The Morels

Beneath the crumbling streets of Blackmire, deep in the city's guts where light was a rumor and the air tasted of rust and rot, the Morel family endured.

They did not live—not in the way people above the sewers lived.

They persisted.

Their home was wedged between the slick, sweating walls of the sewer tunnels, built from scrap wood, rusted nails, and the kind of desperate craftsmanship that came not from skill but necessity. The ground was always damp. The roof dripped when it rained, and the stench of waste and decay was so deeply ingrained in the air that they no longer noticed it.

Rats were their neighbors. Hunger was their landlord.

And yet, somehow, they survived.

***

The Morels did not eat at a table.

There was no table to eat at.

There were crates, scraps of old wood, and the cold stone floor, damp and slick with years of moisture from the tunnels above. The only light came from a single candle, its weak glow flickering against the curved walls.

Elsha set down the bread first.

A half-loaf, slightly stale but still good. The thick crust had softened just enough from being stuffed inside her apron all day, warmed by her body heat.

Cass grabbed it first, as expected.

He never waited. Never hesitated. His bruised knuckles tore a chunk free before anyone could stop him, stuffing it into his mouth with fast, desperate bites. His lip was split again—probably from another fight—but he didn't wince when the rough crust scraped against it.

Lior watched him, his small hands twitching.

But he did not argue.

Instead, he reached for the turnips.

Elsha had managed to bring two. Not fresh—nothing was ever fresh—but still edible, the skins only slightly spotted. She pulled a small knife from her belt and peeled them carefully, thin slices falling onto a battered tin plate.

Little Tally squirmed in her father's lap, reaching toward the food with soft, chubby fingers.

She could not say Mama, not yet.

She could barely say Ba-ba.

But she whimpered, a small, pleading sound, and her father—silent as always—broke off a piece of turnip and placed it against her lips.

She gummed it slowly.

Satisfied.

Cass wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, already eyeing the small block of cheese Elsha had pulled from her apron next.

"Where'd you get that?" he asked, chewing loudly.

Elsha didn't answer.

Cass huffed, but did not push.

The answer was always the same. She had taken it.

A little too much from the pantry at the Doe house. A little leftover food no one would miss.

Not stealing.

Just… surviving.

Lior took his time eating.

He was precise, peeling away the softest parts of the bread, chewing slowly, watching everyone else. His mother, methodical and silent. His father, quiet and slow-moving. His little sister, making tiny happy noises with each bite she managed to swallow.

Elsha did not speak.

She hadn't spoken in years—not since Cass was a baby. Not since something had stolen the words from her, swallowed them whole, leaving only silence in their place.

Some said it was illness. Others said it was grief.

But no one asked. Not in Blackmire.

She worked as a servant in the Doe household—one of those middle-class families that liked to believe they were better than they were, their hands just clean enough to pretend they didn't benefit from the city's filth.

She scrubbed their floors until her fingers bled. She washed their linens until her knuckles cracked. She cooked meals she would never taste, for people who barely remembered her face.

The Does were not unkind.

They simply did not see her at all.

And so, when her shift ended, she walked home through Blackmire's streets, keeping her head low, avoiding the hands of men who thought quiet women were easy prey.

She always made her way down, past the docks, past the smoke-stained factories, past the last remnants of respectable poverty, and disappeared into the sewer depths.

And they understood.

Even as he took a bite, he knew, this was still more than he deserved. His mother barely ate, today as well. 

And his father? 

Luthias Morel—Luth as they called him—was a rope fixer at the port.

Not a sailor. Not a trader. Not even a dockhand. Just a man whose job it was to fix the things that broke, so the ships didn't fall apart before they reached the sea.

It was a thankless job. He spent his days with tar-stained hands, threading rough fibers together until his knuckles bled, working beneath men who never noticed him unless something went wrong. He took what little coin they paid him, bought just enough food to keep his family alive, and brought it home, tired and aching, to the sewer depths.

Luth didn't drink. Didn't gamble. Didn't waste his wages on fleeting pleasures like most men at the docks did. Not because he was virtuous, but because he had no room for failure.

Lior understood.

If he failed, they starved.

If he failed, his son would steal.

If he failed, his daughter would beg.

And so, he worked.

And then there was his brother....

Cass was fourteen, but he looked older. Not in the way children dream of looking older, but in the way children in Blackmire had to grow up too fast.

He came home with bruises more often than not. A black eye one day. A split lip the next. Sometimes worse.

He never spoke about it, not really. Sometimes, if father pressed, he'd mutter something about a fight, about some bastard trying to take something from him, about some rat-faced scum who learned the hard way that Cass wasn't weak. But mostly, he just wiped the blood off and got on with his day.

Because that was what life was, wasn't it?

You fought.

You took.

You endured.

Cass worked at the edge of the city, running packages between merchants too cowardly to carry their own goods through Blackmire's worst streets. It paid something, but not enough. Never enough.

He wanted out.

And Lior knew more than what it meant.

Not just out of the sewers. Not just out of Blackmire. He wanted out of this life.

But he couldn't leave.

Not yet.

He shifted to his little sister, soft and innocently chewing as his father cleaned her mouth.

Tally was two.

She had learned to walk before she had learned to speak. Had learned to hide before she had learned to run.

She had curls like her mother, a stubborn little frown like her father, and bright, curious eyes that had not yet been dimmed by the weight of this city.

She called her father Ba-ba.

She called her mother Ma.

She called Cass Ka.

She called him Yo.

Lior swore that one day she'd learn to say his name properly. He also swore that if anyone ever laid a hand on her, he'd put a knife in their throat before they could even breathe a threat.

Tally was too young to understand why her family never had enough food. Too young to understand why her father came home aching, why her mother's hands were raw, why Cass sometimes clutched his bruised ribs and muttered curses under his breath.

She only knew love.

The quiet, desperate, unrelenting love of a family that had nothing but each other.

And in Blackmire, where the city ate people alive—where kindness was a weakness, and cruelty a currency—that was the only thing that had kept us from being swallowed whole. Lior thought.

"You eat like a rat," he muttered, watching his little brother carefully tear his bread apart like it was some delicate fucking treasure. "Just put it in your mouth and chew, for fuck's sake."

Lior ignored him.

Which only pissed Cass off more.

He grabbed a chunk of his own bread—what little was left—shoved it into Lior's face, and said, "Here. Eat like a man, not a damn church mouse."

Lior scowled, swatting Cass's hand away.

"Piss off," he mumbled.

Cass grinned.

That was more like it.

Cass had felt his father's presence before he heard him.

Luthias Morel had a way of filling a room without ever making a sound. He was tall, but then and broad in a way that came from years of labor, his hands thick with callouses, his face lined with exhaustion rather than age. His silence wasn't cold or cruel—it was a stillness that made people listen, even when they didn't want to.

Even Cass.

Which is why, when Luthias finally spoke, it hit harder than a slap ever could.

"Don't push your brother."

That was all he said.

And somehow, that was worse than a hundred lectures.

Cass stiffened, his fingers still curled around the hunk of bread he'd shoved in Lior's face just moments ago. Across from him, Lior was sitting rigid, his hands curled in his lap, his mouth a tight line.

The whole room held its breath.

Their mother, still kneeling near the plates, kept her head low, her fingers pressing lightly against the table's surface. She wouldn't speak—she never did—but Cass could feel her gaze on him, sharp and knowing.

He scowled. "He eats too slow."

Luthias didn't blink. Didn't react. He just sat there, with Tally's fingers grabbing his chin, or trying to.

He looked at Cass with those deep, steady eyes—the kind that made you feel like he already knew every excuse you were about to give.

Cass huffed. Looked away.

Lior hadn't moved.

Cass swore under his breath, then ripped off a chunk of his own bread and tossed it onto Lior's plate.

"Fine. Eat like a damn prince, for all I care."

Lior hesitated. Then, without a word, he picked up the bread and took a bite.

Luthias exhaled through his nose, something like approval hidden beneath the sound. He didn't say anything else. Didn't need to.

Instead, he simply turned away, sat back down, and quietly reached for his own plate.

Cass, chewing with his usual aggression, risked a glance at his father.

Luthias was eating. Calm. Steady. Like the conversation had already left his mind. But Cass knew better.

Luthias Morel never forgot a damn thing.

And Lior knew, without needing to look at Cass, that if he ever pulled something like that again—

His father's silence would be louder than any punishment.