Scrutiny
The night pressed down like a weight, thick with the scent of damp wood and old dust, the quiet hum of Blackmire's underbelly settling into its slow, suffocating rhythm. Somewhere beyond the sewer gates, the city still murmured—drunken laughter from the taverns, the clatter of carts rolling over uneven stones, the distant echo of boots against cobblestone. But here, in the slums, in the house that barely stood, there was only silence.
Lior lay on his back, staring at the warped wooden ceiling. A single candle flickered in the farthest corner, its weak glow barely enough to push back the dark. The thin cloth beneath him did little to cushion the hardness of the floor, but the blanket—worn and patched with mismatched fabric—was warm. He and Tally shared it, just like every night. Cass never took it.
He never even tried.
Lior turned his head, gaze falling on the tiny girl beside him.
Tally.
She was curled up small, one chubby hand tucked under her cheek, the other loosely curled around a string from the blanket. Her dark lashes rested against round, soft cheeks, and her little lips parted slightly as she breathed.
So small.
So warm.
So good.
His chest ached.
This world, this city, Blackmire—it would eat her alive one day.
It would strip her bare, take everything good in her and twist it into something desperate, something sharp, something unrecognizable.
One day, she would wake up to the truth.
To what it meant to be poor.
To what it meant to survive.
And no matter how much Lior hated it, no matter how much he wished she could stay like this—untouched, whole—he knew it was coming.
Because this was their life.
Because wanting something different meant nothing.
A slow breath left him, his eyes dragging away from Tally, towards the figure lying a few feet away.
Cass.
His older brother. His protector. His nightmare. His anchor.
The boy who had given himself away, piece by piece, for them.
Cass lay on his back, one arm slung over his stomach, the other bent behind his head. His coat—thin and frayed at the edges—was draped loosely over his body, the only thing between him and the freezing floor. His face was turned slightly towards the wall, half-hidden in shadow, but Lior didn't need to see his expression to know what he looked like.
Cass always looked the same when he slept.
Tired.
Worn down.
Like a blade sharpened so many times it had become brittle.
Lior's throat felt tight.
He had never truly seen it before—not like he did now.
Cass had never asked for this. He had never wanted to be the bastard their family needed. But he had done it anyway.
Because someone had to.
Because their father was breaking himself just to put scraps of food on their table.
Because their mother, no matter how much love she held in her quiet hands, could not scream or beg or fight for them.
Because Tally—
Because Tally deserved better.
So Cass had made himself into something ugly. Into something necessary.
But how lonely must that have been?
To carry everything.
To bleed in silence.
To drown in the filth of this city just so the rest of them wouldn't have to.
Lior squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face into the blanket.
And now he—
He was going to do the same, wasn't he?
He thought of Raquin's offer.
Of his smirk, of the way his words had slithered into his bones, thick with promise.
"Meet me at nine tomorrow."
"I'll introduce you to the most wanted man in three wards and seven cities."
His stomach twisted.
Cass would hate this.
Would hate him for even considering it.
And maybe—maybe Cass was right.
Maybe Lior shouldn't follow his footsteps.
Maybe Cass had already damned himself enough for the both of them.
But then why—
Why did Lior still feel so helpless?
Why did he look at his brother and feel like screaming?
Why did he feel angry—not at Cass, not at Raquin, but at this entire rotted city?
At the way it forced them into these choices?
At the way it took from them before they even had the chance to fight back?
Lior's fingers clenched the fabric of the blanket.
His heart pounded.
He didn't want Cass's life.
He didn't want his life.
But what choice did he have?
The money he stole today would barely last.
And his brother—his fucking brother—was sleeping on the cold, hard ground without so much as a damn blanket.
It wasn't right.
It wasn't fair.
And Lior—Lior couldn't take it anymore.
If Cass could sell his soul for this family, then why couldn't he?
Why shouldn't he?
His breath came fast, sharp, his body trembling with something he couldn't name.
Then—
A tiny movement.
A soft shift in the darkness.
Lior opened his eyes—
And found Tally staring at him.
Her big, dark eyes, wide and curious, locked onto his own.
And then—before he could say anything—
She lifted her tiny hand and booped his nose.
Lior froze.
Tally giggled softly, her lips curling into a sleepy, toothy smile.
His heart clenched so hard it hurt.
She didn't know.
She didn't understand.
She had no idea how broken their world was. No idea that outside these walls, the city would swallow her whole.
But right now—
Right now, she was happy.
Right now, she was safe.
And Lior—
Lior would do anything to keep it that way.
***
The cold clung to him like a second skin.
Lior stepped out before the first light of dawn touched Blackmire's crooked streets, before the market stirred with the morning's desperation. The world was still hushed, a heavy silence weighing down the slums, broken only by the occasional cough, the sound of shifting bodies in alleyways, and the distant creak of rusted pipes carrying filth beneath the city's skin.
He left before Cass could wake. Before Tally's sleepy warmth could tether him to the house.
Because if he stayed, he'd keep thinking.
Thinking about his brother's hollow eyes, his father's silence, his mother's worn hands.
Thinking about Raquin's words.
"I'll introduce you to the most wanted man in three wards and seven cities."
He couldn't think about that now.
He just needed a distraction.
Something to fill his hands. To keep his mind from sinking too deep.
So he did what he knew best.
He stole.
The market was already a breathing thing, stretching itself awake, merchants setting up their stalls, voices thick with morning gruffness as they prepared for another day of battle. Some were still groggy, slow with sleep, easy to slip by. Others were sharp, already scanning the crowd for trouble, but Lior had learned to weave through them like smoke.
He started small. A few loose coins from the pockets of a man arguing over the price of fish. A roll of bread snatched off a cart when the seller turned to spit on the ground. A copper ring left unattended on the edge of a stall, too cheap to be worth guarding.
It wasn't much. But it added up.
He had a stash hidden back home, tucked beneath the loose floorboard by his sleeping space. He had been careful not to touch it yet, watching it grow little by little. If he could just steal enough, he wouldn't have to go to Raquin. He wouldn't have to step into something bigger, something worse.
He could just—fix things. On his own terms.
But then—
Then he saw her.
A woman.
Wealthy.
It was obvious in the way she moved, in the slow, careless glide of her steps through the market. Like she had nowhere to be. Like she didn't belong here, among the dirt and filth, but had chosen to walk through it anyway.
Her dress was fine—muted colors, but the fabric draped too smoothly, stitched too neatly to be anything but expensive. A necklace of dull gold sat at her collar, its chain thin, delicate. Her belt was adorned with a pouch—heavy. It barely swayed with her steps.
Lior's breath slowed.
A big haul.
An easy haul.
His fingers twitched.
He slipped into step beside her, his body moving like instinct, blending into the crowd.
Act like you belong.
Act like you're supposed to be here.
His shoulder brushed hers lightly as they walked. Close enough to be casual, close enough that a bystander would see nothing more than a child following his mother.
His hand ghosted over the pouch.
And then—
He hesitated.
His fingers brushed the fabric. Felt the weight beneath it.
But they didn't close around it.
They didn't take.
Because that's when he saw her eyes.
Hollow.
Like two dead stars, burned out long before he had even noticed them.
Her face was smooth, untouched by dirt, untouched by struggle—yet her eyes held the same emptiness he had seen in the worst of them.
She wasn't protecting her things.
She wasn't worried about being stolen from.
Because she didn't care.
She wasn't there.
Not really.
Lior's throat went dry.
The market pulsed around them, voices rising, the scent of fried fish and sour ale thick in the air.
And yet—
He felt cold.
The pouch was right there.
He could take it.
He should take it.
But his fingers stayed frozen in place.