The Street Rat

The market was alive today—louder, busier, and more dangerous than usual. This meant it was perfect for stealing anything, but I had no choice.

I clutched my pained stomach, hunger gnawing at my ribs like a ravenous beast.

I kept my head low beneath my tattered cloak, slipping between crowds like smoke. The noble witches swanned about in silk gowns and velvet cloaks, their laughter like the chiming of bells while they traded trinkets and potions I could only dream of touching.

I tried not to let my gaze linger on the fresh breads stacked neatly on the vendor’s cart. My stomach growled anyway. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate something that hadn’t been tossed into the gutter first.

One loaf. That’s all I needed—just one.

The merchant was busy arguing with some woman over the price of enchanted thyme. His coin purse jingled as he waved his fat hands around, drawing all the attention to himself and away from his cart.

Now.

I slipped forward, fingers brushing against the warm loaf closest to me. Smooth. Quiet. Quick.

The bread disappeared beneath my cloak before anyone noticed.

At least, I thought no one noticed.

A rough hand clamped around my wrist like a vice, yanking me back so fast my hood slipped from my head. My heart slammed against my ribs as I twisted, trying to wrench free, but the merchant’s grip only tightened.

“Thief!” he bellowed, his face flushing crimson. “Guards! Guards!”

Panic surged through my chest as the crimson-cloaked witch guards pushed through the crowd. Their gold insignias gleamed in the sunlight like tiny, mocking stars glistening in the night.

No. Not again.

I tried one last time to twist away, kicking at the merchant’s shin, but the guards were faster. Two of them grabbed me, forcing me to my knees on the filthy cobblestones.

"Street rats like you never learn," one of them sneered, twisting my arm behind my back until my shoulder screamed.

"It was just bread," I spat, refusing to let him see how badly I was shaking. "Please, I’m starving.”

"You should’ve starved quietly, starved to death," he hissed, and the others laughed like it was some great joke.

The merchant stepped forward, voice dripping with self-righteous fury. "She stole under protective wards. I demand full punishment. She’s marked for conscription."

My blood ran cold.

Conscription.

Not prison.

Not even the dungeons.

The guard’s smirk widened like he was enjoying the taste of the words. "A fitting punishment."

“No—” I tried to speak, but one of them jerked my arm and forced my head down.

I’d heard the rumors whispered in back alleys and over dying fires—the Warborn Accord. Criminals of age sent to train for war. Witches and werewolves forced together to become weapons for the kingdom’s endless blood feud.

I wasn’t supposed to get caught up in it. I never wanted to be part of their war.

But none of that mattered now.

They dragged me through the streets like a captured animal. The bystanders whispered as I passed. Some of them recognized my face, or maybe just my name. Thornbrook. A once-powerful bloodline, now reduced to nothing but gutter filth.

Like a reminder, the war drums pounded somewhere far off: You belong to us now.

The doors of the High Council tower loomed ahead—tall, black, and glittering with runes that pulsed faintly against my skin as I was shoved inside.

The chamber was colder than the streets and even the stone beneath my knees. Seven council members sat high above, dressed in their blood-red ceremonial robes. But my eyes locked onto only one: High Priestess Morganna.

Her emerald eyes sliced through me like daggers. Cold. Sharp. Powerful.

"The accused stands before you, High Priestess," the guard announced behind me, but I barely heard him over the pounding in my ears.

Morganna spoke softly, but there was nothing gentle in her tone. "Your name?"

"Arielle Thornbrook," I forced out, lifting my chin even as my voice wavered.

Her lips curved upward slightly. “Thornbrook. Once of noble blood. Now nothing but street filth.”

I clenched my teeth. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me beg.

"You’ve been found guilty," she continued, like this was wasting her time. "But the Council has no use for more prisoners. Our kingdom requires soldiers."

I froze.

"By decree of the Warborn Accord, all criminals of age shall serve the realm at Warborn Academy. You will be trained for battle alongside your… counterparts."

The pause was deliberate. Heavy.

"Werewolves," she said at last.

The breath caught painfully in my throat.

Werewolves. The cursed beasts who murdered witches for sport. The creatures my people had fought for centuries, and now I was being thrown to them.

Morganna smiled like a cat toying with a cornered mouse. "You’ll serve the realm, street rat. Or you’ll die trying."

The guards yanked me to my feet, dragging me backward.

My mind spun as the heavy doors slammed shut behind me.

Conscription. Academy. Werewolves.

Then, I realized that somewhere beyond those walls was a transport vehicle, ready to take me away, to take me to a war I never chose, which was now waiting for… me.