The wind slammed across the ground, and the coldness of the night spared no one. Hands trembled. Teeth clattered. This land was no friend to the weak.
A young boy, no older than ten, huddled in an alleyway. His body was so malnourished, you could almost see his bones shivering beneath his skin. Judas tried his best to fall asleep, hoping unconsciousness would numb the hunger that ravaged his stomach. But with every passing second, the pain only grew more unbearable.
He clenched his fists.Why do I have to suffer?
Other kids were at home, sleeping in warm beds, while he had to worry about his next meal. A stream of tears slid down his cheeks. He hated his parents for abandoning him over a stupid myth — dumping him in an orphanage, only to be kicked out for something he couldn't control.
Judas slapped himself. He never had anything to begin with. What was the point of crying now?
As the night dragged on, Judas began scavenging for food. Normally, he would've waited a little longer to avoid drawing the attention of shop owners or back-alley thugs, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
He silently crept through the empty alley. The city was still lively — he had to be as quiet as a mouse. The chatter of the crowds echoed in the distance as he hurried toward the city bakery's dumpster. It was the safest option. The taverns were still full, and he'd learned the hard way what alcohol did to a man.
The streets were filthy. Judas felt every pebble and patch of grime beneath his bare feet. He took a left, spotting the city center in the distance. He wasn't stupid enough to cross through it — too risky. The alleyways were safer, though they had dangers of their own. Local gangs and roaming factions claimed those paths. Judas had been lucky so far not to run into them. That luck, he feared, wouldn't last forever.
The only reason he was even out tonight was because of the Mid-Autumn Festival.
The back alleys were quieter than usual. If you listened closely, you could hear the sound of a young boy panting.
Judas ran as fast as his frail legs would carry him. Normally, he preserved his energy — but he was too hungry to think straight. His mind kept conjuring worst-case scenarios.
The way to the bakery was simple. After passing the local library, the warm, sweet scent of pastries hit his nose. He froze, scanning every direction. It had to be clear before he could even think about feasting.
The dumpster sat undisturbed. The chains were still loose, meaning the owner was likely still inside — busy.
Judas crept forward and slowly lifted the lid, tiptoeing to peek inside.
In the dark, he spotted the silhouette of a long loaf of bread. It was burnt — but that never stopped Judas. Beggars couldn't be choosers.
He reached for the bread, but his small arms failed him.
"Damn it," he muttered.
He had no choice but to climb in. With what little strength he had, Judas hauled himself up and dropped quietly into the dumpster. He had to be fast. Any sudden movement could alert the baker.
Inside, he grabbed the bread and what appeared to be leftover apricot scraps — signs the baker had been making the local famous apricot pie. He tossed the food over the side, then searched for more, but the dumpster was surprisingly empty. It seemed the baker had perfected his craft — no waste left behind.
With nothing else to scavenge, Judas jumped out.
BANG.
The lid slammed shut.
He froze. It had been too loud. In the silence of the night, the sound was a beacon. He knew the shop owner had heard it.
Grabbing the food, Judas took off running.
"You little rat! Just wait till I catch you!" the baker shouted behind him — or as Judas liked to call him, Gluttonous Baker.
His feet slapped the stone ground as he ran. He knew the man wouldn't chase him far — the bakery needed tending. Eventually, the shouting faded.
Judas stopped to catch his breath, then greedily shoved the burnt bread into his mouth. It tasted like charcoal, but he didn't care. He chewed and swallowed. It scratched his throat and left his mouth dry — but he had no water. His best bet was the fountain in the town square.
He walked, occasionally popping chunks of apricot into his mouth. He savored the sweet and tart flavor. Running a hand through his messy, dark brown hair, he felt the split ends. He always cut it with broken glass if he could find any — long hair was a liability. In this twisted town, being mistaken for a girl could mean disappearing forever.
A loud hiss drew his attention.
Alley cats were fighting over scraps nearby. Moments like that reminded him he wasn't alone in his struggle.
Still, Judas saw himself less like a cat and more like a rat. Cats could defend themselves. Rats scavenged and ran.
This city was a cruel place for people like him. Sometimes, he would compare it to Halevick — the underworld. Lawless and unremorseful.
Judas wondered how the workers, the families, lived so peacefully with so much evil going on. Maybe they were oblivious. Or worse — maybe they simply didn't care for their fellow citizens.
Lost in thought, Judas bumped into something — or rather, someone.
"Well, well," a tall man sneered. "Look what we got here, Randy. A dirty little street dweller."
Judas's blood ran cold. He didn't need to guess. These were back-alley thugs.
"Hey, kid," the other man — Randy — said mockingly. "You lost? Need help finding your parents?"
They knew damn well he wasn't lost. Just abandoned.
"If you want the bread… here. It's all I've got," Judas said bravely, holding it out. He knew showing fear would only make things worse.
"What do we look like, huh? Stealing food from kids?" Randy scoffed, then smacked the bread from his hands.
He stepped on it, spit on it, and laughed. "Eat it, rat. Maybe the horse shit adds flavor."
Judas froze, trembling — not in fear, but in rage.
He could've handled a beating. He could've handled being robbed. But this? Forcing him to humiliate himself like some filthy animal?
The bigger man stepped forward, grabbing Judas by the collar.
"You heard him. Eat it. We're not asking."
Judas snapped.
He sank his teeth into the thug's hand, drawing a scream and forcing him to let go. Then he ran — desperately, not caring for anything other than his escape. He took a right. This path led to the local church.
He could see the bricks around the alleys change into marble.
He was almost there.
His blood was ignited. Head racing. He knew the priest despised him, but this was a gamble he was willing to take. Just one more step — a fine stride of separation — Judas could be safe.
But a boy's legs are no match for a grown man's.
A sudden, brutal blow struck the back of his head, and everything went black.
Randy approached his partner, who was rubbing his hand.
"What should we do with the kid, John? Think we can get some coin for him?"
John stroked his beard. "Maybe. Some merchants are into that kind of thing."
Randy sighed. "John, lower your voice. Don't alert those madmen. Is there even a brain in that thick skull of yours? Merchants want girls — not boys. And look at his eyes. Who'd take him?"
"Like hell. I've heard a slave trader should be coming soon. They'll take anything."
Randy held his face in disappointment. "I would rather die than work with them. Cheap bastards. It's not worth the risk."
John's face turned red in anger. "What's the point of asking me if it seems you already made up your mind on what to do?"
"Yes, you're right. There is no point in asking an idiot like you. I know someone tied to the Cutthroats over in Darwen Hill. They don't give a damn about those cursed eyes."
John nodded and slung Judas over his shoulder.
"Well then," he said. "Lead the way."