Auren once again found himself running down the cobbled pathways—this time, however, with eagerness in his step.
The rest of the evening off. That was good. He needed evenings. In truth, he needed all the time he could get.
It was sad, but home for Auren wasn't rest. It was simply a different kind of work.
One where he still didn't put in nearly as many hours as he needed to.
Turning a corner, he heard a loud, shrill scream pierce the toiling bustle of the city. He spun just in time to see a cutpurse fleeing the scene, and an old woman—definitely rich—clutching her heart as if she'd been shot.
She probably hadn't been.
Probably… After all, there was no way a cutpurse could afford a gun.
"HELP!" she cried to the passing crowd of men, each wielding their hard wooden canes.
Of course, none of them did anything. Some paused to consider it, though—eyeing not the criminal, but the attire of the woman who had been robbed.
Auren could practically read the glint in their eyes. Was it worth it? Was she rich enough? Was this a good opportunity to curry favor with the wife of someone powerful?
There was no morality in their thoughts—only pure, calculated greed.
He couldn't help but give a small chuckle. 'So many men in suits, and yet, not one gentleman.'
That included himself, of course—but at least he accepted what he was. He was a scoundrel like the rest of them. Only he didn't pretend otherwise.
Auren felt it before he saw it. The very air seemed to tremble—then a man shot forward, dust coat flapping in the wind as he soared toward the cutpurse. He had a revolver in hand, firing three times.
But the bullets didn't fly in a straight line. They curved, weaving through the crowd like vipers, striking the thief cleanly in both legs.
'A licensed mage!', Auren realized a second later, his breath catching in his throat.
'Blood and Iron. Blood and bloody Iron—a real mage!'
Mages were rare. Those gifted few who could wield an energy untouchable to most—mana.
A secret art kept mainly among the nobility as one of many tools of power over the rest of the world.
Of course, there were always rumors.
There always were with things like this. Some claimed mana wasn't exclusive to nobles—that it existed for all men.
Conspiracy theorists, the lot of them. Desperate old fools swearing they'd seen a commoner boy use magic, only for him to vanish the next day—as if he'd never existed at all.
Auren remembered the countless times he'd dreamed of being a mage—those foolish, hopeful twilight fantasies he used to conjure to help him sink into sleep.
The mage now floated slowly over to the cutpurse, who had finally collapsed, her escape brought to an end.
Only now did Auren get a proper look—and realize she wasn't a man at all, but a girl dressed in men's clothes.
An uncommon practice but a necessary one—because no matter what anyone claimed, a woman on the streets faced at least one more danger than any man did.
The mage hovered above her with disdain. He was a young man, perhaps in his twenties, wearing a tailored suit beneath a long brown dust coat.
His dark eyes looked down at the writhing girl with cold apathy as she clutched her bleeding legs.
Ignoring her screams, he stooped and picked up the purse, floating back to the old woman with a charming smile.
"Here you go, madam," he said, his voice perfectly polite and respectful as he offered the stolen bag.
The woman clutched her chest in awe. "Oh, you amazing man! I must give you something—some form of repayment!"
The man shook his head. "Oh, there's no need." But Auren didn't miss the expectant gleam in his eye. He waited there—just a little too long.
"Oh, I insist! My husband is a bank manager in the Central District. Please, come visit when you can—I promise a suitable reward will be waiting."
The mage bowed slightly, clearly pleased. "If you insist." Then, with an utterly unnecessary flourish, he sped back toward the girl.
The charm vanished.
Gone was the respectful politeness, the warm façade. Now there was only cold, hard disgust. He raised his revolver—and fired again.
The screams stopped.
No gasps of horror. No protests. Just silence. The crowd simply carried on with their day, as if nothing had happened.
Because in their eyes, nothing had.
There was no difference between a poor woman and a dead one. In fact, a dead one was easier. Easier to ignore. Easier to tuck away.
Soon, her body would be collected and burned. There'd be no record of her existence. No name. No funeral. No tears.
All for one purse.
One damned, sinking, measly purse. And yet, it was worth more than her life.
Clenching his fists, Auren resumed the walk home, his face dark. He would never get used to this—the cruelty hidden beneath the city's hypocritical veil of civility.
It wasn't right.
That girl… she was nothing more than a product of her circumstance. It was—
'No'. He shut down that thought. 'Focus on yourself first.'
Worrying about others was a luxury he couldn't afford. That—and keeping hair—were two things that, despite his wishes, were reserved for wealthier men.
Yet he couldn't help but feel the street was too silent, now that it was no longer filled with the desperate screams of a girl fighting to survive.
He made his way toward a dingy terrace house—small, in a part of Varentholme that everyone liked to pretend didn't exist.
He lived only with his mother. His job as a cleric barely covered their monthly essentials, let alone rent for even the smallest room.
Usually, it wouldn't have been enough at all—but Mother Harrisa, their landlady, was a soft-hearted woman.
Thankfully, she'd taken pity on his situation. She was perhaps the only other person Auren knew who might be more like copper than iron.
Not even his own mother—of course that's because it had been a long time since she'd been anything but insane.
He climbed the narrow spiral staircase to the top floor. It seemed harder each time, he could've sworn there was an extra step now that hadn't been there before.
At the far end was a dirt-white door, its paint peeling and stained with years of neglect. That was home.
He opened the door slowly. Sudden movements scared her, and he couldn't risk throwing her into a fit.
He peeked his head in, forcing a smile.
A woman lay at the far end of the room, curled atop a thick pile of blankets. She might've once been considered beautiful.
Her hair was like midnight, falling in soft waves—streaked only slightly with grey. Her skin, once rosy and smooth in his memories, had grown gaunt and tired with illness.
She turned her head slowly—and then smiled.
It was an innocent, beautiful smile. Like a child's.
But… too much like a child's.
Too wide. Too pure.
Her dark eyes were filled with that same childlike joy. Gone was the wit and sharpness they'd once held. The same wit that still lived in his dreams and memories—back when he'd been too young to notice the hardship she'd endured.
Until one day, it had broken her.
And then he'd learned all too well.
"Aury," she called, her voice soft and melodic.
Auren stepped inside, his smile still plastered on his face.
"Hey, Mom."