Raquin

The moment the man placed his bet, the world seemed to shrink around him.

The noise of the market dulled, the chatter of gamblers faded, and all he could hear was the steady, rhythmic pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears.

The dealer gave a smirk.

"Middle option, huh?" he said, eyeing the coins that had just been pushed forward. "Feelin' lucky?"

The man didn't answer.

His fingers curled into his palm, nails pressing into skin.

He wasn't sure if this was luck.

Or a gamble.

Or a damn mistake.

The dealer moved with practiced ease, rolling the dice, flipping the tiles—whatever trick of fate this game relied on—and for a second, everything stretched.

The tension clawed into his chest.

What if I just threw away seventy scrips for nothing?

What if I just got played by some street brat?

And then—

The result.

The middle option.

The exact one the brat had told him to bet on.

A stunned silence.

Then—

The dealer's smirk stiffened.

The crowd murmured.

And the man?

The man won.

The pile of coins was pushed toward him. The winnings. His winnings.

His chest swelled with a rush of disbelief. Relief.

The kid was right.

The kid was right.

His hands moved before his brain even caught up, sweeping the money toward himself, feeling the weight of the coins press into his skin like proof. Like validation.

Like power.

He looked up—

And the brat was still there.

Standing. Watching.

And smiling.

Not a wide grin. Not cocky. Not smug.

Just knowing.

Like he had expected this.

Like this had never been a risk for him at all.

The man swallowed.

His heart still pounded, but now, it wasn't just from the gamble.

It was from something else.

Something colder.

Something that made him realize—

This kid wasn't normal.

And this wasn't just some lucky guess.

This kid—this scrawny, dirt-faced street rat—had just played him.

And worse?

The kid had won.

The man swallowed hard, his fingers still tight around the winnings.

The weight of the coins felt different now—heavier, almost. As if he wasn't just holding metal, but the realization that he'd been outplayed. Not by the dealer. Not by fate.

By him.

By this kid.

Lior didn't linger.

The moment the man's eyes widened with realization, the second his fingers clenched a little too tightly around his winnings, Lior took a step back. Then another. The weight of seventy scrips heavier in his pockets than it had any right to be.

Then, he turned and walked.

Not too fast. Not like a rat scurrying away after a meal it wasn't supposed to have. No—Lior walked like someone who belonged here. Someone who had been here long enough to know exactly where he was going.

And maybe he didn't know, not really. But that didn't matter.

Confidence was the difference between a pickpocket and a thief.

So he moved without hesitation, weaving through the shifting bodies of the market, stepping past merchants shouting prices too high for goods too cheap, past beggars who knew better than to plead for mercy in a city like this.

The market was still alive, still a churning, breathing beast of desperation and greed. But Lior had taken what he needed.

Now, he was gone.

The further he walked, the quieter it became.

The shouting softened. The calls of merchants faded into murmurs, then whispers, then nothing at all. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and old metal, of rusting carts left abandoned in the alleys, of the city pressing down on itself like an old, wounded thing trying to mend its own bones.

Lior let out a breath.

And then—

"You're either too stupid to be afraid," a voice drawled, smooth as oil, "or too smart to let it show."

Lior didn't jump.

Didn't flinch.

Instead, he exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly, catching the flicker of a shadow against the crumbling brick wall to his left.

Then he turned.

A man sat on the edge of an old wooden crate, hands lazily draped over his knees, one boot tapping against the dirt like he had all the time in the world.

Lior didn't answer right away. He just studied him, the way his dark eyes gleamed under the dim light, the way his smirk curled like he already knew everything that had just happened.

Lior's fingers brushed against the coins in his pocket.

"You followed me," he said, voice steady.

The man hummed. "Observant. See, that's exactly why I like you."

Lior didn't like that. Didn't like how easily he spoke, how comfortable he was in a place most people avoided.

His gut twisted.

"So?" he asked. "You gonna take the money back?"

The man's laugh was low. Amused.

"You think I care about some drunk idiot's pocket change?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "No, kid. I just wanted to see what you'd do. And you didn't disappoint."

Lior's jaw clenched.

He should walk away.

This was already dangerous.

But—

"What do you want?" Lior asked.

The man grinned.

Lior didn't react. Didn't let his face betray anything, not the way his breath hitched, not the way his stomach tightened.

"What's your name, kid?" he asked. Refusing to answer Lior's question. But not because he didn't want to, as if the time to discuss that hadn't come yet.

"Lior. Lior Morel." He answered, his eyes sharply reading the man.

"Raquin. Just Raquin," he chuckled.

Raquin leaned back, stretching his arms above his head. "Come, walk with me."

Lior didn't move. Didn't nod. Didn't say yes.

But the man smirked as if he had already agreed.

Lior hesitated for only a fraction of a second before stepping forward.

The man didn't wait for him—he simply turned and started walking, weaving through the market crowd with the ease of someone who belonged here. Lior followed, his steps quick but measured, slipping past shoulders and crates, past merchants barking prices and customers arguing over wilted vegetables.

It was only when they broke from the thick of the market's chaos that the man finally spoke again.

"You've got good eyes, kid." His voice was casual, but there was something behind it—something watchful. "And a quicker tongue than most street rats."

Lior didn't answer. He simply kept pace, waiting.

The man glanced at him, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Don't look so suspicious. If I wanted to gut you, I wouldn't have wasted so much time to do it."

Lior gave a slow, unimpressed blink.

The man barked a laugh. "Shit, you are clever."

They turned a corner, stepping into a quieter alley. The shouts of merchants dulled behind them, replaced by the distant clatter of carts and the occasional drip of water leaking from old pipes overhead.

The man stopped near a stack of broken crates and leaned against the wall, arms crossing over his chest.

"So, tell me," he said. "You always scamming poor bastards out of their coin, or was today just a special occasion?"

Lior tilted his head slightly, choosing his words carefully. "I just… see things. And I make use of 'em."

The man raised a brow. "See things, huh?"

Lior nodded. "The way the stall works. The way people think when they win, and when they lose." He paused. "The way he was looking at his money, back then."

The man's smirk widened. "And what way was that?"

"Like he was trying to figure out if he got played."

His grin widened, but this time, it carried a different weight—something knowing, something measuring.

"You remind me of someone," he said, shaking his head.

Lior narrowed his eyes. "Who?"

He clicked his tongue. "Some other irritating little bastard who thought he could play the world like a deck of cards. Annoying as hell. Sharp as a gutting knife. And just like you, too damn good at it."

Lior didn't know whether to feel insulted or intrigued. "Where is he now?"

The man's grin turned wolfish. "Pissing off some very important people, I imagine."

That didn't answer the question.

Lior didn't press.

Instead, he watched as he dusted off his coat and straightened, the lazy slouch disappearing as he took a step back into the alley's half-light.

"Meet me tomorrow," Raquin said, his voice all business now. "Nine sharp. By the old well near the south wall."

Lior crossed his arms. "And why would I?"

His smirk deepened. "Because I'm giving you a chance to meet the most wanted man in three wards and seven cities."

Lior's breath hitched.

Raquin let the silence stretch before stepping back into the street, already blending into the ebb and flow of the market.

"Don't be late," he called over his shoulder.

And then—just like that—he was gone.

***

Lior walked through the winding streets of Blackmire, his steps slow, measured. The market was behind him now, the cries of merchants fading into the distance, swallowed by the heavy breath of the city.

The air here felt different. Stagnant. Thick with the scent of sewage, damp wood, and the ever-present stench of too many people crammed too close together. The closer he got to home, the fewer lanterns burned in the windows, the more the cobbled roads gave way to uneven, half-rotten planks stretched over flooded alleys.

This was his Blackmire—the Blackmire of the sewer-folk, the forgotten, the ones scraping by on the edges of something far bigger than them.

Lior barely noticed the way his feet moved over the paths he knew by heart. His mind was still tangled in Raquin's words.

The most wanted man in three wards and seven cities.

Who the hell was that?

Lior had heard of wanted men before—heard their names whispered in the dark corners of gambling stalls and smuggler's dens. Cutthroats, thieves, and conmen, some with bounties high enough to feed a family for years. But this?

Three wards and seven cities?

That wasn't just a common thief. That was someone who had played this game at the highest level. Someone who had made enemies in places Lior hadn't even stepped foot in.

And Raquin was offering him a meeting?

He felt a strange thrill curl in his stomach, twisting with something else—caution, excitement, maybe even a little fear.

Lior was good at reading people. He had to be.

And Raquin?

Raquin had looked at him like he already knew what kind of person Lior was. What kind of person he could be.

That was dangerous.

But dangerous things were often the most interesting.

A gust of wind rolled through the alleys, carrying the scent of the river—brackish, metallic, tainted with something rotting. The sky above was a murky purple, the sun having long since dipped below the horizon, leaving only the glow of lanterns and the occasional flicker of a distant fire.

By the time he reached the Sewer Gates, his thoughts had settled into something sharper.

He wasn't stupid.

Whatever tomorrow brought, he'd listen. Watch. Learn.

But trust?

Trust was something else entirely.

Lior's steps slowed as the damp planks beneath him creaked under his weight. The distant hum of the market was gone now, replaced by the soft dripping of water seeping from the stone walls, the occasional scurry of rats darting between the shadows. This was home.

But for how much longer?

He once again thought of what Raquin had said. The most wanted man in seven cities.

A man who wasn't some small-time crook. That was someone who had left a trail behind him—a trail of stolen fortunes, broken trusts, maybe even bodies. Someone like that didn't get where they were without sacrificing things along the way.

Things Lior wasn't sure he could afford to lose.

Because this wasn't just about him.

It was about Cass. About his father. About his mother, who still pressed her fingers together in silent prayers even if no gods had ever answered.

And it was about Tally.

Tally, who was still too little to understand the world she had been born into. Who had the luxury of laughing, of playing, because the rest of them bore the weight of reality for her.

Would this help them?

That was the question, wasn't it?

Because if Raquin was offering a chance at something bigger than petty theft, bigger than scraping by on scraps—wasn't it his duty to take it?

But then, there was the other question.

What would Cass say?

Cass, who had always made it clear that he was the bastard this family needed. That Lior wasn't supposed to walk the same road. That he had a chance—a real chance—to be something else.

Lior scoffed under his breath.

That was the thing about Cass. He wanted to believe that Lior could escape this life, but he also needed him to understand it. To know its dangers, its ugliness. To carry the burden of knowing exactly what their family had to do to survive.

And maybe that was the cruelest part.

Because Lior did understand.

More than Cass wanted him to. More than his father suspected.

And that was why he couldn't just ignore this.

If Raquin's contact was as good as he claimed, this wasn't just a chance to fill his own pockets.

This was a chance to learn how the game was played at the highest level.

And if he knew the game, if he knew the rules—

Then maybe, just maybe, he could rewrite them.

The thought sent a chill down his spine, but he didn't stop walking.

Tomorrow, he'd find out just how deep this world went.

And whether or not he was ready to dive in.