The wind came early to the quarter that morning - not to cleanse it, but to stir the dust. It crept through crooked alleys and narrow gaps between half-fallen walls, lifting the smells of stale piss, old firewood, and cabbage boiled beyond recognition. Overhead, the rooftops leaned too close together, their slates patchworked with rusted iron and warped planks. From a distance, the outskirts of the city might have looked like the broken husk of some long-forgotten beast, half-buried in its own bones. No bells rang here to welcome the sun. No morning chants from the temple.

  Only the scuffling of bare feet, the coughs of those who’d slept without blankets, and the scratch of worn boots against stone.

  A beggar sat beneath a crumbling statue of a soldier, his face hidden beneath a hood stiff with grease. Across from him, a woman with two children sat on a worn mat, their eyes hollow with sleep. The elder boy tried to entertain the younger by flicking pebbles, though neither of them laughed. Nearby, a one-legged man balanced on an overturned crate, shouting nonsense into the street with a voice that cracked and slurred. The passersby barely looked at him.

  Aeonar made his way down the lane, the morning sun barely brushing the tops of buildings. He stepped carefully, avoiding puddles left by the night. In his arms, wrapped in thin linen, he carried a bundle of bread, still warm from the oven. The cloth had darkened where the crust met it, and the scent of wheat and ash clung faintly to his sleeves.

  He’d earned it just after dawn - hauling sacks, scrubbing stone floors, sweeping up ash. The baker’s wife hadn’t thanked him, but she hadn’t scowled either. That was enough.

  He saw it in the corner of his eye - the way the children glanced over and then looked away. The flicker of longing, quickly buried. The mother with her arms wrapped around them both, as if that alone could shield them from the ache in their bellies.

  He hadn’t planned to stop. He hadn’t planned to give anything away.

  But the decision bloomed in him without thought - like a flower sprouting through a crack in stone.

  He crossed the street and crouched beside the mat. One loaf - the smallest - came free in his hands. He tore it in half and offered it to the boys - one piece each. Their mother watched him carefully, and for a moment, he thought she might refuse.

  Then she gave a single, tired nod.

  Aeonar placed the pieces in the boys’ laps and stood again.

  He turned to go - and that was when he heard it.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the little Light-brat again.”

  Aeonar stopped. He turned slowly.

  Two guards stepped out from a side alley - Garron and Creel. Their armor was dented and mismatched, the golden crests of the Light on their chests dulled with filth and neglect. Garron, the broader of the two, had a face like raw meat and the voice of a man who fed on cruelty. Creel was thinner and twitchy, constantly chewing something black that stained his teeth, his eyes shifting as if looking for an excuse to strike something.

  “That bread smells fresh,” Creel said, squinting. “Didn’t know the baker started handing out gifts to rats.”

  Aeonar said nothing.

  “Or maybe,” Garron added, stepping forward, “your family’s suddenly rich enough to feed the streets. Is that it, boy? Did you all strike gold in the gutters?”

  “I had more than I needed,” Aeonar said.

  “More than you needed,” Creel echoed, sniffing. “That’s funny. I didn’t think gutter folk ever had enough. Unless it isn’t yours at all.”

  Garron tilted his head. “You sure you didn’t just take it, boy? Be honest now.”

  Aeonar met his gaze. “I earned it.”

  Creel gave a snort. “Right. And next you’ll say you earned the Light too.”

  Garron grunted. “Makes me sick every time I see you using the Gift on that filth.”

  “You’re not noble. You’re filth,” Creel spat. “Only those with noble blood receive the Gift. So how does a little shit like you have it?”

  “Unless,” Garron said slowly, his smile sharpening, “your whore mother’s been meddling in things she shouldn’t. Demonic powers, maybe. She always had the look of a cursed little witch.”

  Aeonar’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away.

  “She hasn’t,” he said. “She wouldn’t.”

  “No?” Garron sneered. “Then you’re just a mistake the world hasn’t corrected yet.”

  He stepped forward - and this time, he didn’t just shove. He knocked Aeonar sideways into a wide, shallow puddle. Mud splashed across his coat and arms, soaking into the knees of his trousers.

  Laughter echoed between the stone walls.

  But Aeonar’s arms remained tight around the bread. Not a single piece had touched the ground.

  “Look at him,” Creel chuckled. “Holding on to that bread like it’s the most precious thing in the world.”

  Garron grinned. “It is. He doesn’t have anything else.”

  Aeonar said nothing. He stood slowly, his legs streaked with grime, his face unreadable.

  “You think glowing over sick dogs makes you holy?”

  “You think feeding rats makes you righteous?” Creel added.

  Garron leaned in close. His voice dropped.

  “I know what kind of scum you are, boy,” he muttered. “I just haven’t caught you in your act yet. But if I ever do, mark my words…” A pause. A smirk. “…you’d become food for the crows. But before that—I’d have a little fun with you. I’ve always liked curly hair.”

  Aeonar didn’t respond. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t run.

  The guards noticed the silence that had fallen over the street. Dozens of eyes now watched them - from behind half-closed shutters, doorways, carts. No one spoke. No one moved.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “What are you all staring at?” Garron barked. “Anyone here want to stand up for Lord Rat?”

  No one answered.

  “Didn’t think so,” he muttered. “Cowards. The lot of you.”

  With a final shove to Creel’s shoulder, the two turned and walked away, laughing and spitting as they disappeared down the alley.

  Aeonar remained still for a long moment. Then, without a word, he turned and walked on.

  The warmth of the bread still pressed against his chest, but it no longer felt like comfort.

  His stomach gave a soft growl, almost shy. He ignored it.

  A dog limped out from behind a broken cart, its ribs sharp beneath mangy fur, one eye clouded and blind. It looked at him - not expectantly, just present.

  Aeonar tore off a sliver from one loaf and laid it gently on the stone.

  The dog sniffed it, then curled beside it - as if being near the gift was enough.

  He moved on, his steps slow and quiet. The street sloped upward toward the newer parts of the quarter, where the houses leaned less and the doors hadn’t yet collapsed from their hinges. The city breathed differently here - still poor, but less crumbling. Less forgotten.

  Up ahead, a voice rang out - deep, melodic, and rehearsed. Aeonar turned a corner and found a small crowd gathered at the base of an old storehouse. A man stood upon its steps, dressed in flowing ivory robes embroidered with gold thread. His arms were outstretched, his voice soaring like it had been waiting all morning to be heard.

  Dozens had gathered. Some stood with hands clasped tight. Others knelt in the dust. Children clung to their mothers' legs. An old woman leaned on a cane made from a snapped broomstick, her eyes glossy with tears. Every gaze was fixed on the man above them.

  The preacher’s words rang out like proclamations carved into heaven.

  “Do not despair in the face of famine,” the preacher called, his arms stretched wide. “Do not curse when your roofs collapse and your children cry out in the night. For this world is a crucible - and only the righteous emerge refined. I see your wounds. The Light sees them too. And it forgets none who suffer with faith.

  Open your souls to the Light, and rejoice in its embrace!

  Seek refuge in its wisdom, and let its radiance wash your grief away!

  Seek - and you shall find!

  For this world is but a veil, a shadow before the dawn. Your hunger, your loss, your sorrow - they are fleeting things. The Light’s love is stronger than the horrors of this world, for it is not of it! It shines eternally over those who embrace it.

  The righteous will not go unrewarded. No matter if you are poor or rich, noble or nameless - the Light’s judgment comes for all. And when the Day arrives, the wicked shall burn, and the righteous shall rise like stars above them. They shall feast at golden tables and drink from crystal springs. Their pain shall vanish. Their burdens shall fall away. Their names shall be carved in light.

  But beware! Do not let doubt take root in your hearts. Do not stray from the path. The Light loves the meek and honors the humble - but it watches always. And it does not smile upon rebellion.

  Fear the Light, and obey your king - for the king is the chosen hand of God! Lay your sins bare before the Light! Speak them! Cast them down and ask for forgiveness!

  Ask - and you shall be given!

  But delay not! The Day of Judgment draws near. The fire has already been lit. And only the faithful shall pass through unburned.”

  A woman sobbed into her shawl. A man fell to his knees. A boy whispered the final line under his breath, lips trembling.

  Aeonar watched them.

  He said nothing. He did not cry. He did not bow. The words were beautiful - grand and golden, like the ones in stories meant to save lives. But something inside him - quiet and unsure - felt cold beneath them. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know enough about gods, or kings, or the Day of Judgment. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t name what felt wrong. But he knew what silence looked like when no one stood up for you.

  He knew what the crest of the Light looked like on a guard’s chest.

  He knew what it felt like to be called filth, and shoved into mud, and then to hear that the meek would inherit paradise - if only they obeyed long enough to starve.

  The preacher’s voice soared again, but Aeonar was already turning away. He walked down the lane, bread still held close, the weight of the sermon clinging to his back like incense - warm, perfumed, and too smooth to cling to muddy hands.

  He passed a closed bakery, the shutters still down. A boy his age sat cross-legged on the steps outside, drawing patterns in the dirt with a twig. Aeonar kept walking. The road sloped upward, leading him away from the city’s broken edge. The houses here were still poor - crooked, patched, and worn - but they stood straighter, their shutters clinging to hinges, their doors intact. Not forgotten, at least. Not yet.

  His own home was a narrow two-floor building, slouched slightly to the left. The garden had been dry for years, but someone had tried to sweep the front step. The door creaked when he opened it, but it was a familiar sound - and a kind one. Warm air brushed his face. Not heat - just the kind of warmth that comes from bodies close together, and a fire that never burns quite high enough.

  His mother was at the table, a thin scarf tied around her dark hair, her sleeves rolled to the elbows as she sorted dried beans into a wooden bowl. She didn’t look up right away. Aeonar caught the faintest curve of a tired smile when she did.

  “You’re back,” she said softly.

  He nodded and held out the bundle.

  His youngest brother, barely more than a toddler, was sitting on the floor, trying to stack broken pieces of brick into a tower. The other boy - a little older, but still smaller than Aeonar - peeked around the corner from the stairwell, eyes wide at the sight of the bread. Aeonar handed one loaf to his mother, one to each of his brothers. He didn’t hesitate. There was no ceremony to it. No mention of what was missing.

  His mother looked at him again - at his face, his clothes, his empty hands. “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked gently.

  Aeonar shook his head. “Not really.”

  She held his gaze for a moment longer. But she didn’t press. He sat down on the edge of the hearth, watching as his brothers tore off pieces of bread with eager hands, crumbs falling to the floor between their toes. The moment passed gently. No questions. No praise. Just bread, and silence, and the quiet rhythm of chewing.

  Aeonar stayed there for a while, sitting by the hearth, his back warmed faintly by the low-burning fire. His brothers had already begun whispering to each other between bites, giggling over something meaningless. His mother watched them with that tired softness in her eyes - the kind of look that said she had more worries than hours in the day. No one noticed when he stood up again. He slipped outside, careful not to let the door creak.

  The sun had climbed higher, but the alley behind their home still lay in shadow - a narrow strip of dirt and stone, cluttered with firewood, broken pots, and the skeleton of a garden long since given up. The air was quiet here. Still. Just the hum of flies near the fence, and the rustle of leaves that never seemed green. He crouched beside the old fig tree, where weeds had choked out the last of the roots. There was no real reason to come here - it was just a habit. A place to be still. To think without having to.

  That was when he saw it.

  A small shape quivered beneath a half-crushed basket. He reached out and lifted the slats gently - and found a squirrel, no larger than his hand. One leg was bent the wrong way, its breathing sharp and fast. It didn’t move as he reached for it. It was too afraid. Or too hurt.

  Aeonar cupped it softly, holding it like a drop of water. His hands began to glow. Not brightly. Not like the stories. Just a faint warmth - soft gold, like sunlight seen through skin. He didn’t speak. He didn’t know how this worked. He just… did it.

  The squirrel blinked, its eyes wide and still. Then it twitched. Moved its leg. Scrambled upright. And before he could stop it, it darted from his hands and disappeared between two stone slabs, gone like a breath.

  Aeonar stared at the spot where it vanished.

  He thought about the way people treated him and what they called him. “Spawn of darkness.” “Cursed little rat.” “I bet your whore mother meddled with things she shouldn’t have.” He swallowed, his throat dry. His hands were still warm.

  He looked down at them. They were small. Dirty. A scratch ran across his knuckles. But the light had been real. And the squirrel had been hurt. And now it wasn’t. “How can this power be a curse?”

  “How can a spawn of darkness use the Light to heal?”

  He didn’t understand much. He didn’t know why the Light chose who it did, or why people hated him for it. He just knew that this - this - had felt right. And maybe… maybe the Gift wasn’t the problem. Maybe the problem was the world itself. Twisted. Rotten. Cruel to the weak. Kind to liars.

  He looked up. The sky was pale and wide above the rooftops. He didn’t say anything aloud. But the thought was there, quiet and steady - like a stone placed in the center of his chest.

  “I’ll fix it. Even if no one else will. Even if it costs me everything.”