The smell of the alley always hit hardest in the morning, rolling down from the dump in sour waves that clung to the cobblestones and seeped into the thin cloth of Jarek's jacket. The air off the river was sharp enough to sting his nose, but here in No Quarter, even winter air wasn't clean. He stood up and headed out, stepping over a loose stone slick with last night's rain.
The street moved at the slow, weary pace of people who knew nothing good waited ahead. A cart trundled past, one wheel bound in rope to keep it from falling apart, the man pushing it keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. Everyone here kept their eyes down. That was how you survived. Jarek did the same, though his gaze slid through the alleys, watching for movement. He was young enough to be mistaken for a boy, old enough to be treated as a man when someone needed a back to break or a body to bleed. Sixteen, maybe seventeen if you believed the midwife's guess. But in n No Quarter, age didn't matter, not in the face of hunger.
Hunger was what had him out before dawn, moving away from the alley before his sister woke. She'd been restless all night, curling deeper into the heap of patched blankets, her breaths shallow enough to make him listen for them in the dark. She used to fill the mornings with noise, with complaints, teasing, and plans for the day, but those days seemed like a mere fond relic of the past.
At the cracked water pump, Old Ma Kett sat on her stool, scarf wound twice around her neck. Her clouded eyes still found him. "You're out early," she rasped.
"Couldn't sleep."
"You've got that look in your eyes. Like you're thinking of doing something stupid."
He gave her a thin smile. "You'd be the first to tell me if I wasn't."
She chuckled a bit and tipped her chin toward the upper streets. "Be careful. Soldiers have been twitchy. Demon raids have them seeing enemies in every shadow."
"They always do," he muttered, but her warning settled in his chest as he kept walking.
The market was waking. Merchants laid out bruised vegetables, sacks of stale grain, strips of meat barely worth the name. Yet as he searched his pockets, Jarek realized that even the cheapest scraps were still beyond him. The smell of frying onions drifted through the cold air, and his stomach knotted, but not for him. Reluctantly, he turned back, following the narrow lane back towards the shack, telling himself he'd think of something.
Inside, Lila stirred as he knelt beside her. Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused.
"You're up," he said.
"You didn't bring anything?" she asked, her voice soft, followed by a series of deep coughs.
"Not yet," he admitted, forcing a smile. " But today's going to be better."
She tried to smile back, but it faltered. "I'm not hungry."
The words caught in his throat. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, feeling how cold her skin was. "Just rest," he murmured. "I'll get something."
He stepped outside again, letting the door close quietly. The fog was lifting, the Quarter's crooked streets coming into focus. That was when the sound of wagon wheels drew his eye.
It came slowly over the stones, escorted by four soldiers in black-and-silver armor, the royal crest painted on its side. Even before the wind shifted, he could guess what was inside. But when it did, the scent hit him hard. It was fresh bread, warm enough that the crust would still give under his fingers. Not the rock-hard loaves the charity house tossed once a week. This could make her eat.
They stopped at the garrison storehouse, a squat brick building with barred windows. Soldiers unloaded crates into the open doorway, each time leaving it propped wide with a wooden wedge. They lingered to talk to tea sellers. The man inside moved slowly.
Jarek's pulse climbed. He knew this kind of opening. A few seconds, maybe less, enough to slip in, take what no one was looking at, and vanish. He clenches his fist until he marked his skin. Despite Old Ma Kett's warning, he was too desperate to act smart. And worst case scenario, they'd just beat him half to death like they always would.
He moved when their backs turned. His fingers hooked under the slats of a crate, the weight dragging at his arms. He backed into the side street quietly, heart hammering, the smell of bread filling his lungs.
"Stop! Thief!"
The shout cracked the air and soldiers turned around, boots pounding after him. They were unexpectedly fast, but he ran harder, picturing Lila sitting up, smiling at the sight of real food. He needed to save his sister somehow. As the soldiers kept gaining ground, he quickly rounded the corner, and hid the bread under a crate and kept running, vowing to return to it later. The chase continued a little more, util a shadow lunged from ahead, slamming him into the wall where his lip started to bleed.
Hands twisted his arms back, cold steel biting into his wrists. The other soldiers arrived and started to beat him out of anger. Jarek didn't resist, as his bones creaked, as more blood spewed from his month, as his mind was set on one thing: returning to the crate.
When they finally stopped, he sagged against the wall, breathing through the pain. He was already thinking about how to get back to that crate.
But they didn't leave.
One soldier stepped forward and gripped a handful of his hair, dragging him across the street.
"Where are you taking me?" Panic licked at his voice despite himself.
"You embarrassed me in front of my commander," the man sneered. "No one steals from me and lives to tell the tale."
"It was for my sister, she's sick, she needs-"
The soldier laughed. "No one cares about some slum rat."
The world narrowed to the soldier's smirk, the tightening grip on his hair, and the faint smell of bread still clinging to his hands.