Kael slipped out of the factory through a collapsing side door, the hinges groaning like a dying beast. The dawn light was weak, swallowed by towering slag‑heaps and the twisted steel carcasses of half‑built machines. Beyond lay the slums—the Dregs—where every alley reeked of rot and desperation. He paused on the threshold, heart hammering in his chest. Even this early, scavengers would be stirring.
The air was thick with the tang of spoiled food and the sour stench of overripe garbage. Kael drew his threadbare coat tighter around his ribs, chest aching from hunger and the ever‑present pulse of the Shard in his side. His left arm throbbed with dull pain, black veins snaking under the skin like a warning. Just bread and water, he told himself. Nothing more.
He crept down a narrow corridor of lean‑tos and tar‑paper shacks, boots silent on soggy wooden planks. Rats darted into the shadows; a dog's distant howl begged for scraps. In a broken doorway, he spotted a discarded barrel, its rim crusted with mold and stale stew. He knelt, eyes flicking left and right, and plunged his hand into the grayish glop. The first spoonful was cold and gritty—mostly sludge and bones—but it warmed his belly enough to steady his shaking limbs.
A shout from the next alley made him freeze. Two older boys—scrap‑scavengers with cracked knuckles and hungry eyes—rounded the corner, eyeing the barrel. Kael's hand froze mid‑spoon. They'd spotted him. His stomach lurched. Not today.
He sprang up, clutching the barrel like a shield. "Back off!" he rasped, voice cracking.
The taller boy sneered. "That's our haul, runt. Hand it over."
Kael's heart thundered. He pressed himself against the barrel, spilling half the stew onto muddy planks. The younger boy lunged, and Kael swung a fist—weak, mis‑aimed—more out of terror than strength. His knuckle cracked against wood. Pain bloomed in his hand, but the older boy spat and backed away. "Trash," he spat. "Run back to your crate." Both disappeared into a maze of rust‑stained huts, laughing.
Breathing hard, Kael sank to one knee. The stew‑barrel lay half‑empty, his coat sticky with rancid broth. He licked his fingers—salt and rot—but it tasted like victory. He scooped a handful of meat scraps and stuffed them into his mouth, wincing as gristle caught between his teeth. Each bite felt like reclaiming a tiny piece of himself.
With a tentative sense of purpose, he rose and padded deeper into the Dregs. He ducked into a collapsed feed store—the faded sign still read "Hemlock's Quality Grains," though now the windows were caked with grime. Inside, overturned sacks of flour lay spilled across the floor. Kael scooped a handful into a torn cloth bag. The dust rose in soft ghosts around him. As he worked, his mind unspooled:
Tomorrow, I try shaping a single shard.Tonight… tonight I survive.
A clatter echoed outside, and his blood ran cold. Hound‑drones—Inquisition scouts—patrolled these alleys, their mechanical growls muffled by distance. Kael froze in the shadow of a support post, chest hammering so loud he feared they'd hear it. He dared not move until the sound faded, then risked a glance at the shattered street.
No drones in sight. He exhaled in shallow relief and pressed on, weaving through clotheslines hung with tattered rags and the occasional scrap of sunlight. At the base of an overturned cart, he found a single stale roll of bread—hard as brick but still edible. He cradled it, heart lifting just a fraction.
By midday, Kael was back at the factory door, bag of flour slung over one shoulder, pocket heavy with bread and stew scraps. He paused a moment outside, inhaling the quieter air of his refuge. The Dregs were hostile and unforgiving—hungry children, scavengers armed with blunt metal—but he'd faced them and come away with more than he'd left with.
Inside, the factory loomed even more oppressive. He brushed flour from his coat, wincing as a draft stirred dust motes around his skin. He settled at his makeshift crate‑bench, set bread and stew on the warped surface, and let himself eat without fear of interruption. Each bite grounded him, reminded him he was still flesh and bone, not just venom and jagged dreams.
His knuckles throbbed, and he flexed his left arm—black veins pulsing, but the ache was familiar now, a cruel companion. Kael swallowed a mouthful of stale bread. One step at a time, he thought, voice soft in the empty hall. First—survive the Dregs. Then—I learn to fight back.
As he finished the meager meal, he let exhaustion wash over him. Outside, the Dregs simmered with danger; inside, the factory waited with its own horrors. But Kael was alive, and for tonight, that was enough.
He lay back against cold metal, eyes tracing the cracked skylights overhead, and closed them. The voices of the factory quieted, the distant drip of water slowed to a lullaby, and for a fleeting moment, the world felt wide enough for a scared kid to dream again.