A Way

Lior had learned something yesterday.

Stealing wasn't just about grabbing and running. It wasn't as simple as snatching a purse and hoping to outrun whoever noticed.

It was a game. A test. A dance between luck and skill.

And he had barely dipped his toes in it.

Today, he needed to do better.

The city opened before him in its usual chaos—Blackmire's markets were always crowded, always alive with noise. Merchants shouted over one another, their voices battling for attention. The scent of spices and fresh bread mixed with the stink of unwashed bodies and rotting produce. Coins clinked, boots scuffed against stone, people argued, laughed, bargained.

Lior slipped through it all like smoke.

Yesterday, he had worked the outer edges of the market, picking easy marks—the distracted, the tired, the ones who didn't bother guarding their pockets. But he couldn't just stick to the same trick. People would notice a rat sneaking around too much in the same place.

So he moved deeper.

The deeper part of the market was harsher, more cutthroat. Unlike the outer areas where housewives haggled over fish and farmers sold sacks of grain, here, the traders dealt in more expensive goods—imported fabrics, jewelry, rare spices.

The people here weren't careless.

But that also meant more money.

Lior adjusted his shirt, straightened his posture, and took his time watching. That was the real trick—watching before acting.

He saw a man in a well-fitted coat arguing with a jeweler, his hands moving animatedly as he waved at a row of rings. His purse, heavy and barely tied, hung just under his belt.

Too risky.

A woman in a velvet shawl stepped out of a carriage, her servant hurrying behind her with packages. She carried herself like she owned everything, including the air she breathed. Her necklace gleamed under the weak sun, and her fingers were covered in rings.

Too obvious.

Lior exhaled slowly.

There had to be a way. A different way.

He could lift something directly. That was the usual trick.

Or he could distract someone, like he did for Flynn yesterday, and get a cut of whatever was taken.

Or… maybe there were ways to earn dirty money.

His eyes drifted toward a group of older boys near the alleys—gamblers. They weren't playing with real money, not yet, just throwing dice and betting scraps. But some of them were making money.

A scam?

A gamble?

Or something worse?

Lior took a deep breath, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He could feel the stolen bread pressing against his side—a reminder that he'd done something yesterday. But it wasn't enough.

His family needed more than scraps.

His eyes flickered back to the gambling boys. They were loud, leaning against a broken cart, throwing dice into a small circle drawn in the dirt. Their laughter carried over the chatter of the market, rough and full of sharp edges.

He could try.

Just watch, maybe.

Lior approached slowly, staying at the edges, where he could listen without drawing attention.

"Fuckin' snake eyes again," one of them cursed, throwing his dice down with frustration. "Rigged bullshit."

The others laughed.

"Shouldn't have bet all your scrips, dumbass," another boy sneered, scooping up his winnings.

Lior tilted his head. A game of luck, then. Or at least, it looked like one.

"You gonna play, or just stand there like a lost pup?"

Lior blinked. One of the older boys—lean, scrappy, maybe fourteen—was staring at him. His hands were still curled around his dice, and his smile was too sharp to be friendly.

"I don't have much to bet," Lior admitted.

"Lucky for you, we take favors too," the boy said.

Favors.

Lior knew what that meant.

He wasn't stupid.

A favor now meant a debt later. And in a place like Blackmire, debts were dangerous things to owe.

He hesitated.

"Not interested," he said finally, stepping back.

The older boy snorted. "Smart rat." He turned back to the game. "Well? Who's next?"

Lior exhaled, slipping away.

Not gambling then.

But if there were gamblers, there were cheaters. And if there were cheaters, there were people making money without relying on luck.

He needed to find them.

Lior moved through the market, letting himself blend into the crowd. He watched how people moved, how they spent their money.

A merchant stuffing extra scrips under his belt when his customer wasn't looking.

A street performer pretending to juggle while his partner slipped hands into pockets.

A woman selling fake charms, promising they'd bring fortune and love.

All of them were making money in ways that had nothing to do with hard work.

Lior licked his lips.

Maybe today, he wouldn't steal.

Maybe today, he'd learn.

***

Lior spent the morning watching.

He stuck to the edges of the market, eyes sharp, ears open. If he wanted to make money, he had to know how the real money flowed—not through honest labor, but through clever hands and sharper minds.

The first thing he noticed?

Nobody watched beggars.

There was an old man, wrapped in a thin rag of a cloak, shaking a cup at passersby. His skin clung to his bones, his eyes sunken. People barely looked at him.

Lior crept closer.

The old man wasn't just begging. He had a system.

Every time someone dropped a coin into his cup, he'd mutter something, then shake the cup again. His eyes would flick to the left or right—toward a boy Lior hadn't noticed before, leaning against a crate.

Lior watched carefully.

Another coin. Another mutter. Another flick of the eyes.

A few minutes later, the boy vanished into the crowd, only to return moments later with a handful of stolen bread.

Ah.

It wasn't just begging. It was a signal system.

People who looked away from beggars didn't realize that beggars watched everything. The old man was spotting easy targets, marking them for the thief. And in return, the thief brought him food.

Lior bit his lip.

He could do that.

But he didn't want to be a beggar.

He moved on.

Next, he watched a pair of boys—maybe ten or eleven—playing a game with a handful of scrips and a small knife.

A simple trick. They let people think they could win. Let them win once. Twice. And then, when the stakes were higher, they'd switch the knife's position too fast for the gambler's eyes to follow.

Lior almost laughed.

The game wasn't about luck. It was about misdirection. The mark thought they were in control, but the tricksters were guiding every move.

Smart.

But if they got caught?

Lior glanced at the loser stomping away, muttering curses. He had anger in his shoulders, in his clenched fists.

If he realized he'd been tricked, there would be fists. Maybe knives.

Lior had no interest in getting stabbed.

The market was a festering pit of noise, color, and desperation.

Lior moved through it with the ease of a rat in a sewer, ducking past broad-shouldered merchants, slipping between carts piled high with stolen spices, and sidestepping the occasional drunkard sprawled out on the dirt paths.

Everywhere he looked, there was a game being played.

A beggar with one leg wailed at the street corner—except Lior had seen him run last week when a guard kicked over his bowl. A pickpocket "accidentally" bumped into a wealthier-looking man, hands quick as a whisper as he relieved him of his coin purse. Near a fruit stall, two men argued over the price of oranges, voices raised in aggression—while a third man casually scooped up three of the best ones and walked off unnoticed.

Scams. Tricks. Lies.

It was how people survived here.

It was how people thrived.

Lior observed it all, thoughtful.

The market was alive with voices—shouts of merchants hawking their wares, the clinking of coins, the laughter of children weaving between carts, dodging hands reaching to cuff their ears.

Lior saw them as clearly as he saw the cracks in the worn cobblestone.

A hunched old woman, sitting on a stool, rattled a cup of wooden dice. "Blessed by the gods, these are! Roll a seven, and you'll triple your coin!" She grinned, revealing missing teeth, as a man stepped up, eager, hopeful. The dice rattled. The dice fell. A five. A second roll. A three. The man lost.

Lior knew why. He saw the way the old woman's thumb flicked the dice at the last moment—weighted, marked, just enough to turn fortune against the fool handing over his money.

Another stall had a man flipping cards on a crate, flashing a quick hand, daring passersby to find the queen among the shuffled deck. A boy stepped up, sure of himself, sure he had been watching closely—he pointed. Wrong. Another shuffle. Another loss. Lior had seen the way the man swapped the queen for a different card, so smoothly it looked like magic.

And there, near the cloth vendors, stood a man with a game of cups and a single, bouncing pebble. "Follow the stone, follow the stone!" His hands moved fast—too fast. The pebble was gone before the cups even stopped moving.

Lior had seen these tricks a hundred times. He had seen the way people fell for them a hundred times more.

But there was something different about this stall.

It was a gambling stall—simple enough. But not the kind that relied on sleight of hand. No, this one let people win.

At first.

Lior stopped at the edge of the stall, watching. A man tossed in a few scrips, made a lucky guess, and doubled his money. He cheered, emboldened, placed another bet—lost. He frowned, tried again. Won. Lost again. He won just enough to keep believing he could win.

The stall was clever. It didn't steal outright. It let the people steal from themselves.

Lior smiled.

Now this was interesting.

He didn't move. Just stood there, observing. Watching the game, watching the people. He wasn't thinking about stealing, not exactly.

He was thinking about how people lost money.

And then he saw his opportunity.

A man walked past him, pausing at the stall, eyes gleaming with greed. He had coin to spare, but not enough sense to know when to stop.

Lior stepped forward smoothly.

"Are you gonna bet?" he asked.

The man glanced at him, then scoffed. "What's it to you?"

Lior tilted his head. "I can tell you how to win."

The man snorted. "Yeah? And what's that gonna cost me?"

Lior grinned. "Half an obol."

The man laughed, shaking his head. "Piss off, kid."

Lior didn't argue.

He just smiled.

And waited.

The man started betting. Won a little. Lost a lot. He cursed under his breath, tossing more money onto the table, convinced he could win it back.

The man wasn't new to gambling.

That's what he told himself, anyway.

He had played these games before—sometimes he lost, sometimes he won, but that was the nature of it, wasn't it? That was the thrill.

And this stall? It wasn't like those other cheap scams he'd seen around the market. Those swindlers with their rigged dice, their hidden cards, their sleight of hand tricks. No.

This game was fair.

At least, it looked fair.

He had seen the way the others played—some of them won, some of them lost. The man before him had walked away with more than he started with. That was enough proof for him.

And so, when the dealer smirked and gestured for him to place his first bet, he reached into his pocket and slapped down five scrips.

A small start.

He played conservatively at first. Watched how the dealer moved, how the game played out. The first round, he won. Smirked. Pushed in his winnings.

The second round, he lost.

That's fine.

He had seen the pattern.

The third round, he won again.

The fourth, he lost.

The fifth, he lost again.

Alright.

The pattern was just a little unpredictable. He had won twice. He just had to be patient.

Another bet.

Lost.

A bigger bet.

Lost.

He inhaled sharply, frustration curling in his gut.

The dealer gave him an easy, knowing grin. "Luck's gotta turn at some point, right?"

The man set his jaw.

It had to.

It would.

That was what gambling was all about—knowing when to hold on and when to walk away.

And he wasn't about to walk away yet.

He dug into his pocket again, fingers grazing the remaining coins, counting, measuring.

And then—

He felt it.

The weight of a stare.

He glanced behind him—

And his heart nearly jumped out of his chest.

The kid.

The same one who had spoken to him earlier.

The scrawny little rat who had told him, so casually, that he could help him win.

He was still there.

Just standing.

Just watching.

His face was blank, unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes—looked too damn knowing for a street brat.

The man swallowed.

He turned away quickly, faced the game again, gripping his last few scrips.

Tried to focus.

Tried to ignore the way his skin prickled under that silent gaze.

Tried to pretend that, maybe, maybe, he wasn't losing so badly after all.

But the weight of those eyes didn't leave.

And the longer he stood there, the heavier it felt.

Like the damn kid knew something he didn't.

Like the kid had seen something he missed.

Like the kid had been waiting for him to realize it.

Slowly—almost reluctantly—he turned his head.

The brat was still there.

Still watching.

Still waiting.

The man's mouth felt dry.

He cleared his throat. Forced his voice to sound casual.

"The deal still up?"

The kid tilted his head, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"Not the same deal."

The man's stomach twisted.

He already knew what was coming next.

He exhaled sharply. "How much?"

"For seventy scrips," the kid said, voice smooth as oil, "I'll help you win the next bet."

Seventy scrips.

That was a lot more than the first price.

The man hesitated.

Was this a scam?

No. No, that didn't make sense.

If the kid was a scammer, he would've taken off already. He wouldn't have stood there, waiting.

And if the brat really was just some punk looking for a quick score, why hadn't he pushed harder? Why hadn't he tried again after being turned away the first time?

He was waiting for this moment.

Waiting for the man to feel that gnawing, sinking feeling of losing.

Waiting for him to want the help.

Waiting for him to be desperate enough to pay for it.

Damn brat.

The man gritted his teeth.

He had already lost too much to walk away now.

And if this kid did know something…

He dug into his pocket and pulled out the coins.

Handed them over.

The kid grinned.

And leaned in.

"Bet on the middle option," he whispered.

The man's pulse pounded in his ears.

He turned back to the game.

Stared at the options.

And hesitated.

What if he's lying?

What if this is just another scam?

But then—

What if it wasn't?

The man inhaled sharply.

And placed his bet.