A bleak room. A dim mirror. A young man paced before it, his reflection half-lost in the dust-mottled glass. Average brown hair. Average brown eyes. If not for his half-pointed ears, he'd have vanished into the crowd of any city.
Thierry didn't have time to apply his makeup—he was still chewing his breakfast, a hard crust of rye. He tore it from his mouth and stuffed it into a cloth pouch.
"Do I really have to go?"
He asked the mirror. No answer. Just his own face staring back, blank and already tired.
He leaned over to the window. Outside, the sun's rays—ashen and sickly—drifted backwards, sucked toward the gaping hole that passed for a sky. A dying god eating its own light.
Thierry cursed under his breath and grabbed his coat.
The streets were waking up, but none of them welcomed him. He felt their eyes: the passing stares, half-pitying, half-suspicious. He kept his gaze low. If only they could see his face—twisted in quiet indignation.
You're late. Again. And it's your own damned fault.
He ducked into an alleyway to cut through. As the shadows thickened, the warmth of the false sun vanished. The further he walked, the further he drifted from its reach.
He paused.
A boy sat curled in rags, barely clothed, clutching a smaller bundle to his chest. A baby—skin stretched over bones, golden eyes wide and unblinking.
"Goddamn it…"
Thierry opened his bag and pulled out the half-eaten rye. He crouched and offered it.
The boy just glared.
"I'm not wasting my breath trying to convince you," Thierry muttered, placing the bread on the ground. "Take it or don't."
He turned away without waiting. It wasn't kindness. It just reminded him of something else. Something he didn't want to think about.
The circus loomed ahead. A misshapen tent of shadow and thread, squatting like a beast. Even from outside, Thierry could feel the many presences moving within—some human, some not.
He winced.
Should've left that brat to starve.
He approached the ringmaster's tent. Before he could knock, a gravelly voice sounded from within.
"Come in. No point loitering."
Thierry stepped inside.
Mr. Flounder stood before a cracked mirror, pulling leather gloves tight over scarred hands. The scar ran from his lip to brow—pale and jagged like lightning frozen in flesh.
"Mr. Flounder, I can explain—"
"No need." The old man didn't even turn. "You know how I got this scar?"
Thierry bit his tongue.
Flounder continued anyway. "I wasn't paying attention. Because of that, people died."
Here we go again.
Thierry nodded, wearing the expression of someone who cared. In truth, his thoughts were sharp and venomous.
Old bastard only has one chain. If I ever became Bound, I'd surpass him in weeks.
Flounder had long since lost his glory. His once-golden hair had faded to a dull white, and his gut strained against his coat. He still wore his past like armor—but it was rusted through.
"You're fired."
Thierry stopped nodding. "I'm sorry—what?"
"You heard me. We don't need you for Berken. Here's your severance."
The pouch landed in his hands. Seventy-three lutes. Ninety-nine lunts.
Barely enough for a night and a meal.
Thierry staggered out of the tent, numb. He stopped at the edge of the circus grounds and looked back at the twisting colors and shifting shadows.
He felt nothing.
Back inside, Mr. Flounder watched him go with a sigh of quiet relief.
It's better this way. At least you won't rot here.
***
"Another."
Thierry's voice slurred slightly as he thumped his mug against the tavern counter. His pale face was flushed red, eyes glassy. The tavern girl eyed him with concern.
"You're too young for this much, sir. Maybe take a break?"
He didn't answer. Just grumbled.
A group of figures sat at the long table behind him—armoured, armed, and clearly Bounded. Thierry didn't care. He waved for another drink.
"Hey, kid," one of them called. "Leave the poor girl alone. You're going to drown in that cup."
"Mind your business. Damn Bounded…"
The man stood, pulling off his gauntlet and helmet. His voice came soft, almost amused.
"Let's play a game."
Thierry raised an eyebrow.
"Arm wrestle. If you win, I pay for your drinks. If I win, you pay for mine—and my cohort's."
"I'd be an idiot. You're Bound."
The man chuckled. "But not with a physical chain. Ask them."
Thierry looked at the others. They didn't speak—just offered the same look: a strange mix of amusement and pity.
What's the worst that could happen? Thierry tried to steady himself. Maybe I can win.
"Fine."
They moved to a nearby table. Thierry gritted his teeth and locked arms with the man.
"Give up," the man said gently.
Thierry blinked. His muscles betrayed him. His arm dropped—not from strength, but as if it stopped listening to him altogether.
A win. Effortless.
"That'll be forty-two lutes," the man said, smirking. "Good boy."
Thierry fumbled through his pockets, face burning. The man laughed again.
"Relax. I'm joking. Name's Gallagher."
Then he grew serious.
"But remember this—never mouth off near a Chained. You never know how many links they carry."
The name struck Thierry like a slap. Chained. Two chains. He felt his stomach twist.
Gallagher handed him a slip of paper—old parchment with curling edges.
"You should come by," he said. "Rare to see someone uninitiated with a trained body."
Thierry stared at the flyer. Recruitment.
He said nothing as he climbed to his room, the parchment clutched tightly in one hand.
Can I really become a Bound?
He lay back on the creaky bed, the question curling into his mind like smoke. He closed his eyes.
The answer didn't come.
Only sleep.