Chapter 1 Lioren’s POV

I had learned long ago that staying unnoticed was key to survival. In the outer parts of Kaldor, people like me weren't meant to stand out. We weren't meant to be remembered, and definitely not meant to be protected. Those who were remembered either owed something or had something taken from them. I could do neither. So, I kept my head down, my voice quiet, and my presence forgettable. It was the only way to live long enough to see another day in the kingdom.

Hunger was the only thing that never forgot me. It woke with me each morning, a dull, familiar ache deep in my stomach that refused to leave. Some days it was quiet, almost bearable. Other days, like today, it felt sharper, as if reminding me I had no right to rest.

I walked through the market carefully, sticking to the edges where the shadows hid me. The market was always busy, full of voices and movement. The smell of fresh bread and cooked meat hung in the air like a promise I couldn't have. I kept my eyes forward, but I saw everything. A careless merchant. An unattended basket. A distracted buyer. Opportunities didn't announce themselves; you had to notice them before they vanished.

I stopped near a fruit stall, pretending to look at the bruised pieces nobody wanted. The merchant was arguing with a woman about prices, his voice loud enough to distract from his goods. My hand moved without thinking, quick and practiced. I slipped a small apple into my sleeve and walked away. I didn't run. Running draws attention.

Instead, I walked steadily, blending back into the crowd as if I had never stopped. Only when I turned into a narrow alley did I let myself breathe properly. Leaning against the wall, I pulled out the apple and stared at it. It was small, a little soft on one side, but it was food. That was all that mattered.

“You’ll get caught one day.”

The voice came from a corner, quiet but sure. I looked over and saw an old man sitting against the wall. His clothes were worn, his eyes too sharp for someone who looked half-asleep. He had been there long enough to see everything, I realized too late.

“Not today,” I replied, taking a bite before he could say more.

He made a soft sound, a mix of amusement and disapproval. “That’s what they all say.”

I didn't answer. There was nothing to say that would matter. People like him liked to talk as if there were better choices, as if survival could be done with clean hands. I finished the apple in silence and threw the core aside. The market had given me what it could for the day. Staying longer would only bring trouble.

Work was an option, but not a reliable one. I had tried before—carrying things, running errands, cleaning stalls at the end of the day—but those chances were rare, and the pay was never enough. Hunger always returned, and when it did, it demanded faster solutions.

By the time the sun started to set, I had already decided not to go back with nothing. Storms were better. They scattered things, leaving behind carelessness that people were too busy to notice. It wasn't guaranteed, but it was worth the risk. So I made my way towards the edge of the forest, where the ground got softer and the air cooler.

The path was familiar, one I had walked countless times. My shelter was just beyond it, hidden enough to avoid notice but close enough for me to get back quickly if needed. It wasn't much—just broken wood and patched cloth—but it was mine in the only way anything could be mine. No one wanted it. That was reason enough to keep it.

The storm had passed not long before, leaving the ground wet and uneven. The smell of wet earth filled the air, and droplets fell from the trees occasionally, breaking the quiet with soft, irregular sounds. I moved carefully, scanning the ground. A fallen branch, a scattered bundle. Nothing of great value, but something was better than nothing.

I almost missed him. At first, I thought it was just debris in the mud, something the storm had moved. But then I saw the shape more clearly, the way it curved, too deliberate to be anything but human. I stopped. For a moment, I just stared.

He lay half in the mud, his body still, his clothes torn in places. Even damaged, the fabric looked fine, the kind I had only seen from far away. That alone made me step back. Men like him didn't belong here. Men like him brought trouble.

I turned away. It would have been easy to leave. I had done it before, walked past things I didn't want to understand, ignored problems that weren't mine. That was how you survived. But something made me look back. It wasn't guilt. I had let that go a long time ago.

It was the movement. Small. Barely noticeable. A shallow breath that lifted his chest just enough to show he wasn't dead. I breathed out slowly, my shoulders tightening as I looked at him again.

“This isn't my problem,” I muttered. The words sounded weak. Helping him would cost me time, energy, and whatever little I had. Leaving him would cost nothing. It shouldn't have been a hard choice. But it was.

I stepped closer before I could change my mind, crouching down for a better look. His face was pale under the dirt, his expression tight even in sleep. There was a wound on his side, dark with dried blood, and another near his shoulder that looked worse. He shouldn't have been alive. Yet, he was.

I let out a quiet breath, running a hand through my hair as I thought one last time. “Fine,” I muttered. “If you die, you die. That’s not on me.” It was a weak excuse, but it was enough to make me act.

Dragging him back was harder than I expected. He was heavier than he looked, his body resisting every shift. The ground didn’t help, uneven and slick, forcing me to adjust my grip many times. I stopped often, leaning forward to catch my breath, my arms aching. “This is a mistake,” I said quietly as I pulled him another step. “A very stupid mistake.” He didn't respond. Of course he didn't.

By the time I reached my shelter, I was tired, my patience gone. I pushed the door aside and dragged him inside, letting him drop onto the floor with less care than I should have. For a moment, I just stood there, looking down at him, wondering if I had the energy to do more. Then I sighed and moved.

I cleaned his wounds with the little water I had, working quickly but carefully to stop the bleeding. I tore a piece of cloth from an old shirt to wrap his side, tightening it just enough. “You better be worth this,” I muttered as I finished. He remained still, his breathing shallow but steady.

The room felt smaller with him in it. I noticed then, the way his presence filled the space even without moving. It was subtle, but it was there, something I couldn't quite name but couldn't ignore. I leaned against the wall, watching him longer than I needed to. “If you wake up and cause trouble,” I said quietly, “I’m throwing you right back outside.” It was an empty threat, and I knew it.

Time passed slowly. The light faded, the air grew colder as night fell. I kept my distance, staying near the corner, listening to his breathing as if it might change any moment. When it did, I noticed immediately. His fingers twitched first, drawing my attention. Then his breathing shifted, deeper now, more controlled. I straightened slightly, my body tensing without thinking.

His eyes opened not long after. And in that moment, I knew I had brought something dangerous into my life.