"Stop, thief!"
A part of me couldn't help but wonder—why do people always shout that? Has any thief in history ever actually obeyed such a cry? I suspect it's more for the benefit of bystanders than a genuine attempt to halt the criminal. Wouldn't "Stop that thief!" be more appropriate? Or even better, a description: "The girl with black hair and green eyes wearing a cloak just stole bread! Catch her!"
Of course, as the aforementioned girl, I had no intention of offering my pursuers any clues. At the very least, the outcry served as a timely reminder: it was time to stop pretending I was merely strolling and instead sprint toward the nearest alleyway. I had been eyeing this shop for quite some time now; the baker, Gregor, must have despised me with every fiber of his being. But come on—who leaves fresh-baked bread outside like that? What else was I supposed to do?
If I could afford it, I would gladly pay. Truly, I would. Being a street thief isn't some thrilling adventure—it's miserable. This so-called magnificent city, Skyreach, is anything but majestic or beautiful for someone like me—homeless, penniless, and utterly lacking in social skills or means. People like me survive only by sheer luck and the occasional mercy of others.
And Gregor certainly wasn't the merciful type. As I darted desperately through the crowd, he charged after me like a maddened bull, shoving people aside and bellowing in rage. Things were dire—I was weak, hungry, and powerless. He was going to catch me.
Thankfully, I had an ally.
"Hey! Vita! Over here!"
A friendly voice prompted an abrupt turn, and suddenly I was face-to-face with Linn—far superior to me in the art of thievery.
"Hand it over!" she commanded.
I tossed her the two loaves, and she waved them mockingly at Gregor.
"Just try to keep up, fatty!"
She took a large bite and dashed off in the opposite direction, giving me the chance to vanish. Panting, I slipped down a side path, biting into the loaf I had kept for myself. It wasn't particularly delicious, but it was warm and fresh, and I was starving.
I devoured it hungrily, yet I knew better than to finish it all at once. Even if I managed to escape—for now—we were all skin and bones in our little group, except for Linn and Rowan. I couldn't afford to be selfish.
Linn was a natural-born thief, learning faster than I could pick up stones—almost instinctively gifted. She was among the most wanted faces in the city. Yet, she wasn't truly a "bad" thief; she was the reason our ragtag group of beggars could eat at all. She stole, and Rowan made the money flow again.
"Here we go! Young lad, got a sharp eye!"
I wove through the winding alleys until I reached Rowan's stall. A con artist and gambler, he ran games of chance. Though his methods were dubious, he was careful never to stain his reputation too badly.
He was running a simple shell-and-ball game, occasionally spicing things up with sleight-of-hand flourishes—an uninspired routine, perhaps, but it paid the bills.
I approached from behind his stall and handed him my share of the bread.
"Breakfast for you, Rowan."
"Vita! Hey! Thanks, I appreciate it. Did you get these yourself?"
I nodded. For the past week, I had been assisting Linn, trying to prove my worth. She offered us some support, though limited—life itself was cruel enough. If I helped more, I received slightly more food. Half a loaf was already a full day's ration for me.
I was practically a walking skeleton, bones threatening to snap under their own weight. Without Linn, I wouldn't last long… truthfully, she'd probably be better off without me. She had talent. I? Nothing but an empty shell.
"Here, give these to the kids, Vita. Linn says you're getting better. Go distribute them."
I accepted the coins, emotions swirling in my eyes. They meant something—Rowan trusted me with them. I had saved bit by bit, living frugally for years, just to afford a thick cloak. My only source of warmth, and the only thing that shielded my face when tears became unbearable. I couldn't waste this opportunity on myself; helping the other children mattered more.
Of course, though the coins I gave them were few, some of those children were born with gifts far greater than mine. According to the teachings of the Mistwatchers, each person is born with a gift—a blessing the Church proclaims as divine, though in practice, these blessings are distributed with cruel inequality. Some are blessed with extraordinary talents, like Linn. Others can conjure flames from their palms without a moment of training!
But some receive nothing. Or, if they do, it's something so trivial, so insignificant, only the Mistwatchers might recognize its worth. I was one of those who had nothing. Perhaps among the children, there were future wonders waiting to unfold.
As I continued toward where the children slept, I suddenly heard a shout.
"So it's you again, you little thief!"
Gregor's voice sent ice coursing through my veins. I froze—how did he find me?!
Fat as a bear, he came charging from the other end of the alley, furious.
I was done for. Done for!
He ran faster than I did—even though he was heavy and I was weak from hunger and exhaustion. Worse still, this time I had no Linn to rescue me. What should I do? What could I do?
I knew every twist and turn of this city's streets—left, right, around the corner—but behind me echoed his curses and threats to hand me over to the guards. What was wrong with this guy?! I only wanted to eat—why chase me so fiercely?
Suddenly, ahead, I spotted a broken wooden crate beside a low window, slightly shorter than the surrounding walls. If I could climb onto that box and leap over the wall, I might shake him off. Surely he wouldn't be able to follow—his bulk alone would betray him!
I knew escape hinged on that one move. But could I make it?
Gritting my teeth, I pushed forward, gasping for breath, legs nearly numb. Just as I scrambled onto the crate, a dull thud rang out—I felt a rough, powerful hand clamp around my ankle. The force yanked me backward, slamming me to the ground, my head cracking against the wall. Dizzy, disoriented, stars dancing before my eyes.
"A whole week! A whole week, and you've been stealing from me every day! You think I'd let you get away with it forever?!"
Bloodied and dazed, another kick struck my chest, pain exploding through me. I tried to inhale, but my throat seized shut. No air. Not again! I was almost free—why did fate crush me so cruelly at the final moment?
"Do you really think I'd allow you to keep stealing? Let me tell you, the guards don't care about my shop! I've told them—the thief comes for me! But they refuse to believe me! But you—you know who she is, don't you? I chased her halfway across the city, faster than those useless guards ever could!"
Another kick. Wave upon wave of agony. So this was how it ended. Linn had warned me not to steal repeatedly from the same man—especially a hot-tempered merchant. I hadn't listened. Now regret was meaningless.
"You fool! Did you really think I'd let my shop be ruined by you? Do you know how many things my son broke today? You've destroyed my entire day's work!"
I barely had strength to lift my head. My body was hollow, lifeless. Clenching my fists, I wanted to scream, to curse my weakness—but I could only endure in silence.
"You're the idiot," I rasped bitterly. "Why didn't you hide the bread better? You left it right out in the open—that's why I could take it so easily!"
Even as the words escaped my lips, I knew I shouldn't have said them. His eyes bulged, veins throbbing on his forehead. Dammit, why was my mouth always so reckless...
He kicked me square in the face. I flew backward, rolling across the ground.
It was over. I knew I wouldn't escape this time. Was this truly how I would die? In a way, it wasn't surprising. I had nothing to leave behind. I couldn't remember ever striving for anything. Only now, at sixteen, had I begun to fight for survival—and even then, it was too late. Sixteen was no longer young. Maybe dying in an alley like this was fitting.
Yet, just as I surrendered entirely, I felt a new surge of pain. Another kick to the chest cracked ribs, hurling me against the wall. God, how strong was this man? Was it because his bread was too hard? Or perhaps he possessed some strange gift. Like me—gifted with nothing to be proud of. Why did he receive such power while I struggled even to live?
Anger boiled within me, fierce and raw, drowning out the pain. Instinctively, I wanted revenge. Pain be damned—I wanted him to suffer. I wouldn't wait for salvation anymore. I wanted him to pay for everything! It wouldn't change much, maybe he wouldn't even feel my resistance—but at least I could unleash my fury! I was tired of enduring.
My hands shot out, eyes closed, clawing at him in blind rage. I wanted him dead! Dead!
Something passed into my grasp. Though he kicked me again, sending me flying, I held fast. It came away silently from within him. He collapsed.
Bruised, bloodied, and broken, I lay alone on the cold pavement. One eye swollen shut, vision blurred—but Gregor... he seemed no longer to breathe. The battle was over, and in my clenched fist remained something unseen. Faintly shimmering at the edge of sight, fragile and ephemeral, as if it might vanish at any moment. A strange sense of fulfillment washed over me. Somehow, I knew…
It was Gregor's soul.