Night did not arrive all at once.
It seeped into the city like damp into cloth, darkening edges first, then settling everywhere that light had grown too tired to defend. Lamps were lit in no hurry, their flames thin and wavering, more suggestion than promise. Smoke pressed low against the streets, trapped by the cold, carrying the familiar winter blend of old ash, damp refuse, and iron worked too long and too often.
He moved carefully.
Not cautiously. Carefully.
Care was not fear. It was repetition refined into habit.
Three years in the city had taught him where sound lingered, where it died, and where it echoed just enough to bring attention. He knew which stones shifted underfoot, which walls leached warmth, and which corners collected men who did not ask twice.
The tannery alley still smelled wrong.
That was good.
Even now, long after most work had ceased, the air here was thick with rot and chemicals, sharp enough to sting the back of his throat. The walls were slick, stained dark by years of runoff. Rats avoided it. People avoided it more.
He knelt and eased a loose brick free with practiced fingers.
The stone came away without complaint.
Inside the shallow hollow lay the cloth bundle. He did not open it immediately. He weighed it in his palm first, grounding himself in certainty. The city had not taken this yet.
Copper spilled out first.
They were worn thin, mismatched, some shaved at the edges until their markings were little more than ghosts. He lined them up against the stone, counting by feel as much as sight.
Twenty.
Two iron lay beneath them—dark, heavy, unmistakable even in poor light. Iron always announced itself. It rang differently, carried weight beyond its size.
He rolled one between his fingers.
Iron had taught him pain.
The first iron had cost him his face.
A year ago on the docks, a foreman had accused him of skimming from a crate job. The accusation had been wrong. That had not mattered. The first blow had shattered light before it brought pain, warmth flooding where his eye had been. He remembered the taste of blood, thick and coppery, filling his mouth.
By morning, both eyes had been swollen shut.
He had worked anyway.
Blind. Guided by kicks and curses, hands moving by memory until the job was done. The iron coin had been tossed at his feet when it ended.
He had picked it up.
The second iron had broken something deeper.
A scaffolding job near the upper quarter. A slip—not far, not fatal—but enough. A boot drove into his ribs with a sound he still heard sometimes, dry and hollow. Breathing had become optional for days afterward.
He had not complained.
Iron was iron.
The silver lay apart.
He did not place it with the others.
Silver felt wrong.
Too clean. Too smooth. Too quiet. It caught even the weakest light and gave it back pale and cold, like it belonged to a different system of value entirely.
That coin had nearly cost him his remaining arm.
A courier job. Night work. Sealed message. He had felt pursuit before he saw it—the way air changed, footsteps aligning too well with his own.
When they caught him, they did not threaten.
They twisted.
Slowly. Methodically. Pressure built until a detached thought surfaced: If this breaks, I am finished.
Something inside him had compressed then.
Not strength.
Refusal.
He had torn free with a sound that burned his throat raw. The bone had held. Barely. The silver had been thrown after him as they fled, more insult than payment.
He wrapped the coins again and pressed the brick back into place, scraping his knuckles until pain reminded him where he was.
Then he stood and moved.
The bakery was already closing.
Warmth leaked through the open door in heavy breaths, carrying the smell of yeast, smoke, and burned crust. It made his stomach tighten painfully. The baker stood inside, sleeves rolled, arms dusted white, sweeping flour into a tin.
The man glanced up as he approached.
"You again," the baker said, not unkindly.
The boy did not speak at first. He waited.
The baker snorted softly. "You're late."
"Work," the boy said.
"Always." The baker reached behind the counter and produced a loaf—not fresh, not good, but not moldy either. He tore it in half with his hands.
"Eat slow," the baker added, pushing it across. "You choke, I'm not dragging you outside."
The crust was hard. The inside tasted faintly sour. It was the best thing he'd eaten in two days.
"Thanks," the boy said.
The baker leaned against the counter, watching him chew. "Still standing near the forge?"
"Yes."
"Good." A pause. "Heat keeps men honest. Or at least visible."
The boy nodded.
The baker hesitated, then added, "Winter's getting worse. If you disappear, I'll assume you got smart."
The boy did not answer.
When he left, the warmth clung to him for several steps before the cold reclaimed its due.
The scrap stall sat where the street bent inward, half hidden by shadow and refuse. The man who ran it had one good eye and fingers permanently stained black. Metal scraps lay piled in crates—bent nails, cracked fittings, broken blades.
The stall owner looked up. "You walk like a cat," he said. "Makes me nervous."
"Sorry."
"Don't be." The man grinned, revealing a gap where teeth used to be. "Means you're still alive."
The boy held out a small bundle.
The man untied it, whistling softly. "That's a lot of scraps."
"I won't need them tonight."
"No?" The man weighed the bundle, then tossed it back half-full. "Take these. I don't want the rest."
"That's too much."
The man shrugged. "You're light. Scraps like weight. Keep your balance."
He slid a chunk of dried meat across the crate. "Chew it till it forgives you."
"Why?" the boy asked.
The man snorted. "Because you don't complain. And because when you fall, you fall quiet."
The boy accepted the food.
He returned to the forge boundary as the night deepened.
Heat rolled out in slow waves, carrying iron, oil, and coal dust. Hammer struck anvil in measured rhythm. The blacksmith worked without waste, body aligned, power drawn from stance more than arm.
The boy watched his feet.
Customers came and went. Poor ones loud, wealthy ones silent. The blacksmith did not change for either.
When the forge finally quieted, the boy remained.
Iron lingered in the air.
Winter was not finished.
And survival, by itself, was no longer enough.