A Rat

Lior lay still, curled beneath the thin blanket that smelled of home—of old wool, faint soap, and the lingering traces of warmth his mother had stitched into it.

The blanket had been given to all three of them—him, Cass, and Tally—but Cass had never used it.

Lior had never questioned it before.

But tonight, as he stared at the ceiling, listening to the shallow breaths of his family in the quiet, he understood.

Cass never used the blanket because he never let himself have it.

Because it was too small for three. Because he'd rather Lior and Tally be warm.

Because he chose to be cold.

Lior clenched his fists beneath the fabric.

He felt warm, yet cold.

Loved, yet hollow.

The events of the day churned in his mind, playing on loop like a cruel joke. Cass—beaten to the bone—laughing through bloodied teeth. That man with the fortune cards. Light.

Cass' words echoed in his head.

"If I ever become the kind of bastard that needs a beating, I expect you to do it."

"I refuse to let our mother stay mute forever. I refuse to let our father shed his own skin to feed us. I refuse to let Tally suffer the world's injustice. And if I have to drown myself in the gutters to make sure that never happens, then so be it."

Lior turned onto his side, staring at the barely-visible shape of his brother across the room.

He didn't know if Cass was awake.

Didn't know if he was always awake.

How many nights had Cass spent lying in the dark, thinking about what he had to do?

How many nights had he chosen this path alone?

Lior swallowed the lump in his throat.

He had never been the strongest.

Cass was the one people feared. The one who carried their family's burdens without hesitation. The one who took every hit and never once complained.

But Lior couldn't just watch anymore.

He didn't want to just be protected.

He wanted to fight too.

Not like Cass. No. He would never be Cass.

But if there was something—anything—he could do, then he'd do it.

For his mother. For his father. For Tally.

For Cass.

Because Cass may have been the bastard his family needed.

But Lior would be the light that made sure Cass never drowned in the dark.

No matter what it took.

***

Lior woke to silence.

A deep, suffocating silence that told him he was alone.

The blankets were warm where he had slept, but everywhere else, the house was cold. His mother was gone. His father was gone. Cass was gone.

Lior sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

On the rickety table, beside a chipped tin cup of water, sat a quarter loaf of bread.

That was breakfast.

He stared at it.

Felt the hunger curling in his gut like a lazy beast, waiting.

But he didn't dig in.

Instead, he pushed the bread into his shirt, letting it sit against his ribs. Maybe he'd eat it later. Maybe he wouldn't.

Without a word, he grabbed his shoes—too big, always too big—and slid them on. The soles were thinning. Another month and they'd barely be shoes at all.

Then, he walked out the door.

***

The smell hit first.

Always the smell.

Rot. Rust. Waste and mildew.

The sewage gates, as they were called, were less of a neighborhood and more of a punishment. The houses were stacked on top of each other, half-sunk into the filth, walls patched together with whatever their owners could find—old boards, cloth, rusted tin sheets.

The streets were not streets. They were paths carved through the mud and refuse, twisting and shifting as if the city itself had forgotten they existed.

Rats scurried between broken crates. Someone coughed from inside a shack. A baby wailed.

Lior moved through it all, silent, small, unnoticed.

People didn't look at each other here. Eye contact meant trouble.

A glance too long could mean someone thought you had something worth stealing.

Lior kept his head down.

One step after the other.

Past the house with the leaning chimney, past the woman who sat by her doorway with tired eyes and an empty bowl, past the children playing with a stick in the mud.

And then—

He reached the Sewer Gates.

Here, the paths turned to streets.

Not good ones. Not paved, not clean, but still—streets.

The air didn't smell like rot, but it didn't smell clean either. Too many bodies, too much smoke, too many unwashed secrets.

Here, the world didn't just struggle.

It hunted.

And scrawny rats like him?

They were easy picks.

Lior pulled his shoulders in, moving fast, his feet skimming across the uneven ground. He shouldn't be here.

Cass would've beaten him over the head if he knew.

But Lior kept going.

Because there were things he needed to see.

Things he needed to understand.

And he wasn't going to understand them from inside the sewers.

***

Lior didn't belong here.

And yet, here he was.

The streets outside the Sewer Gates were not welcoming, but they were alive.

Thick with movement, voices, the clatter of hooves on stone, the scent of burning coal and cheap perfume. A place where desperation and ambition walked hand in hand, elbowing each other for space.

Men in long coats moved like predators through the crowd, their boots polished, their hands hidden in their pockets. Vendors shouted from wooden stalls, their goods lined up in neat little rows—some fresh, some stolen, some best left unmentioned.

There was no room for weakness here.

And Lior was weak.

But weakness didn't mean stupidity.

He knew how to move.

How to shrink himself, how to press close to a person and match their steps, how to blend so well that to any onlooker, he was simply someone's child.

Now, he spotted a woman in a deep blue dress, her hair piled high, her hands gloved. Someone too well-dressed for this part of Blackmire, her nose wrinkling at the city's filth.

Perfect.

Lior slipped behind her, moving at her side, close enough to be hers.

To anyone watching, he was simply a mother's boy, following along.

Then, when she turned a corner, he let go and found another.

A tall man in a dark coat, walking briskly.

Lior adjusted his pace.

Now, he was his son.

And just like that, he drifted.

No one noticed.

No one saw a scrawny sewer rat weaving between them, unseen, unheard.

That was how you survived.

Lior didn't belong here.

And yet, here he was.

The streets outside the Sewer Gates were not welcoming, but they were alive.

Thick with movement, voices, the clatter of hooves on stone, the scent of burning coal and cheap perfume. A place where desperation and ambition walked hand in hand, elbowing each other for space.

Men in long coats moved like predators through the crowd, their boots polished, their hands hidden in their pockets. Vendors shouted from wooden stalls, their goods lined up in neat little rows—some fresh, some stolen, some best left unmentioned.

There was no room for weakness here.

And Lior was weak.

But weakness didn't mean stupidity.

He knew how to move.

How to shrink himself, how to press close to a person and match their steps, how to blend so well that to any onlooker, he was simply someone's child.

Now, he spotted a woman in a deep blue dress, her hair piled high, her hands gloved. Someone too well-dressed for this part of Blackmire, her nose wrinkling at the city's filth.

Perfect.

Lior slipped behind her, moving at her side, close enough to be hers.

To anyone watching, he was simply a mother's boy, following along.

Then, when she turned a corner, he let go and found another.

A tall man in a dark coat, walking briskly.

Lior adjusted his pace.

Now, he was his son.

And just like that, he drifted.

No one noticed.

No one saw a scrawny sewer rat weaving between them, unseen, unheard.

That was how you survived.

Lior had been watching for a while when he saw the pickpocket.

A kid, a few years older than him, thin as a wire and quick as a striking snake.

The mark?

A wealthy-looking man, rings on his fingers, a fat purse on his belt.

Lior saw the setup instantly.

The pickpocket moved close, smooth as water, his fingers dancing along the leather cord—

But the mark felt it.

The moment the purse was slipping free, the man turned, eyes sharp, hand already moving.

The pickpocket froze.

Lior didn't care about thieves.

Or rather, he didn't care about stopping them.

People stole because they had to. Because if you didn't take, you didn't eat.

That was Blackmire.

The man getting robbed? He had rings on his fingers. A fat purse. A fine coat that had probably never seen a day of wear and tear.

He'd be fine.

But the kid?

Lior saw it in the way he froze—not like a rat caught in a trap, but like someone who knew exactly what came next.

A broken wrist. A knife in the ribs. A beating in an alley so bad he'd never pick a pocket again.

Lior swallowed.

If that happened, no one would even bury him.

That thought made something sour curl in his gut.

And that was when Lior made a choice.

Not a conscious one. Not even a noble one.

Just a gut decision.

The kind of decision a rat makes when it sees another rat about to get crushed underfoot.

He didn't step forward to help.

He stepped forward to create chaos.

To shake the board.

To turn a losing hand into something else.

And so—

"Papa!" he cried, his voice breaking just the right way.

He ran forward, hands outstretched. Desperate. Loud. Believable.

And just like that, the pickpocket was free.

Lior moved before he even thought.

His small fingers caught the edge of the man's sleeve, tugging hard. "Papa!" he gasped, eyes wide, frantic.

The man startled. Confused. The pickpocket slipped away, silent as a shadow.

For a second, it worked.

Then the man turned.

And Lior froze.

Up close, he saw the lines on the man's face. The neatly trimmed beard. The sharp, furrowed brow.

In no era could this man be his father.

Not even close.

Lior's stomach twisted.

The man scowled. "Who in the hell—?"

Lior let go instantly, stepping back. "S-Sorry," he stammered. "I thought— I thought you were—"

The man clicked his tongue. Annoyed. "Go home, boy."

Lior didn't move.

The man sighed, rubbing his temple. "Then go run to the Watchtower if you're lost. Or a guard. Someone who gives a damn."

And with that, he walked off.

Lior exhaled, tension melting off his shoulders.

Then, like a bolt, he turned—

And ran after the thief.