Frics stood frozen for a long moment, the heavy canvas sack clutched in his hand. The weight was grounding, a solid anchor in the sea of impossibility that had become his life. Across the factory floor, Zaneraya finished her grooming, gave a final, dismissive lick to her paw, and curled into a tight, white circle, seemingly asleep. The audience was over.
He gave a short, jerky nod to the sleeping form, a gesture of thanks she would likely never acknowledge. He turned and left, his steps much faster and more purposeful than when he had arrived. The journey to the factory had been filled with a nervous, hopeful energy. The journey from it was a study in pure paranoia.
Every loose piece of gravel that crunched under his boot sounded like a gunshot. Every gust of wind rattling a loose shutter sounded like footsteps behind him. The sack, once a symbol of hope, was now a beacon for every thief and thug in Oakhaven. He hunched his shoulders, trying to look smaller, nondescript, just another grimy kid heading home. But he could feel the value of his haul radiating from him like heat.
He couldn't go straight home. A haul like this, appearing out of nowhere? The questions would be immediate and unanswerable. He needed to convert it to something less conspicuous. He needed cash.
There was only one place for that. Frics adjusted the sack on his shoulder and turned down a narrow, soot-stained alley, heading for the territory of Silas, the district's scrap monger.
Silas's yard was a dragon's hoard of Oakhaven's decay—mountains of rusted pipes, piles of gnarled rebar, and bins overflowing with metal shavings. The man himself looked like he was assembled from the same parts. He was broad and thickset, with hands like iron skillets and a face that seemed permanently suspicious. He sat on a stool behind a heavy steel scale, chewing on an unlit cigar butt.
"Frics," Silas grunted as the boy approached, his eyes immediately locking onto the bulging sack. "You look like you're about to bust a gut. Find a dead rat?"
"Something better," Frics said, his voice steady despite the hammering in his chest. He hefted the sack onto the workbench next to the scale. The sound of the metal inside was muffled but heavy.
Silas raised a bushy eyebrow. He untied the sack and tipped the contents out. The three spools of gleaming copper wire and the two solid brass gears rolled out onto the grimy surface, looking as out of place as Zaneraya had in the factory.
Silence. Silas stopped chewing. He picked up one of the spools, turning it over in his huge hands, his thumb rubbing at the clean, uncorroded surface. He squinted at Frics.
"Zenith factory is picked clean to the bone," Silas said, his voice a low rumble. "And nothing that clean has come out of it in twenty years. Where'd you get this?"
Frics's prepared lie surfaced, tasting practiced and smooth. "Old sewer access tunnel down by the canal. The one that flooded out last winter. Part of it collapsed inward. Found a sealed maintenance junction. Guess it kept the water out."
It was a good lie. Plausible, dangerous enough to explain why no one else had found it, and it accounted for the pristine condition of the metal.
Silas stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, his shrewd eyes searching Frics's face for any sign of deceit. Frics met his gaze, his expression a careful blank, his heart pounding a silent, frantic rhythm against his ribs.
Finally, Silas grunted and tossed the spool onto the scale. "Dangerous place to be pokin' around. Could've been buried alive." He weighed the rest of the items, his face giving nothing away as he did the calculations in his head. He named a price. It was low, Frics knew that, a typical Silas opening offer.
A week ago, Frics would have taken it without a word. But today was different. Today, he wasn't just begging for scraps. He had an associate. An asset.
"It's clean brass, Silas. And the wire is top-grade, no corrosion," Frics said, his voice quiet but firm. "It's worth more."
He named a higher number. Not a greedy one, but a fair one. Silas looked surprised, a flicker of something—maybe respect—in his eyes. He chewed his cigar for another moment, then slammed a heavy leather pouch onto the counter. It was filled with coins.
"Done," Silas grunted. "Don't go gettin' yourself killed in those tunnels, kid. A lucky find like this usually only happens once."
Frics swept the coins into his own pockets, the weight of them a new kind of burden. "I'll be careful."
He walked out of the yard, the scrap dealer's warning echoing in his ears. A lucky find like this usually only happens once. Silas had no idea.
The walk home with his pockets bulging with coins was even more nerve-wracking. But he made it without incident, slipping through the front door of his small house just as his mother was putting their meager dinner on the table.
He endured the meal in silence, the weight of the coins a burning secret against his legs. He waited until Elara was in their shared room, humming to her dolls. He found his parents in the kitchen, his mother washing the two bowls they'd used, his father staring blankly at the wall.
"Mom. Dad," he said softly.
They both looked at him. He took a deep breath and began to pull the coins from his pockets, placing them in stacks on the worn wooden table. One stack, then two, then five. The pile grew, glinting in the dim light.
His mother stopped washing, her wet hands frozen over the sink. His father straightened up, his tired eyes widening. The only sound was the clinking of metal on wood. When Frics was done, a small fortune covered the table.
"Frics…" his mother whispered, her voice trembling. "Where…?"
He gave them the same lie he'd given Silas, about the collapsed sewer tunnel and the lucky find. The words felt even fouler in his own home, but the look on their faces made it bearable.
His mother sank into a chair, her hand covering her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. She reached out a trembling hand and touched one of the stacks, as if to confirm it was real. His father stood up and walked over, placing a hand on Frics's shoulder. His grip was surprisingly strong. He didn't say anything, but Frics saw a glimmer of light return to his weary eyes, a flicker of hope that had been extinguished long ago.
Later that night, Frics lay in his bed, listening to Elara's soft breathing from the other side of the room. He had kept a small portion of the money for himself, tucked away for Zaneraya's future needs. The rest was already in the ceramic jar on the mantelpiece, no longer hollow and empty.
He had done it. He had brought a miracle home. He had eased their burden, if only for a little while. A wave of pride and relief washed over him, so potent it almost made him dizzy.
But as he stared at the ceiling, another feeling crept in. A cold thread of unease. He had fed his family with a secret. He had bought his father's medicine with a lie. He was now bound to an ancient, magical creature he barely understood.
He had the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders, only to have the weight of a secret placed upon them instead. And as he drifted off to sleep, he wondered which one was heavier.