A Feeble young man sat on a rusted bench across from the military outpost, his skin unnaturally pale and dark shadows bruising the skin beneath his eyes. He clutched a flask of genuine red wine—not the synthetic sludge common in the slums, but the real thing, fermented from actual grapes. It had drained nearly all his savings, a final bit of self-indulgence for a man whose life was rapidly reaching its expiration date.
Thorne raised the flask, inhaling the rich aroma before taking a cautious sip. He immediately winced, his face contorting in a grimace.
"Dammit, this tastes like swill!"
He glared at the expensive liquid but forced himself to swallow another mouthful. Whether it was bitter or not, he refused to let his money go to waste.
"I should've just bought a steak," he muttered. "Who knew the real stuff was this foul? At least the kick might keep me conscious."
His head began to loll as exhaustion pulled at him, but he snapped awake with a sharp slap to his own face.
"What a waste of coin," he cursed, finishing the dregs and pushing himself to his feet.
Well-dressed citizens hurried through the nearby market, casting judgmental glances at the thin, haggard boy in tattered clothes. Thorne watched them pass, feeling like a ghost in a world of giants. Everyone here seemed so tall and healthy—the clear result of a life with three square meals a day.
With a sigh of envy, he tried to toss the empty flask into a bin. It missed by a mile, clattering onto the pavement. Thorne rolled his eyes at his own clumsiness, trudged over to retrieve it, and placed it carefully in the trash.
Straightening his back with a faint, cynical grin, he crossed the street and walked through the gates of the military camp.
A guard on duty looked him up and down, his expression twisting into a sneer of pure distaste. "Are you lost, kid?"