Chapter Eight: The Price of Survival

I reached another town by the time my coin pouch was empty again. This one was larger, bustling with merchants and traders shouting over one another, their wares bright and exotic. Gold changed hands in the blink of an eye, and yet, I had none.

I considered stealing, but a single mistake could mean a noose around my neck. Desperate thieves don't live long.

Instead, I found work. Menial tasks—hauling sacks of grain, cleaning stables, anything that would earn me enough for a night indoors. It was humiliating, exhausting, but for a few short days, I was full. Warm.

But warmth doesn't last.

The merchant I worked for was an impatient man, his temper as short as the fuse on a spell gone wrong. After three days of backbreaking labor, I dared to ask for another night in his barn. He scoffed.

"You've been paid," he said, tossing me a single copper. "That's all you'll get."

I bit back my anger and took it. One copper wouldn't get me much, but it was better than nothing.

That night, I slept against the wall of a bakery, curled into myself for warmth. Sleep was fleeting.

Before dawn, I was shaken awake by rough hands. A pair of city guards loomed over me, their faces shadowed in the dim torchlight.

"Vagrants don't sleep here," one of them grunted. "Move along."

I did.

I wandered through the streets, exhausted and aching. I needed something—a way to survive without begging for scraps like a starving dog.

Then, in the dim light of a quiet alley, I found an old man muttering over an open book, his hands tracing glowing runes in the air. He looked up as I approached, his eyes narrowing.

"You're watching," he said.

"I'm interested."

His brow furrowed. Then he closed his book and sighed. "A girl like you shouldn't meddle with magic."

"I don't have the luxury of choice."

For reasons I didn't understand, he let me stay. Let me watch as he worked simple cantrips—charms to mend cloth, a flicker of flame to light his pipe. Nothing powerful, but something.

I memorized every movement. Every word.

The next night, when I was alone again, I tried. I reached into the whispers of magic, tracing the same patterns he had. And for the first time, the fire answered.

It wasn't much. A small flame in my palm, barely enough to light a candle. But it was mine.

And it was just the beginning.