The fog never left the slums.
It clung to the ground like a stubborn ghost, seeping between rusted rooftops and cracked stone alleys, dampening everything it touched. Even the early morning sun failed to burn it away. The light filtered through in thin, sickly strands, turning the fog pale gray instead of white, like old ash that refused to settle.
Aiden Cross moved through it with practiced ease.
Bare feet slapped against cold stone as he ran, breath steady despite the weight of the burlap sack slung over his shoulder. Inside were loaves of hard bread, dried meat scraps, and a small vial of bitter tonic. Payment for today's work. Or rather—permission to keep living for another week.
He was fast. Not the kind of fast born from talent or training, but the kind hammered into the body by hunger and chasing opportunities before someone stronger took them first.
At seventeen, Aiden had already learned the slum's most important rule.
If you slow down, you disappear.
"Hey! Cross!"
Aiden skidded to a stop near a collapsed wall, turning just in time to see a group of children waving him over. They were lined up along the main alley—thin bodies wrapped in patched clothes, eyes darting nervously toward the iron cart stationed at the far end.
The Fate Broker had arrived.
Aiden wiped fog-moisture from his brow and jogged over. "You lot look like corpses waiting for burial," he said, flashing a crooked grin. "Smile a little. Makes it hurt less."
No one laughed.
That alone told him how bad it was.
The iron cart loomed like a moving gallows. Six armored men stood around it, boots planted wide, hands resting near batons and shock-chains. Their armor bore no noble crest, no knight insignia—only a small brass emblem shaped like a card split down the middle.
Fate Broker collectors.
Illegal. Everyone knew it. Everyone pretended they didn't.
At the cart's center stood a narrow table. On it lay a stack of thin crystal slips, each glowing faintly with runic light. Destiny previews. Incomplete, unstable, forbidden by every kingdom law.
Yet here they were. In the slums. Like meat on a butcher's block.
One by one, children stepped forward.
A collector would grab their wrist, press a crystal slip against their skin, and wait. The runes would flare, then fade, leaving behind a single symbol burned briefly into the air.
Knight. Porter. Seamstress. Soldier.
Sometimes, the symbol made the collectors nod. Those children were shoved to the left.
Sometimes, the collectors sneered. Those children were pushed to the right.
No one explained the difference.
No one needed to.
Aiden stood among the watchers, jaw clenched, fingers curling unconsciously. He'd seen this before. Too many times.
The left side meant auction. Adoption. Sale to workshops or private guards. Harsh lives—but lives nonetheless.
The right side meant disappearance.
A small girl stumbled as she stepped forward. Her hair was knotted, face smudged with soot. She couldn't have been more than ten.
The collector didn't bother to steady her.
The crystal slip flared.
The symbol lingered longer than usual this time.
A chain.
Below it, a single word burned into the foggy air.
Slave.
The alley went silent.
The girl didn't understand at first. She blinked, tilting her head, small fingers reaching up as if she could touch the glowing word.
"Mister…?" she asked, voice thin. "What does that mean?"
The collector's answer was a fist to her stomach.
She folded with a sharp gasp, collapsing to her knees. Before she could scream, two men grabbed her arms and dragged her toward the cart's rear.
"No—! I didn't do anything—! Please—!"
Her heels scraped uselessly against stone. Her cries echoed down the alley, bouncing off walls that had heard worse and learned to stay quiet.
No one moved.
Aiden took one step forward.
His body reacted before his mind could catch up. Muscles tensed. Teeth ground together hard enough to ache.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder.
"Don't."
It was an older boy beside him—thin, hollow-eyed, already marked by a faded Porter preview from last year. The boy's grip trembled.
"Don't," he whispered again. "You'll die."
Aiden's nails dug into his palms.
He watched the girl vanish behind the cart. The iron doors slammed shut.
Silence returned, heavier than before.
The collectors resumed their work.
Aiden forced himself to breathe.
This was the slums.
Cruelty wasn't an exception. It was the foundation.
By the time the line thinned, the fog had lifted just enough to reveal the rusted rooftops leaning toward one another like conspirators. The collectors packed away the remaining slips, murmuring to each other as they counted marks and destinations.
Aiden turned away.
He had work to finish.
The Fate Broker's men didn't care about tears or rage. They cared about deliveries.
He ran through side alleys, leaping over broken crates and collapsed beams, navigating paths etched into his memory. The slums were a maze to outsiders. To him, they were veins.
At a crooked door reinforced with scrap metal, he knocked twice, paused, then knocked once more.
The door creaked open.
A heavyset man with gold-threaded gloves and sharp eyes looked him up and down. "You're late."
"Fog slowed me," Aiden replied easily, dropping the sack at the man's feet. "Blame the sky."
The man snorted. "Always joking. One day that mouth will cost you."
Aiden shrugged. "Hasn't yet."
The man tossed him a small pouch. It jingled faintly.
Payment.
Aiden caught it mid-air. Didn't open it. He already knew the weight.
"Tell your master the north route is clear," Aiden said. "Collectors took the main alley today. No one else dares move."
The man paused, studying him. "You see everything, don't you?"
Aiden met his gaze, eyes calm, unreadable. "Hard not to, when you grow up invisible."
The door shut.
Aiden exhaled slowly.
He leaned against the wall, head tipping back, eyes closing for just a moment.
The girl's scream replayed in his head.
His jaw tightened.
That night, the slums buzzed with whispers.
Tomorrow was Awakening Day.
For most, it was a distant thing—a festival for nobles, a ceremony for cities with marble floors and banners. In the slums, it was a sentence handed down by something unseen.
At eighteen, everyone awakened their Destiny Card.
Everyone.
The card would float before them, etched with glowing script, declaring what they would be for the rest of their lives.
Knight. Mage. Healer.
Farmer. Miner.
Slave.
Cards didn't lie.
Cards didn't change.
Destiny was absolute.
Aiden sat on the edge of a broken rooftop, legs dangling over the alley below. He turned a small coin over his fingers, the metal worn smooth.
Tomorrow.
He'd joked about it for years.
"What do you think you'll get, Cross?" kids would ask.
"King," he'd answer with a grin. "Someone's gotta rule you idiots."
They'd laugh. It made the hunger easier to bear.
But alone, with the slum breathing around him, the thought pressed heavier.
He didn't dream of glory.
He dreamed of choice.
Footsteps crunched behind him.
"Thought I'd find you up here."
Aiden didn't turn. "You always do."
The older woman lowered herself beside him, joints creaking. She smelled of herbs and smoke. One of the few healers left in the slums—unlicensed, unregistered, tolerated only because even the collectors bled.
"Big day tomorrow," she said softly.
"Is it?" Aiden replied. "Feels like any other."
She studied his profile, the set of his shoulders. "You scared?"
He laughed.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't forced.
It was quiet, almost gentle.
"Terrified," he admitted. "But what's new?"
She reached into her cloak and pressed something into his hand—a thin charm carved from bone.
"For luck," she said. "Not that destiny listens. But sometimes… it helps to feel like it might."
Aiden closed his fingers around it.
"Thanks," he said.
They sat in silence as the fog crept back in.
When dawn came, bells rang from the city beyond the slums.
Awakening Day.
Aiden walked the main alley one last time before heading back. The iron cart was gone. Only faint scrape marks remained where the girl had been dragged.
He stopped.
Stared.
Then turned away.
As he passed the broken archway at the slum's edge, a familiar voice called out.
"Hey. Cross."
A collector leaned against a post, flipping a crystal slip between gloved fingers. He smirked as Aiden approached.
"You run errands, yeah?" the man said. "Got good legs. Sharp eyes."
Aiden didn't answer.
The collector's gaze flicked over him, assessing. Calculating.
Then he chuckled.
"You're turning eighteen tomorrow," he said casually. "Pray it's a useful card."
His smile widened.
"Useless destinies don't last long here."
Aiden met his eyes.
And smiled back.
The fog swallowed him as he walked away.