Outside, the crowd had thickened. Frostpoint's market lanes were always busiest around noon, especially in a city where heat was rare and a warm crowd could mean survival. Even in this cursed cold, the crush of boots on 53rd and Millner's gave the illusion of warmth.
Veyn slipped back into the flow of foot traffic, chewing the last crumb of cake off his fingers. He tugged the stolen loaf from under his shirt, slid it beneath the one he paid for, and casually pulled the muffin from his coat pocket and took a bite.
Around him, life buzzed with that peculiar Frostpoint flavor. Urgent, gray and half starved.
Across the street, a thin vendor was shouting into the frozen air. Children weaved through adults like hungry rats, barehanded and red faced. A woman in a patchy fur coat shouted over a cart full of pickled eggs and burnt onions.
On the other side of the street, a mounted patrol of the Frostpoint Watch clattered by, their horses hooves muffled under wraps of cloth. One of them barked at a merchant with his cart too far in the lane, smacking a club against the wood in warning.
A few blocks down, Veyn, now a few wallets heavier, ducked behind a snow covered retaining wall. He crouched low in a shadow, snow crusting around his boots, and inspected his haul.
The first wallet was stitched leather. He flipped it open. "Edmund Hargrave," it read in elegant gold lettering, like the man thought he was royalty.
Veyn's eyes flicked up, retracing the moment. Hargrave had been carrying a small leather book in his right hand.
'Huh. He's probably subscribed to the library over on Blythe Street. That's where he got that book... or maybe he just owns it. Or borrowed it. Or stole it. Or, hell, maybe he made it himself?' Veyn blinked, then scoffed. 'Made it himself? What am I thinking? He's definitely a library guy.'
With a shrug, he plucked out the coins, about twelve in total, and flung the now half empty wallet across the cobblestone lane. It arced through the freezing air and landed with a soft thwap against the head of a passerby. The man stumbled, blinked, rubbed the back of his head, and looked around confused. Veyn stifled a laugh behind his sleeve.
'They'll never know who did it. God, people are blind.'
Still grinning, he slipped into a narrow alleyway off Brindle Street, a place where the sun didn't reach, and neither did most of the snow. The shadows here were deep and unmoving. The stone walls leaned too close together. The temperature dropped instantly.
'No matter how many times I walk in here, this place always gives me the creeps.'
The wind tunneled sharply through the alley. Making the whole space feel haunted.
Halfway down, Veyn reached a metal door. He shoved it open. The wind caught it with a howl and slammed it behind him.
He took the stairs two at a time, each step echoing, until he reached a door marked simply with the number 5, scratched in uneven strokes like someone had carved it with a nail. From his pocket, he drew a small brass key, and twisted it in the lock.
Inside was... nothing. Well, nothing of value. A thin blanket laid on the cracked floor tiles. A crooked oil lamp sat next to some books and atop a sideways fruit crate that was half full of food. The concrete walls were cold, and his breath fogged the air the second he stepped in.
'Damn it. Out of matches again.'
He dropped the bread beside the crate and flopped down, not to sleep, just to stop. Stillness in Frostpoint was a luxury, and this basement hole beneath the city was his one place.
'How long have I been here now? Seven years? Eight? Doesn't matter. It's home. Kinda. I mean, not a nice home. Not even top five. Probably bottom five. But still.'
His mind had just begun to relax when BANG. BANG. The door rattled under a heavy knock.
Veyn shot upright, heart hammering against his ribs. He scrambled to the door and cracked it just enough to peek through.
Standing there was a tall, broad shouldered figure, wrapped in a coat that didn't hide the muscle underneath. A familiar frown and familiar boots. The landlord's son.
The man stepped in without waiting for an invite. His heavy boots clacked against the tile.
"Well?" he said, voice like iron. "Do you have it this week?"
Veyn leaned against the cold wall. "Just who do you think I am?"
From his coat, he pulled out the wad of coins from earlier and tossed it to the man with flippant grace. The man caught it and began counting, fingers quick and practiced.
"Veyn, you don't even work. How do you always come up with the money?"
Straightening, Veyn gave him a sharp grin.
"Job? Who needs a job? Let me tell you, I'm the luckiest guy in Karethar. Every week I just happen to stumble across a perfectly sized pile of money lying in the snow. Like magic."
The man didn't even blink. Just stared.
"You know I don't believe that."
Veyn shrugged. "Well, as long as I don't bring my trouble here, we're all good, right?"
A silent pause. Then a nod. The man turned, pocketed the coins, and left without another word.
Silence returned. He lay on the tile floor a while after the landlord left. The cold had soaked through his coat.
"Magic." He let out a breath. "Wish I had that. Would've made things easier."
Veyn stared at the door for a few moments, then down at his now empty pocket. Another week survived. That should've felt like a win.
He sighed, turning toward the crate and eyeing the lamp.
"No matches, and no magic either."