Chapter Four

The sun had long disappeared behind the jagged cliffs that walled the city of Muba like a wound cut into the earth. In the twilight, lanterns flickered to life, casting thin, trembling halos across crooked streets and shattered cobbles. Smoke curled from chimney tops, mingling with the stink of sweat, ale, piss, and burning flesh. This was no place for gods. No place for laws.

Muba, the trade city of Khalaasar. Though Khalaasar was small compared to the kingdoms that towered on maps, its heart beat loudest here—in this maze of hunger and desire.

Every alley whispered with danger. The cries of beggars echoed between leaning buildings patched with rusted metal and cloth. Children with hollow eyes darted between carts, nimble hands snatching bread, rings, or coin. Prostitute dens spilled out laughter that was always too loud, too strained. From time to time, a scream would pierce the night. No one turned.

They called it the city that could provide anything. A man once bought the tongue of a warlock here. Another, the still-beating heart of a white lion from the burning east. There were vendors who sold poisons that could make a man forget his name, and others who sold weapons cursed by ancient priests. Souls were traded like coin. Blood was currency. And if you had enough of it, you could even purchase a visit from the army of Anubis—not soldiers, but merciless killers clad in jackal masks, said to speak only once: when delivering judgment.

In the open square, torchlight danced across a market of horrors. Skinned lizards twitched on iron spits. Severed hands dangled from butcher stalls, some still twitching with sorcery. A masked woman whispered to a customer beside a caged beast, its eyes burning like coals. A boy with blue-stained lips begged to sell his sister's tears—literal tears, caught in a vial and sealed with wax, used by nobles to flavor wine or cast spells of heartbreak.

At the edge of the market, beneath the red glow of an obsidian lantern, a man in a blood-colored cloak sat behind a stall draped in gold-threaded black. A sign above read: "What is forbidden is most valuable." No one ever saw him blink.

A gust of wind swept through the square, rattling bones hung from doorframes. Somewhere far off, a bell rang once—low and hollow.

Three boys, no older than ten summers, slipped through the crowd like shadows dressed in skin. They were bare-footed, wiry things, their faces sun-darkened and sharp with hunger. Their tunics were frayed and patched, and each bore the kind of eyes only the street could carve—always watching, always calculating.

"Keep left, Tam," whispered the tallest, a boy with one ear bitten off in a fight with a butcher's dog. He was the leader—called Nari. "Jem, stay close."

The trio had their sights set on a stall draped in silks and dried fruits. The merchant, fat and balding, sat chewing something sticky, his fingers glistening with honey. An apricot the size of a closed fist sat gleaming in the torchlight—ripe, golden, glistening like a jewel.

Nari made a flick with his fingers. Tam veered right, bumping into a passing soldier with exaggerated clumsiness. The soldier snarled and shoved him, and in that beat, Jem—smallest of the three, fast as a rat—slipped beneath the edge of the stall and snatched the apricot like it had always belonged to him.

But the merchant's fat face turned. He caught the blur of motion and rose, knocking over a tray of candied figs. "Thieves! Thieves in the dark!" he bellowed, his face red and flaking with sunburn. "By the jackal's balls—stop them!"

He made to leap the stall, but Nari had already whistled.

The three boys darted into the market's pulsing veins—under tables, over baskets, weaving between mule hooves and wagon wheels. Someone shouted. A guard lifted his spear, but Nari was already gone.

"Left!" Tam hissed.

They rounded the alley's bend and vanished into the labyrinth of Muba's undercity.

Behind them, curses echoed. The merchant howled and spat, swearing he'd pay the Anubis Men a silver half-moon to have the boys flayed. But by then, the rooftops had caught them. The boys climbed the rough stone like they'd been born to it, scraping knees, blood smearing on sandstone. Up onto the low slanting roofs they clambered—roofs made from cracked slate and patches of stitched canvas.

They moved with fluid ease, bounding over chimneys and broken beams. Below them, the trade city churned—glowing fires, the grind of wheels, the soft weeping of songs from brothels and temples of old gods. Muba never slept, but for these three, the rooftops were home. Safer than the ground, warmer than the sewers.

Tam bit into the apricot and passed it around. Juice dribbled down their chins. They ate in silence, feet swinging over the edge of the building, watching the city cough and breathe beneath a haze of smoke and dust.

"We'll eat again tomorrow," Nari murmured, licking the pit clean.

"And the next day," said Jem, grinning with a missing tooth.

"But not forever," Tam added quietly.

Nari's jaw tensed. He looked out at the black towers of the inner district, where nobles drank from golden horns and owned slaves they never saw. He looked at the soldiers marching down the high roads and the red banners of the blood-trade guild fluttering above the gates.

"Not forever," he agreed.

Below, a cart rattled by, drawn by two gaunt oxen. On it were cages—small ones, full of children with eyes like theirs. A slaver's cart. None of the passersby gave it a second glance.

The boys fell silent, their laughter swallowed by the night.

Of the three boys, the tall one was different.

He bore the same nimble feet and quick fingers, but his face was clean—too clean for a street child. His skin, though marked with scrapes and bruises from scuffles and climbs, retained a glow untouched by the choking filth of Muba's alleyways. His features were sharp, golden-skinned, and his black curls fell in lazy waves across his brow. No bastard of Muba had a face like that.

But he wasn't above stealing.

Not above running through piss-slick alleys or scaling rooftops with bloodied palms and a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

When dusk fell fully and the city's lanterns painted the cobbled streets in orange and smoke, he parted ways with Tam and Jem. He walked alone, slipping through breaks in the stone wall that marked the end of Muba's madness. Beyond the final gate—where the streets thinned and wild grass crept up broken fenceposts—was the small stone house near the forest border. One of the last homes before farmland gave way to royal hunting fields.

It was there his great-aunt lived.

He tried to slip in through the rear door like a shadow. He almost made it.

"I see those muddy feet!" came her voice, sharp as a hawk's cry.

He winced.

Before he could drop the bag slung across his back, she was already grabbing his ear.

"You stink of the city," she snapped, dragging him by the lobe. "Like sweat and lies and whatever filthy pit you rolled in."

He yelped but smiled. "That's just the charm of Muba, Auntie."

"Charm?" she growled, still dragging. "I'll show you charm. You'll charm the dirt out of this tub with your own skin."

She shoved him into the small bathing room at the back of the house. It smelled of mint and warm soap. A copper tub steamed with boiled water.

"Sit," she ordered.

He grumbled but obeyed.

She scrubbed his back with a coarse sponge, grinding it against a healing scrape from the morning's chase. He hissed but said nothing.

"Still nothing?" she asked, scrubbing harder. "I should flay the sass off you."

"You'll have to try harder than that, old woman," he said with a grin.

That earned him a splash of hot water and a smacked head.

After the bath, she let him dress—clean linen, soft tunic, belt tied around a waist no longer grimy with dust and sweat. When he emerged, the hearth glowed with firelight. A clay bowl steamed with lamb stew, rich with garlic and herbs. Beside it, a plate of coconut buns, golden and sweet-smelling.

His stomach growled audibly.

"Eat," she said, seating herself with a sigh.

He did. Quiet at first—mouth full of stew, savoring the meat that melted like butter. Then he reached for the buns.

And with one swift motion, while she was fetching a pitcher of water, he snuck three into a cloth pouch hidden beneath the table.

"Don't think I didn't see that," she said, returning with a pointed glare.

He blinked, feigning innocence.

She didn't press. Just sat, sipping tea.

"They'll hang children like you one day," she said after a while. "Even if the king banned the trade. The streets don't forget. You slip once and you're gone. That merchant from the blood guild still has men in the lower quarters. I heard what happened today."

He shifted. "It was just an apricot."

"A prince's apricot, for what it cost," she muttered.

He didn't argue. He never did when she spoke like that.

"Home. One hour after sunset. Promise me."

He looked at her—lines carved into her face by decades of war, death, and raising a child that wasn't hers. Her hands, strong and calloused, trembled just slightly.

"I promise."

She nodded. Then her expression softened.

"Manu is coming back. He'll be here before the next moon."

His eyes lit up. "From Thebes?"

"Yes. He wrote ahead. Says he's bringing back treats."

He grinned, excitement bubbling in his chest. "He always brings the sticky ones I like."

"And what do you do with them?"

"I eat two. I give one to Tam. Half to Jem."

Her mouth twitched upward. "You're a better boy than you let on."

He only shrugged, stuffing the last of his visible bun into his mouth.

Outside, the wind whistled through the trees. The fire cracked softly in the hearth. And in the dark beyond the farmland, the first of the royal banners stirred—news from the capital would arrive soon.