He had expected death. Welcomed it, even.
The cold had seeped so deep into his bones he thought it would never leave. He remembered seeing an angel before the dark swallowed him—long hair like smoke, eyes like mercy. So waking now, wrapped in warmth beneath a blanket softer than anything he'd ever touched... it felt like a dream cruel enough to be real.
Somewhere nearby, iron struck iron. A sharp, rhythmic clanging—familiar, distant. A blacksmith's forge.
He'd only heard that sound once before: the day he stole stale bread from a smithy. His first theft. He'd been starving. Since then, he'd stolen more times than he could count. Maybe Lady Luck had finally decided he owed her.
He thought he'd wake in Hell. Or whatever pit the poor were sent to rot in.
But then—the smell.Soup.
His eyes snapped open.
No pain. No snow. No blood freezing on his skin.
He sat up fast, heart pounding. Stories from the slums raced through his mind—of children taken, butchered, chopped up and cooked.
He clenched his fists beneath the blanket.Maybe they drugged me. Maybe I'm the next ingredient.
The door creaked.
"Oh! You're awake," said a voice—dry, ancient, and faintly amused.
A tall, stooped man stood in the doorway.
"Vivi!" he called, glancing back. "The boy you brought in—he's up!"
Footsteps. Light, quick.
A girl burst into the room, no older than ten. Her hair was a strange shade of violet, tied back in a loose braid. She held a wooden bowl in both hands.
"What were you thinking?" she said, voice rising. "Sleeping in the snow like that? Are you trying to die?"
"Now, now, Vivi," the old man chuckled as he stepped inside. "Don't scold our guest. Judging by those bruises… he wasn't lying there by choice."
He turned to Arcose. "Were you?"
Arcose hesitated. "No, sir," he said quietly.
The girl marched forward and held out the bowl.
"Here. Eat this. It's hot."
Huh? First she scolds me, now she's bossing me around? Who the hell does she think she is?
Still, he didn't say it. Not with the old man watching.
Steam curled from the soup. Arcose stared at it, throat tightening.
He remembered Tarin. His voice. The way he'd scrape together scraps to make soup for their little gang. How they'd huddle around it, laughing at tasteless broth just to feel like people again.
Arcose blinked. His vision blurred. He swallowed hard.
"Why…" His voice came out hoarse. "Why are you helping me?"
The girl tilted her head, puzzled. "Because you needed help."
"You help everyone in the slums, then?" Arcose asked. His tone turned sharp, guarded. "Everyone here needs saving."
She frowned, thoughtful. "I don't go out much. But in the books, the hero always helps people. So I do too."
"You can read?" Arcose stared, stunned.
She nodded cheerfully. "A little. Grandfather teaches me. Sometimes he reads when it gets cold."
Arcose glanced at the old man, who gave him a warm, knowing smile.
"You can read," he repeated—more to himself than her.
Vivi laughed. A soft, bright sound that didn't belong in this frozen world."You're funny."
Heat crept up Arcose's neck. He looked away.
What the fuck? Did I just get shy because some happy-go-lucky kid called me funny?
"Who are you calling funny, little girl?" he snapped, more defensive than angry.
She giggled and spun toward the door. "Now eat," she said over her shoulder. "Soup gets cold fast."
Her braid swayed behind her as she vanished, leaving a warmth that lingered longer than the bowl in his hands.
The warmth was a lie. A fleeting illusion—like the kindness of strangers.But in that moment, it was all he had.And for the first time in years, Arcose wondered if it was worth clinging to.
...Huh? What the fuck is happening to me?Why am I monologuing like some depressed, bitchless protagonist?!