Night lay on his narrow bed, staring at the ceiling with a distant, hollow expression. His clothes were plain—well-worn cloth, patched and faded from time—but clean enough to pass as respectable.
After a moment, he rose and approached the cracked mirror leaning against the wall.
The reflection that greeted him was familiar: dark, unkempt hair, sharp eyes set in a starved face, cheeks slightly hollow. There was something arrogant in the way he looked at himself, a crooked confidence that didn't quite match his circumstances.
A smile tugged at his lips.
"Looking good, Night. Looking real good."
Today, he was heading out to train with Albert—his friend, and the head bodyguard of the manor. Night's gaze drifted around his room: scattered clothes, dust in the corners, an unmade bed.
I'll clean it later, he thought, his expression softening.
A few minutes later, he arrived at the marketplace.
The air smelled of bread, metal, and damp stone. Night slowed as he noticed a young boy standing at a stall, clutching a loaf of bread with both hands. The child ran toward his mother, grinning from ear to ear.
"Look, Mom! I bought bread all on my own!"
The woman smiled, pride clear on her face—until her eyes flicked toward Night. Her expression tightened.
"Son," she said quietly, pulling the boy closer, "stay away from that filth."
The boy frowned and glanced back at Night.
"But why, Mom? He doesn't look that bad…"
"He's dangerous," she said sharply, worry seeping into her tone. "That's enough."
Night turned away.
In the Kingdom of Storms, the poor were treated like trash. Garbage to be stepped over, ignored, or blamed.
Opportunity, they called this land.
And yet it rotted from the bottom up.
Night stopped at a familiar stall and smiled.
"What've you got today, John?"
The merchant—an old man with brown hair streaked with gray and thick glasses perched on his nose—straightened proudly.
"Bread, tomatoes," John said, then grinned. "Even swords, if you've got the coin."
John leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"You got enough zenos yet?"
Zenos were the currency of the kingdom. Three for a loaf of bread. Seventy for a sword.
Night shook his head lightly.
"Almost. I've got about sixty on me."
John sighed.
"Still working as a servant, huh?"
"Three zenos a month," Night replied calmly.
John grimaced. "So… bread?"
"Yeah."
Night pulled out three zenos, feeling the weight of the expense as he placed them on the counter. John handed him the loaf.
"Take care," John said.
"You too."
As Night walked away, he glanced back at the old merchant—not with pity born of kindness, but with the quiet certainty that John's business was failing. The stand looked worse every time he passed it.
Night broke into a run.
Lanterns lined the streets, their glow growing brighter as the buildings became taller, cleaner, richer. The closer he got to the capital district, the more distant his own life felt.