The alley was narrow and dark. Dirt road, winding deep in shadow. Shacks leaned close on both sides, built from old ship planks and dried seaweed.
The air hung thick. Fish guts, rot, and salt. Like bad seasoning. Above, torn fishing nets swayed in the weak breeze. Like giant cobwebs. Casting dappled shadows.
Karik's slight figure moved swiftly through the maze-like lanes. He clutched two rough barley loaves tight. Like they were the world's greatest treasure.
His eyes darted fast, nervous, like a scared fawn.
His right hand stayed on the knife under his tunic. His knuckles were white.
The knife was all his father left him. Now, his family's last defense.
"Hey! Karik! Where'd you scrounge that bread? Stole it, didn't you? Hand it over!" A coarse shout echoed from both ends of the alley. Three ragged thugs materialized from the shadows. Blocking his path.
In this forgotten corner of the slums, the weak preying on the weaker was just daily life. As natural as the tide.
Karik ignored the shout. He quickened his pace.
When two of the thugs moved to block him, his right hand twitched. A sliver of cold steel flashed in the gloomy alley.
(Want to take the bread? Fine! They can have it... for a price in blood! Mother needs food. The little ones need food. I've got nothing left to lose...)
A look of grim resolve flashed in Karik's eyes. It didn't belong on a boy. It was the near-mad certainty of someone with their back against the wall.
The two thugs saw the look in his eyes. Their faces paled. They stepped aside in unison.
They'd survived too long in this world of eat-or-be-eaten. They knew exactly what a person with nothing left was capable of.
Karik shot through the gap. Didn't look back. Ran for home. The bread was held tight against his chest. The hope of his family's survival.
The older thug who came up behind them grumbled in discontent. "What was that? We could've eaten tonight if you'd taken that bread from the runt... Why'd you let him go?"
The two other thugs stammered. Their eyes still held a lingering fear.
"Boss... that kid... he was ready to kill..."
"What? Kill... Kill? That... Karik?... How do you know?"
The two thugs grew even paler. They shook their heads in unison. Unwilling to say more.
The older thug looked at them. Then at Karik's retreating back. Shook his head helplessly.
(Sigh... Even that pup is ready to fight to the death now? Times are hard for thugs too...)
He muttered to himself. His voice held a tinge of melancholy he didn't even recognize.
The alleyway ended. Karik's figure vanished around the corner. Only the echo of his frantic footsteps remained in the narrow space. The final beat of a desperate world.
Yes... Karik had truly been ready to kill.
The thought circled in his mind. Like the gulls that forever wheeled over the harbor.
He'd once had a warm enough family. His father was the most skilled shipwright in Troy's western port. His mother was known as the most beautiful woman on several nearby streets.
Every evening, he'd sit by the shipyard gate. Watch his father use that gleaming little knife to carve intricate patterns into a ship's prow.
Until the day a nobleman in a gilded chariot happened to see his mother hanging laundry.
What followed was a story both sordid and cliché—
His father was trapped by a carefully designed contract. Saddled with debt he could never repay. And his mother? She went with the nobleman without a second thought. To become his concubine!
To the nobleman, it was the natural order. Did a lion consider the sheep's feelings?
After that, Karik became an orphan. Surviving in the city's underbelly.
He never lacked the will to fight. Because if you didn't fight... you died.
His father's sharp iron knife became his only treasure.
In his father's hands, it was a tool for fine carving.
In his hands, it became fangs and claws for survival.
Then, fate offered a sliver of light.
Three years ago, a kind woman took in the young street wolf. Let him live in a hovel in the slums. Allowed him to call her 'Mother'.
From then on, he possessed a treasure called 'home' again. Long-lost warmth... a family to cling to... a poor, but cherished, shelter...
But as the mother's savings dwindled, times grew harder.
Even that once-magnificent black horse grew skeletal and pitiful.
Finally, the mother fell ill!
She always taught the children to follow the gods' teachings. To hold fast to their morals. She led by example.
But... the gods showed this good woman no favor. The house held no food. None at all!
Mother needed food. Medicine!
His younger siblings needed food!
So, Karik had to pick up the survival skills of his early years: theft.
The pouch he'd lifted from a richly dressed young master this morning had yielded a dozen or so Obols.
Not enough for a physician for his mother. But enough for some food for the family.
So... if thugs tried to take his bread?
Fine. They could pay for it. In blood.
He had nothing left to lose anyway.
Karik ducked into the familiar hovel. The smell of mold and dampness hit him.
A small boy of six or seven was clumsily dabbing his mother's forehead with a damp cloth.
Hearing the curtain rustle, he looked up. Saw Karik. His large, quiet eyes lit up instantly.
"Brother! You're back!"
Karik forced a smile, though his heart was heavy.
"Mira, good boy. Brother's back. Here! I brought some bread. You eat first. How is Mother?"
Little Mira's childish voice held a maturity beyond his years.
"Mother is still sleeping... Mira didn't know what to do... Mira isn't hungry. Mira will wait for Arinna and Talia to come back. Then we can all eat together."
As he spoke, his small hand clutched a ragged, cloth rabbit. His mother had stitched it for him while she was ill.
Karik's throat tightened. "Alright. We'll wait for them. Or... later, I'll go find them and bring them back..."
But Karik, wise beyond his years, knew the truth. Talia had been taken by slave-takers.
Getting her back from those brutes... he was prepared to die trying.
Yet it wasn't enough...
How could one boy rescue his sister from a whole gang of villains?
His life wasn't enough. What could he do?
His hand went unconsciously to the knife at his chest. He remembered his father's teaching.
A sunny afternoon. His father carving a sea god's likeness. Young Karik curiously touching the sharp blade.
"This knife isn't for harming others. It's for protecting what's important."
His father gently moved his small hand away. His tone was serious, yet warm.
"Remember, true courage isn't about hurting. It's about protecting."
Karik sat at the hovel's entrance. Stared at the knife in his hand.
His own anxious eyes stared back from the polished metal.
He knew he couldn't save Talia from the slavers alone. But doing nothing was impossible.
The last ray of sunset filtered through a hole in the sailcloth. It caught the blade. Cast a faint glimmer. A final hope in the darkness.
"Father... what do I do? I want to protect what's important..."
"But... I don't know how... Father... what should I do..."