Her gaze met his, more serious now, her voice softer, almost as if she were peeling back a layer just for him. "So, tell me… why'd you come back, thief? Don't tell me it was just to enjoy my company."
He swirled the wine in his glass, keeping up the casual act even though he could feel her eyes probing deeper than he wanted to let on. "Maybe I was curious. Or maybe I like a good puzzle. And you… you don't exactly make sense to me."
"Oh? And what is it about me that doesn't make sense?"
He leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"A woman who catches a thief mid-heist… then lets him go. You didn't call the guard, didn't ask for anything in return. Either you're too kind for a place like this, or you're playing a deeper game than I can see."
Her eyes held his, and for a second, he saw something flash there—something almost dangerous. "Maybe it's both. Or maybe I just like to keep you guessing." She took the wine from his hand. "But be careful, Cahara. Sometimes, the answers to questions aren't as pretty as you'd hope."
He studied her face, his amusement fading as he caught a glimpse of something—maybe sadness, maybe regret, lingering just below her mask. "Maybe I don't mind that. Not everything worth knowing is pretty."
She let out a soft laugh, her voice tinged with something darker, almost resigned. "Well, I can give you those answers quite easily… if you're ready to pay the price."
"Why's that?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you have a soft spot for thieves."
She shrugged, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "A soft spot? Hardly. But I do have a nose for opportunity. And you… you're an opportunity if I ever saw one."
He feigned offense, putting on a mock pout. "An opportunity, huh? Not exactly flattering."
She laughed, the sound light but carrying an edge of truth. "Oh, don't pout. I only meant that I see potential. The kind of potential that could come in handy… if it's pointed in the right direction." Her gaze grew shrewd, her eyes glinting with something that felt like a challenge. "Besides, someone had to make sure the owner didn't send the city guard sniffing around. He's paranoid enough as it is."
"And why'd you do that? You don't exactly seem like the charity type."
"Charity?" She shook her head, a touch of cynicism creeping into her voice. "Please. If I were doing charity, I'd be long dead. No, I told him it was an inside job to keep things quiet… and to keep the doors open." She glanced down the hall, where faint laughter from the other girls drifted toward them.
"The owner's paranoid," she said, her voice lowering as if sharing a secret. "If he thinks there's a traitor, he'll handle it his way—quietly, and without bringing down the law on all of us. And with that, I can make my moves to make my life easier."
"Just yours, or the other girls' too?"
"Mine mostly," she replied, a small smile touching her lips, faint and laced with a hint of irony. "But their lives would be affected, too, one way or another."
"Smart. Clever way to keep business running, too." He studied her with newfound respect. "But why bring more girls into this mess? Don't you want out?"
"Want out? Cahara, don't you get it? This place is all some of us have. It's not ideal, but… it's survival." She sighed, her shoulders dropping ever so slightly. "These girls? They come here desperate, like stray cats. I give them work. It's not what they dreamed of, but it's food in their bellies, a roof over their heads."
He leaned back, letting her words settle over him, absorbing the reality of it. "Sounds like you're making the best of a bad situation."
She shrugged, offering a smile that was more mask than warmth. "A girl does what she has to. You should know that better than anyone." Her smile turned playful, though he could see the sadness lingering behind it. "Or are you telling me you're some noble rogue, out stealing to right wrongs?"
He chuckled, the sound dry and a little bitter. "I'm no saint, if that's what you're asking. I'm just good at slipping in and out without too many attachments. Keeps things… simple."
"Simple, hmm? And what are you doing here then? Doesn't look like you're 'slipping out' this time."
He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. He tried to play it off, to shrug like he didn't care as much as he did. "Maybe I just wanted to see if you'd keep my secret," he said, trying to sound casual. "Or maybe I wanted to know why you'd risk sticking your neck out for me."
"Because a thief who's good enough to rob this place without getting caught is a thief worth knowing." Her smile had a sharp edge to it. "And maybe I like keeping dangerous company."
They sat there in silence for a beat, something unspoken lingering in the air between them, something neither of them wanted to admit out loud.
"So…" he finally asked, breaking the quiet. "Is this just business to you? Helping me out?"
Her gaze held his, steady and unwavering, but there was a softness in her eyes he hadn't seen before. "It's survival. Don't romanticize it. This life doesn't give us the luxury of high-minded ideals. We do what we can with what we're given." She paused, studying him, as if trying to read something in his face. "But for the record? You paid for the night, didn't you? I'm here to do a job."
He couldn't help the smirk that tugged at his lips. "You really just do it for the silver, huh?"
She let out a quiet laugh, but there was a bitterness to it, like it was aimed at something she couldn't shake. "What else would I do it for? A girl doesn't get to dream in this world. A girl does what she has to. And maybe… just maybe, one day, she buys herself a way out."
He looked at her, really looked, seeing the weariness hiding behind her sharp gaze. "And if you could leave… where would you go?"
She gave a wistful smile, her gaze drifting somewhere far beyond the walls of that room. "I don't know. I've never thought about it. Somewhere quiet, I suppose. Somewhere far from here, where I don't have to scheme just to see the next day." She laughed, but it was hollow, like even she didn't believe in that escape. "But that's a pretty dream, isn't it?"
"Dreams don't have to be pretty to be worth chasing."
Her eyes met his, and for a moment, all the guardedness, the edges she kept up to keep everyone at arm's length—they softened. In that silence, they both knew. They were survivors, both of them, both willing to claw and scrape their way through whatever life threw at them, even if it meant losing pieces of themselves along the way.
She smiled, but there was something sad in it. "Well then, thief… here's to pretty dreams. Just don't get too attached to them."
She reached out, her hand finding his, and in that small, quiet gesture, there was a promise he couldn't quite define. Something about the way her fingers brushed against his, the warmth of her touch—it felt real, even if it was fleeting.
He smiled, a faint one, the kind that didn't come easy. "I don't get attached to much… but you? You might be the exception."
She gave him that skeptical smile, her eyes narrowing in that playful, knowing way of hers. "Is that the line you give to all the girls? Make them feel special, hmm?"
He shrugged, letting a mischievous glint slip into his gaze. "I like to believe I'm quite the lover," he murmured, leaning in closer, his voice dropping low and smooth. "Right?"
She snorted, rolling her eyes, and he caught this edge of bitterness in her laughter that cut deeper than he'd expected. "Love?" Her voice was almost mocking, and he could tell she wasn't playing anymore. "I don't think that exists. It's just greed, lust, and the need to show off. Wealth, power… women. They're all the same in the end. Just currency to be traded and flaunted."
The smirk faded from his lips, and for a moment, he just watched her, all pretense gone. There was something raw there, something behind her words that hit harder than any insult. She'd seen things, probably more than she ever let on, and somehow, he felt this ache for her, a strange urge to understand the weight she carried.
"Do you…" He paused, surprised by the quiet, almost hesitant tone in his own voice. "Do you enjoy this? Any of it?"
She looked away, her gaze drifting toward the window, lost in thought, as if she'd forgotten he was even there. "No," she finally whispered, and there was a softness to her voice that caught him off guard. "But a job's a job, right? I do what I must. Just like you do."
Silence settled over them, thick and heavy, an unspoken understanding filling the space between them. He reached out, his hand brushing hers, testing the boundary between them. She didn't pull away, though she shot him a wary glance, like she was waiting for another hollow promise, another sweet nothing that would vanish come morning.
He tightened his grip slightly, his voice soft. "For tonight… I'll make sure you enjoy it."
She looked at him, really looked, her eyes searching his, like she was trying to find the lie she'd always expected. But he kept his gaze steady, letting her see the truth in it. He meant it, even if he wasn't entirely sure why. The walls around her softened, her expression faltering, and for a second, just a second, she let herself believe.
She sighed, a faint, almost reluctant smile tugging at her lips. "You're a strange one, Cahara. A thief with a heart? That's a dangerous combination."
He grinned, letting a little of his old bravado seep back in. "And here I thought you liked dangerous company."
She laughed softly, and this time, it was real, without that usual edge. "Maybe I do." Her voice softened, her gaze dropping for a moment before meeting his again. "Just… don't make me regret it." She shook her head, the mask slipping back into place. "One night is all we have, you know. Come morning, this world goes right back to what it was. So if you're here to save me, thief, save me only for tonight."
He nodded, feeling the weight of her words settle over them. They both knew the truth. Morning would come, and everything would return to the harsh, unforgiving reality they both knew too well. This wasn't a love story, and he wasn't a hero here to rescue her. But for tonight, maybe that didn't matter.
He leaned in closer, their faces inches apart, his voice barely a whisper. "Then let's make tonight something worth remembering."
The air thickened around them, and for a moment, they didn't need words. In that quiet space, they were just two people looking for a brief escape, something real to hold onto in a world full of illusions.
-------------------------
Cahara couldn't look away as she crawled toward him, her white hair cascading over her shoulders like threads of silk in the dim light. Celeste moved with that feline grace, her eyes glinting with mischief, drawing closer. He smiled back at her, feeling warmth spread over him like a blanket. He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering a little longer against her cheek than he meant to.
"Two years, and you still can't resist that look, can you?"
She grinned, light and teasing, but something deeper glinted in her eyes. "Two years, and you still think I'm the one who can't resist."
A soft laugh escaped him, the kind he rarely showed anyone else. Yet here, with her, it felt natural. Wrapped in this quiet moment away from the city's shadows, it felt like a life he didn't deserve but one he'd die to keep. He thought back to the early days—how guarded she'd been, skeptical of every word he said, always telling him not to get attached. He hadn't listened, of course. Each time, he'd chipped away at those walls, bringing her small gestures of care, hoping she'd see the sincerity he barely believed he had in himself.
It was supposed to be just a passing fancy. A little distraction. But as she leaned against him, her fingers tracing circles on his arm, he knew that excuse was laughable. He'd fallen for her completely, and he didn't care who knew it. Judging by the way she let her fingers linger, he knew she'd fallen too, even if she wouldn't say it.
His gaze drifted to her stomach, to the small, gentle curve that spoke of a life he hadn't dared to imagine—a future they hadn't planned.
Her hand moved to her belly, her voice softening. "Did you know… I felt the baby kick today," she whispered. "Just a little. Like it was letting me know it's here."
He swallowed, feeling a strange mix of awe and fear. He placed his hand over hers, feeling the warmth there, as if that tiny heartbeat pulsed beneath his palm. They both knew the truth—neither of them could say for sure who the father was. But as far as he was concerned, it didn't matter. He'd made his choice the day he chose her, and that meant choosing this child too. Blood or no blood, this was his family.
"Doesn't matter to me, you know," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm here… for both of you."
Her gaze softened, and for a moment, he saw something flicker there—a hope she didn't dare let herself believe in. She looked away, embarrassed, as if showing too much would shatter the illusion.
She sighed, glancing down. "For a long time, I thought I'd be here forever. That this… this life was all there was." Her voice trailed off, almost too quiet to hear, then she looked at him, a bit firmer now. "But you… you make it easy to dream, Cahara. I almost hate you for it."
There was a pang in her words that struck deeper than she probably knew. He wanted to be the one to change her fate, to take her out of this life and give her something real. Something they could both believe in. And now, with a child on the way, that need burned even stronger inside him. But it wasn't just dreams that would make it happen; he needed money—real money—and that meant taking risks he wouldn't usually touch.
He shifted, the weight of his latest job settling over him. Thinking about it made his stomach twist, a dread he couldn't ignore. It was a job few would take: break Le'garde, the leader of the Midnight Sun, out of the cursed dungeons of Fear & Hunger. The officials promised a reward large enough to fund their escape from this city, to start a life far from here. A life free of the shadows and desperate games. But this mission… it was something only a fool would try. Yet, when he looked at Celeste, imagined their future, the danger was something he'd have to face.
She must have seen the change in his expression. Her voice was gentle. "What's wrong?"
He hesitated, not wanting to tell her, but he knew she'd see through any excuse. She always did.
"Just a job," he said, trying to keep it light. "A big one. It'll pay enough for us to finally get out of here… somewhere quiet, where you don't have to play games to survive."
Her eyes narrowed, her gaze sharp. "A big job. You mean dangerous."
"Maybe," he admitted, his hand covering hers, squeezing gently. "But it's worth it. For us… and for the baby." He tried to keep his voice steady. "This life… it doesn't have to be all there is. I'll make sure of it."
She looked down, her expression torn. She'd learned to survive, to keep herself safe by holding onto whatever she could find, even if it was just scraps. Hope, though? Hope was dangerous. And here he was, offering her a chance to believe in something more.
A faint, wistful smile tugged at her lips. "I don't think I know how to hope anymore, Cahara. Not like you do."
He leaned in, letting his forehead rest against hers, his voice soft. "Then let me hope enough for both of us."
Her eyes met his, and for a moment, he saw the vulnerability there, the side of her she'd kept hidden all this time. She was afraid to believe in him, but he could see that she was trying.
She whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, "Just… come back to me, alright? Don't go getting yourself killed over dreams."
He let a small, sad smile slip through, reaching up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. "For you? For my child?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll do anything. Nothing down there is scarier than the thought of losing this."
She shook her head, fighting a smile, but the worry in her eyes didn't leave. For a moment, she softened completely, reaching up to brush her fingers along his cheek.
"You're a fool, you know that? But… you're my fool." Her voice dropped, almost a plea. "Just don't make me regret this, Cahara."
He took her hand, pressing it to his lips, trying to anchor himself in that moment, to carry the memory of her warmth and her hope with him. He would do this—for her, for their child, for the life they could have together. Failure wasn't an option.
As he rose to leave, she held onto his hand, her gaze steady, masking the fear he knew she felt.
"You'll come back, won't you?"
Cahara paused at the door, turning back to give her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I have to. You still owe me that quiet life, remember?"
She laughed softly, shaking her head, but the sadness in her smile lingered as he turned to leave. As he stepped into the cool night air, the weight of the dungeons already pressed down on him. Fear clawed at his gut, but the memory of her smile, her hand resting on her stomach, and the fragile hope in her eyes pushed him forward.
For her, for them… he'd face the depths of hell itself.
But even as he stepped into the shadows, Cahara didn't know what lay waiting for him in the belly of the dungeons. This wasn't a mere den of danger or a trial of blood and grit. No, the very stone beneath his feet pulsed with an ancient curse, woven by gods who played with mortal lives for sport. Every corridor echoed with whispers of lives already taken, every shadow held horrors no human mind was meant to comprehend.
Could he carve a path back to the life he dreamed of, or would he, too, become just another victim trapped in the unrelenting jaws of the Dungeons of Fear and Hunger?
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