Ezrak Alsen had long ago discovered something peculiar about the way people moved in crowded streets.
Most people looked forward.
Some looked down.
Very few looked sideways.
That was where opportunity lived.
---
The lower districts of Halvaris did not wake gently. They lurched into motion.
Coal smoke drifted low between buildings that leaned toward one another like conspirators sharing a secret. The cobblestones were uneven and perpetually damp, not from rain but from runoff — kitchen water, dye residue from textile workshops, diluted refuse that crawled lazily toward iron grates clogged with straw.
Clotheslines zigzagged overhead, casting faint striped shadows across the street. Somewhere, metal clanged in rhythmic repetition. Somewhere else, someone coughed — deep, persistent, resigned.
Ezrak walked through it all without drawing attention.
His boots were worn at the heel. His coat had been mended so many times the stitches formed their own accidental pattern. He kept his shoulders slightly hunched — not from submission, but from habit. Tall boys looked threatening. Lean boys were forgettable.
He preferred forgettable.
His golden eyes were half-lidded as he passed vendors arguing over stale bread prices. They weren't a bright, radiant gold — not like polished metal. They were warmer, darker, almost amber in certain light. Some people found them striking.
Others found them unsettling.
Ezrak had stopped wondering which was worse.
He did not think of them as special.
They were simply his.
And if anything, they had brought him more trouble than good.
---
He spotted a man before choosing him as target.
Heavy build. Thick belt. Gloves too new for this district. Two men trailing half a step behind — not guards, but loyal enough.
Ezrak didn't rush. He matched the flow of bodies. A group emerged from a side alley. A cart rolled forward. Someone stumbled.
He shifted slightly left.
Shoulder brushed leather.
His hand slipped in cleanly.
It was almost elegant, how naturally the purse came free.
He had good hands.
Long fingers. Quick reflexes.
He counted one heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
He stepped away smoothly—
And the world tightened.
A grip seized the back of his coat with surgical precision.
He did not flinch outwardly.
Inside, however, something sank.
Ah.
So that's how today would go.
The man's fingers tightened just enough to bruise without breaking skin.
Ezrak turned his head slightly. Their eyes met.
The man smiled without warmth.
"Going somewhere?"
Ezrak could have lied.
He could have pleaded.
Instead, he said nothing.
Because sometimes silence unsettled people more than desperation.
Unfortunately, not this one.
---
The hallway they dragged him into smelled of damp brick and old oil. Light barely reached the far end. The city's noise became muted, as though swallowed by thick walls.
They were professionals.
They didn't shout.
They didn't posture.
The first blow landed in his stomach.
Ezrak folded immediately — not theatrically, but efficiently. Protect the ribs. Protect the head. Let the back absorb what it could.
He had learned that screaming changed nothing.
The second strike hit lower.
Air left him in a sharp exhale.
He tasted iron.
The purse hit the ground, coins scattering with a sound that felt louder than it was.
One of the men chuckled.
"Thought you were clever."
Ezrak did not answer.
Because he was clever.
Just not fortunate.
The distinction mattered.
He tried to track the blows — not to resist, but to anticipate. When you knew where pain was coming from, you could brace for it.
At some point, he wondered briefly whether today might be worse than usual.
But the beating ended before anything truly catastrophic happened.
They left him against the wall.
Bootsteps receded.
Silence returned.
Ezrak stayed still for a full minute before attempting to move.
Always wait.
Make sure nothing inside is broken beyond repair.
He inhaled shallowly.
Pain flared along his side — likely cracked ribs.
He could manage that.
He pushed himself up slowly, one hand against the brick.
The world tilted.
He steadied it.
"Well," he muttered softly to no one, "that's one way to avoid spending the coins."
---
Sunrise House sat at the border where the city pretended compassion lived.
It had once been a storage building for dried goods. Now its walls were patched with mismatched brick, and the roof sagged slightly in the middle like a tired back.
A faded sign hung above the door.
The paint had chipped so much that "Sunrise" looked more like "Sun ise."
Ezrak paused before entering.
He adjusted his coat, wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the sleeve, and tried to stand straighter than he felt.
The door creaked open.
Warm air met him.
Not luxurious warmth.
Human warmth.
Children crowded around a long table. Some were arguing over who had taken more stew. Others were carving wooden shapes with dull knives. A few of the younger ones were simply watching the older children with quiet admiration.
Someone noticed him.
"Ez!"
It was Mira, nine years old, missing one front tooth and perpetually curious.
She ran toward him, then slowed when she saw his posture.
"You're walking funny again."
"I tripped over my own genius," he replied weakly.
She giggled.
That was enough.
The room relaxed.
He was good at that — making things lighter.
Not because he felt light.
But because heaviness spread quickly in places like this.
---
Director Maelin didn't gasp when she saw him.
She closed her eyes for half a second.
Then she motioned him to sit.
Her office was separated from the main hall by a curtain that had once been blue. It was now a color that might generously be called "washed memory."
She cleaned his wounds with practiced hands.
"You'll run out of luck eventually," she murmured.
Ezrak almost laughed.
"If I find where it's hiding, I'll let you know."
She tied a bandage firmly around his ribs.
"You're fifteen, Ezrak."
"I'm aware."
"You don't have to carry everything alone."
He didn't respond.
Because he didn't carry everything.
He just carried himself.
And that had to be enough.
She hesitated, then said quietly, "I found you work. A restaurant. The owner is… stable. He won't throw you out over nothing."
Ezrak's expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
He had tried before.
A courier job — dismissed after a package went missing during a storm. He hadn't touched it.
Factory assistant — machinery malfunctioned on his third day.
Dock worker — a crate slipped, broke, and somehow he was blamed.
None of it dramatic.
Just consistent.
Missteps that followed him like a shadow.
He did not blame fate.
He did not blame curses.
He simply assumed this was how the world functioned around him.
"I'll go," he said finally.
Because she was looking at him like she wanted to believe something could change.
Ezrak went to his room, if this dilapidated place could be called that, lay down on his bed which began to creak when he sat on it and stared at the ceiling for several seconds.
He fell asleep; his ribs were still aching, but he was used to it.
---
The next morning, the slums felt sharper.
Daylight made poverty more honest.
Ezrak wore his best clothes, trying to look as presentable as possible for his first day. He skipped breakfast and set off directly after saying goodbye to the children.
A Veylkin man stood near a wall, his semi-translucent skin faintly shimmering as he bartered for scrap metal. Two Thryss laborers hauled bricks with quiet endurance, their breathing steady despite the load.
A woman argued with a butcher over bone quality.
Children ran barefoot, weaving through adults like fish through reeds.
Ezrak walked carefully.
He avoided puddles.
He counted steps unconsciously.
When things go wrong often enough, you start calculating margins.
The restaurant stood at the edge of transition — where the streets widened just enough for carriages to pass without scraping brick.
"The Silver Kettle."
Clean windows.
Polished handle.
Ezrak inhaled once before entering.
Inside, the air smelled of broth, baked bread, and something sweet.
The owner stood behind the counter.
Tall.
Broad.
Comfortable in his own frame.
He looked at Ezrak the way some men looked at sunsets — calm, measuring, but not unkind.
"You must be Ezrak."
His voice was steady.
Ezrak nodded.
Beside him stood a woman whose snow-white hair fell in a smooth cascade down her back. Her blue eyes were sharp, intelligent, appraising.
"I'm Lyris," she said.
"Darius," the man added.
Ezrak bowed slightly.
"I learn quickly."
"We'll see," Lyris replied without softness.
The day passed in careful movements.
He memorized table numbers.
Carried plates without spilling.
Listened to orders twice.
When a young woman laughed at something he said absentmindedly, Lyris appeared behind him like a winter draft.
"You're here to work," she said coolly.
"I was explaining the menu."
"With charm?"
Ezrak blinked.
Darius coughed discreetly.
"Lyris," he began.
"Don't," she warned.
Ezrak decided silence was safer.
---
It happened just as evening light turned amber.
A subtle vibration ran through the floor.
At first, Ezrak thought it was imagination.
Then a pattern of light began forming beneath his boots.
Lines.
Symbols.
Interlocking arcs.
Customers gasped.
Chairs scraped.
Ezrak looked down at the circle encasing his feet.
He did not know much about Awakening beyond rumors.
Trials.
Parallel dimensions.
Death for those who failed.
He was an orphan.
He had no family to explain these things in detail.
Only stories traded in whispers among slum children.
Darius reached him quickly.
"Look at me," the man said firmly.
Ezrak obeyed.
"Breathe evenly. Trials are structured scenarios. They reflect your mental state. The people inside behave as if real but they are not.Tell yourself that because you might have to kill some of them."
Ezrak swallowed.
"So what should I do?"
"You survive."Lyris said sharply.
The light intensified.
Ezrak felt the floor dissolve.
The restaurant vanished.
---
Heat struck first.
Not warmth.
Heat that pressed into skin.
He opened his eyes slowly.
Sand.
Endless sand.
The sky was pale and unforgiving.
He tried to move.
His limbs felt… wrong.
Smaller.
He looked down.
Thin arms.
Narrow wrists bound by rough rope.
A child's body.
He inhaled sharply — and the sound that came out was higher than his own voice.
Panic rose, but he forced it down.
Observe first.
Always observe.
Around him stood other children.
Gaunt.
Silent.
Ahead, men with cloth wrapped around their faces inspected them like livestock.
"Good condition."
"Strong legs."
"This one will be bought at a good price."
Ezrak felt something cold slide through his thoughts.
He was about to be sold.
As a slave.