The morning sun of Ram City crept through the cracked shutters of the inn room, spilling thin golden beams across the rough wooden floorboards. Dust motes floated lazily in the light, drifting in the stale scent of old ale soaked into the wood. It was no palace, but for Dusk and Dawn, the straw-stuffed mattress beneath their backs was still the softest bed they had known in weeks.
The innkeeper had demanded ten fins— half a thale— for a single night's stay. Dusk had hesitated before parting with the coins, his thumb brushing the small pouch at his belt as though it were his last tether to survival. But Dawn's small, expectant eyes had silenced the hesitation. He had handed over the money. A roof, even for one night, was worth the bleeding of his dwindling stash.
Now, as he sat cross-legged in the morning light, he carefully counted the coins again, his fingers moving slower each time.
Forty-seven fins left.
The number carved itself into his mind like a curse. Not nearly enough to rent a place of their own, not in Ram City where landlords wore greed like armor and measured worth in coin, not need. But still— Dusk clung to the promise that had carried him through the city's gates.
A job, if you have a home. A chance, if you can prove you belong.
The words of Knight Richard echoed like scripture. That promise, however fragile, was enough to keep Dusk's feet moving forward, even when everything else screamed hopelessness.
The day stretched long with rejection. Dusk wandered the bustling streets with Dawn's small hand clutching his, weaving through crowds of merchants who barked their wares with voices sharp as iron tools. The air was thick with the scent of roasted chestnuts, horse sweat, and the tang of forge smoke.
The polished upper districts shimmered in banners and noble crests, their windows trimmed with glass panes that caught the sun. Dusk knocked on door after door, his chest tightening each time it opened. Some slammed shut immediately, others lingered long enough for sneers to settle into his skin. Always the same words— too young, too poor, too suspicious.
By noon, their hunger carried them back to the cathedral square. The Radiant Church was a sanctuary of sorts— not just for the bread and stew handed freely from steaming cauldrons, but because the very stones seemed to hum with an unspoken warning. Even the most hardened cutthroats dared not raise a hand under the church's gaze.
Dusk had just taken their portions when a familiar figure peeled from the crowd. A man with a thick moustache and a smile that never reached his eyes— the same one who had stood near the bald thug the night before.
Dusk stiffened instantly, his free hand brushing against the knife in his pocket.
"Relax, kid," the man said, raising his hands in mock surrender. His voice was easy, practiced. "I'm not here to cause trouble. Not in a place like this."
Dusk's eyes narrowed, his grip on Dawn's hand tightening until she winced.
The man crouched a little, his gaze softening as he held out his own piece of bread. "Here, little miss. You look like you could use more than that small hunk."
Dawn blinked, caught between suspicion and hunger, then looked to Dusk. His jaw was locked tight, but after a pause, he gave the smallest nod. She accepted the bread with both hands, whispering a shy, "Thank you."
"See? No harm done," the man chuckled, straightening. "Name's Seid."
Dusk said nothing. He studied him the way a wolf studies a shadow.
"You're looking for a house, aren't you?" Seid asked after a pause, chewing a slow bite of bread. "I know one. Just fifty fins a month."
The number hit Dusk like a strike. Fifty? That's… possible. Almost too possible. His suspicion deepened. "Not in the slums."
Seid smirked. "Near the slums, but not inside. Big difference, kid."
"And why are you helping me?" Dusk's voice was blunt, edged with steel.
Seid's moustache twitched with his laugh. "Connections. I get a commission from the landlady if you take it. Doesn't cost you a thing. Think of it as me… investing in a future favor."
Dusk's gut twisted. It reeked of bait, but he had little choice. Still, he wasn't about to walk blind. He leaned to the food distributor before leaving, whispering something with a quick glance toward Seid.
Later, when he returned with another piece of bread and handed it over, Seid raised a brow. "What was that about?"
Dusk only shrugged. "Told him if we don't come back, you're the reason. And to tell Knight Richard."
Seid froze, then barked an awkward laugh. "Clever brat. Trust me a little, will you?"
But Dusk had lied. What he'd really said was: That good man gave us his food. Now he's hungry. Can I get an extra piece for him?
The three walked through winding streets until Seid stopped before a modest two-story building. Its outer walls were weathered but firm, the shutters whole, the roof patched neatly.
Dusk's breath caught despite himself. A small hall, a separate kitchen, even a bathroom—more than he had ever dared to picture. Dawn squeezed his hand with quiet awe, her wide eyes darting from window to door as though she had stumbled into a dream.
But Dusk's suspicion only sharpened. "Fifty fins a month… for this?"
Before Seid could reply, the landlady stepped out. Middle-aged, stern-eyed, her expression carried the impatience of one who wanted business, not conversation. "You're the boy Seid mentioned? Doesn't matter if you're children. If you can pay, I don't care who sleeps under my roof."
"You know I'm with the church, right?" Dusk said boldly, though the truth of Richard's promise still hung unproven.
The woman didn't even blink. "No problem."
Seid shifted, then leaned close. "Alright, fine. I'll tell you the truth."
Dusk kept his face carefully still.
"This place," Seid muttered, "belonged to a witch. She was burned at the stake yesterday. Though she left months ago, no one in Ram City will touch it. That's why it's cheap. The owner's desperate."
The words settled heavy, like ash. Dawn's grip tightened, her small voice whispering, "A witch…"
Now Dusk understood— the house wasn't untouched because of kindness, but fear.
The landlady's tone turned sharp, almost pleading. "Sign a six-month contract and I'll waive the first month's rent. No payment up front."
She wanted someone to erase the memory of the witch, to drag the house back into the realm of the ordinary. And children, she seemed to think, would be foolish enough not to care about lingering shadows.
Dusk hesitated, frowning as though in deep thought, though his choice was already made. Shelter was shelter. And if it meant one step closer to the church's offer, then whispers of superstition were a small price.
He met the woman's gaze and nodded. "We'll take it."
Dawn's face lit up instantly, relief smoothing her worry into joy. For the first time in weeks, they weren't wanderers. They had a roof.
That night, the house whispered with faint creaks as if testing its new tenants. Dusk lay awake, his arm curled protectively around Dawn. He was not afraid of witches— he was afraid of promises, of deadlines, of failure that loomed heavier than ghosts.
Dawn's breath was soft against his sleeve, her small hand still clutching him even in sleep.
He let the smallest smile touch his lips. In a low whisper meant only for her, he said, "We made it, little one. We finally have a roof."
Outside, the moon hung pale over Ram City, silvering the crooked streets that always carried secrets. And within the house once marked by fire and fear, two children dreamed— not of witches, but of hope.
For the first time in a long while, tomorrow did not feel impossible.