Kael followed Els to her father's shack, an old house if it could even be called that.

  At the far end of the industrial district, drowned by the factories' toxic emanations on one side, dominating the cold burial pit on the other, it withered in the slums' lowest neighborhood.

  Kael knew these streets like the back of his hand. The soot-covered house of Marc, whose earnings at the lamp factory drew Edwin's, Walter's, and Ben's jealousy from their rusted homes. All four middle-aged miners with thin limbs, who had once shown that their hearts didn't share the same tint as their blackened faces. With awkward smiles, they had split slices of bread with his mom. Not much. They said it themselves, but much more than most had ever given them, and enough for him to grow up.

  Kael still hated these streets.

  The first thing he did when his mom died was to flee to Sister Harrow's shelter. People died from hunger and cold, but here, they died much sooner. Air vitiated, burning the throat even in winter, while the stench of decomposition from the depths of the burial pit melded with the cold. These streets infected his mom. They had killed her.

  "Did hunger finally blind you?" As he clenched his jaw, he bumped into Els. Without realising it, he stood in front of her shack.

  Without waiting for his answer, Els fished a copper key from her and unlocked the rusted door. "Dad, wake up. We have a guest who needs these clothes you can't wear anymore."

  Els pushed Kael inside, continuing, "I'm off to Lana's bakery. You can wait at the table."

  Someone stirred in an adjacent room as Kael sat on a rock that served them as a stool. He knew the house: scaly green walls of junk, a rug greyed by dust. Resting his elbows on the stone plank lying on two scavenged pipes, he watched Arthur emerge from his room.

  The man wore a shirt and coarse pants that floated over his emaciated body, his auburn hair reduced to a few vagrant strands. Coughing at the door, his sunken green eyes locked onto Kael. He was barely forty-two but looked twenty years older, a sight that made Kael bite his lip.

  "Kael, son. Is that you..." His voice died in a fit of coughs, but he glared at the bloody stains on Kael's bandages. As if to chase the cough away, he waved his palm and sat opposite him. "I thought you left Ashcoil Row for good three days ago. Seems reality caught up to you, as it did for us all. Accept you'll never visit Veston."

  Kael lowered his eyes, yet a steely glint still burned in them. Veston—the city above the slums. "Maybe. But I'll keep trying."

  "Sigh... When you have an idea in mind, I have more chances to hear the gods answer my prayers than to dissuade you, just like your father. He was a great friend and husband. I wish The Quiet Hand had given him enough time for you to know him. May he rest in peace in his eternal realm, with your mother. How are you holding? Not your body. Don't tell me. I mean up there." Arthur tapped on his temple, his face twisted in grief.

  Kael glanced at the ledger on his lap. His memories... It was only after silence thickened for three heartbeats that he lifted his face, a forced smile twisting his lips. "Better than I thought I would. You?"

  Arthur let out a cough-punctuated laugh. "You're stronger than me, then. I never stopped hoping Cyan would return. She was like you, you know? She left believing she'd somehow escape the slums. She might be dead already by now..."

  "You never told us."

  "What would it have changed? Cyan, your father, Nessa... I'm just sad. Yes, sad that everyone left before I did. A cruel thing, you know? The mines take us all. My turn has come. I have the same disease that took your mother. I won't recover, Kael. But I can still hear you and Els playing in this room. We talked a lot with your father—ideas, hopes. You could inherit this house, start a family with Els. Marc thinks his shit doesn't stink, but if I talk with him, he'll slip a good word for you at the factory. I won't lie to you; it won't be the peace you long for. But it'll be a form of peace, nonetheless."

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  For a moment, Kael imagined what the future could look like if he opened a door he had never considered. Els mischievous grins, children clamping her legs, and him going off to work to provide for them. Indeed, a form of peace that shattered the very next second.

  Memories of his mom wailing when they learned his dad would never return, her sickly face before she died, his own frail body, and what he had just been through. It was not peace. It was hell with a different name, one in which he'd throw these children knowingly. One in which he still didn't know if he'd die from hunger or illness the next winter.

  His eyes narrowed on his ledger. He would see the sun and flowers he read about.

  Before he could answer, the lock clicked behind him.

  Arthur leaned forward, whispering. "Your face tells me everything, lad. Then, like we promised Nessa, promise me to take Els with you if you succeed... I... I want something better for her."

  When Kael gazed at Arthur, he saw an unsettling determination in his green eyes. His true hope was always this: no matter how slim the chances were, that he'd tear Els out of the slums' grasp.

  In the end, they weren't different.

  Just as the door opened, he stretched his clenched fist toward Arthur. "I will if I can."

  "What are you two talking about? Dad, come on. I told you to lend him clothes. He'll pay them back later." Els sighed as she placed her basket on the stone plank. Then, she grinned. "Guess what, guys? We're in luck."

  She pulled out a loaf of bread the size of an adult hand, still steaming in its bread napkin. The smell from the oven made Kael's stomach send furious pangs against his ribs.

  "Try not to drool on the table." Chuckling, Els sliced the bread—two slices per person. Then, she poured three cups of water from a canteen. "That's better than what we had in a month."

  Arthur pushed one of his slices toward Kael as Kael devoured his two slices. "I'm not hungry." He smiled at Els. "We lost ourselves in a conversation about our ancestors. Criminals and traitors walked hand in hand in this godforsaken place. We descend from slaves who had no names of their own. They were pushed to Ashcoil Row and neighbouring streets, but kept their dignity. Anyway, won't you shoot what happened for you to end up naked and looking worse than me in the middle of winter?"

  Kael's hand froze toward the offered bread. He gulped the water made colder by his metallic cup, then answered in a muted voice. "Worked for Garrick. It didn't go too well, then Ash beat me up with a pipe, and Tovin stabbed me."

  "Ah! You see why ancestors matter?" Arthur shoved the bread in Kael's hand. "Their fathers were small gangsters of Veston. They tried to lay their dirty hands on Ben's wife. They're..."

  His gaze slipped in the direction of the burial pit. Then he clicked his tongue. "We'll talk about these two later. But boy, Garrick? He made food more available and the air better for all of us after he took control of the slums, but that man says as many truths as he omits them. Not someone I'd want as a friend, even less as an employer. In any case, you must lie low for a while, so take a week to recover and decide what you'll do next."

  Arthur clasped his hands, muttering, "Light is temporary, but darkness remembers."

  Els echoed him, and Kael realised he had skipped their prayer. Though he refused to believe in any god, he should have respected their rituals.

  Arthur ate, went to his room, and returned with a yellowed shirt and a pair of coarse pants. Blocking Els' sight, he checked Kael's wounds, then offered a reassured nod. They were severe, but already begun to scab.

  As Kael put them on, he asked, "You never told me which god you pray to before each meal."

  "Solaron? Kraghor? Mhh. I don't know either. It's just something Cyan used to say, and I kinda picked it up. Rest, son. We'll talk later." Arthur patted Kael's shoulder before vanishing into his room.

  Else wiped the bread crumbs from her hands before she set two sheets on the ground. "I'll get some rest, too. Reminds me of when we were little... Say, Kael, you really won't tell me about your book?"

  "Maybe... another time." Kael lay on one of the sheets, and Els begrudgingly buried him under another one.

  Snorting, she lay on her own a couple of steps away. "If you say so. I wouldn't have followed you if not for it. On another note, isn't next week the harvest festival? I guess we'll see temple priests parade the streets again."

  Kael didn't answer. His mind was already locked on the ledger in his hands. His utmost priority this week wasn't revenge, but to understand how truths and prices worked.

  Endurance didn't make him stronger; he was sure of it. But three slices of bread made him feel full enough to last two days. The clues were all in the ledger.

  A frown instantly creased his brow when he opened it. Something had changed.

  Stress on Anchor: 0.5%