In Skyrom, people like me are called Rats. We eat whatever scraps we can scavenge and sleep wherever there's a flicker of warmth.
I'm worse off than most an orphan who never knew my parents and never cared to find them. I've been surviving on these streets since before I could talk, scraping by in a city that chews up hope and spits it out.
Here, carrying a weapon means a noose around your neck. The nobles have crushed any spark of rebellion, making survival even harder. I've managed to claw my way to seventeen, but now I'm staring down an existential crisis, wondering what the point of it all is.
"Hey, Rod, what're you doing out here looking all mopey? Come on, dinner's ready!"
That's Liyla. She's my age, seventeen, and we've been together since we were kids. She's a girl, but everything about her screams tough like she could outfight half the boys in our district. If you know, you know.
"So, what's for dinner?" I ask, trudging over.
"Potato soup!" she announces with mock grandeur.
"Oh, wow, I've been cleansed by this divine feast," I say, dripping with sarcasm.
"Shut it, you brats!" Kuka snaps. "You'll get us all killed with that noise!"
Kuka's the old blacksmith in District Three. We're not allowed to use weapons, but we can make them or rather, he can. Rats like Liyla and me are just helpers. You can't become a blacksmith without a proper background, and orphans like us don't have that luxury.
"The nobles dropped another order," Kuka grumbles, ladling soup into chipped bowls. "Fifty swords, due in a week. We'll be working our asses off."
"A week?" Liyla frowns. "That's barely enough time. Do they think we're slaves?"
Kuka's face darkens. "Skyrom's gearing up for war."
"War?" I lean forward. "With who?"
"Eldor," he says flatly.
My stomach twists. "Wait… then "
"You guessed it," Kuka cuts in. "I'm going back to my hometown."
"Dang it, not again!" Liyla interrupts, slamming her spoon down.
Kuka sighs. "It'll take one or two months for the war to settle, but…" He hesitates, his weathered face heavy with something unspoken. "I'm not coming back this time."
"What?" I blurt. "Why?"
"Rod, Liyla," he says, voice low, "I've been here ten years. I can't stay any longer."
Liyla's eyes glisten, but she holds back tears, glaring at him. "All the money we've earned came from your housework. Have you thought about how we'll survive without you?"
In Skyrom, losing your livelihood is a death sentence. Nobody pities adult Rats, and finding another job is next to impossible. People don't want us around.
Kuka rubs his temples. "I've got connections in the red-light district. Liyla, you could do housework there. Rod, you could… join the war."
"War?" I choke. "Are you insane? There's a 0.1 percent chance I'd survive that!"
"Rod, I know it's sudden," Kuka says, his voice softer now.
"Sudden doesn't cover it," I mutter.
"It's all I can do," he says. "I'd take you with me, but you know the law."
Skyrom's nobles have laws to choke their people. You can't leave the country unless you're an explorer, a merchant, or a commoner. Explorers decipher runes, but you need to be a commoner to even learn that skill. Merchants need approval from the Merchant Association. And to be a commoner, you have to pay taxes something Rats can't afford.
"I'm heading to District Two," Kuka says, standing from the table. "Come with me if you want." He walks out, shoulders slumped, as if blaming himself. Or maybe it's some kind of parental instinct kicking in at his age.
Liyla suddenly wraps her arms around me, squeezing tight. The tears she's been fighting back finally break free, streaming down her face like a silent waterfall. She hates crying, especially in front of anyone, and the quiet sobs she stifles only make it more heartbreaking.
"It's gonna be okay," I say, forcing a smile. "We'll make it through." But deep down, I know how bad things are about to get.
"You can't go to war," she whispers, her voice raw. "They'll kill you. They use people like us as meat shields." She's right. To the nobles, our lives are worth less than dirt. It's common sense for them to throw Rats like us into the jaws of death to save their own skins. I hate them with every fiber of my being.
"I'll be fine," I say, trying to sound confident. "I'll dodge death as much as I can. If I have to, I'll run. Don't worry."
She pulls back, wiping her face. "You're clumsy," she says, like it's an undeniable fact.
I chuckle despite myself. "Go get some sleep. I'm gonna take a walk."
This country, its people, its laws everything's rotten to the core. As much as I want to escape, I can't. Old man Kuka was right: war might be the only way out of this hellhole.
I wander the dark streets, the chill biting at my skin. Suddenly, a voice cuts through the silence, low and gravelly, like a middle-aged man's. "Hey."
I snatch a rock from the ground, heart pounding, scanning my surroundings. The street is cloaked in shadow, but my eyes are sharp from years of surviving these alleys. I see nothing no one. Just the voice.
"Who are you?" I call, tightening my grip on the rock, ready to hurl it at the slightest movement.
"Don't be scared. I won't bite," the voice says again, closer now, like it's whispering in my ear. But there's still no one in sight.
"Where are you?" My pulse races. "Are you a rune user?" Explorers can read rune language, and some can wield it, bending reality to make the impossible possible. I've never seen it myself, but I've heard the stories.
"I am known as a deity," the voice declares. A brilliant light erupts, illuminating the street. I look up, and my breath catches. A dull, broken sword hovers above me, floating in midair. My knees buckle, and I drop to the ground, staring in awe. Is this real? I rub my eyes, half-convinced I'm dreaming.
"It's not a dream, dumbass," the voice snaps, sharp and amused.