CHAPTER 13: THE RIVAL'S BLOOD

  Six months after Nell left, Aira had read the journal exactly once and then locked it away. The Eastern ink vial stayed in her pack, untouched. A reminder of possibilities she wasn’t ready to pursue.

  She'd told herself she would change. Would be better. Would remember what Nell had written about staying human.

  But the Under-City had a way of making those promises feel naive. Childish. Dangerous.

  So she went back to what worked: isolation, efficiency, survival.

  The job was supposed to be clean. Aira had spent two weeks mapping the target. A wealthy merchant's townhouse in the River District, three stories of stone and expensive glass overlooking the canal. The merchant collected rare books, including several illuminated manuscripts rumored to contain pre-Church glyph-work. Collectors paid premium prices for that kind of contraband.

  She'd timed the household routines down to the minute. Knew which windows were weakest. Knew the servants' schedules. Knew the merchant himself would be at a guild meeting until after midnight.

  Perfect conditions. Low risk. High reward.

  She’d been watching the house from a nearby rooftop. The merchant had left a couple of hours ago. Now the lights behind the windows were winking out as the servants went to bed. It was time to move. Her Silence Step glyph muffled her steps as she crossed the roof, climbed down the far side, and approached the target window.

  It opened easily. She'd weakened the latch two days ago during reconnaissance. She slipped inside, landing softly on an expensive rug in the study. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating rows of bookshelves and a massive oak desk.

  She moved toward the desk where the merchant kept his most valuable acquisitions in a locked drawer. Her lockpicks were already in her hand when she heard it.

  Footsteps. Above her. On the third floor.

  She froze.

  Someone else was in the house.

  Her Danger Sense glyph remained quiet. No immediate threat, but her mind raced. Servants? No, they were sleeping. The merchant? Impossible, she'd watched him leave for the guild meeting.

  She heard voices now. Low, urgent. Multiple people moving fast but clumsily above her.

  Other thieves!

  Her jaw clenched. Two weeks of planning. Two weeks of careful reconnaissance. And some rival crew was hitting her target on the same night.

  Then a crash.

  Something heavy, a vase, maybe, hit the floor and shattered. The sound echoed through the house.

  Her Danger Sense glyph flared hot against her wrist.

  Danger. Immediate. Multiple threats.

  Guards. Outside. Moving fast.

  She had maybe thirty seconds before they reached the house.

  Aira's training took over. No time to reach the window, guards would see her climbing out. No time to run for the front door, they'd be coming through there.

  Hide.

  She spotted a tall wardrobe against the far wall. Ornate. Deep. She crossed the room in three silent strides, pulled the door open, and squeezed inside among hanging coats and the smell of cedar.

  She pulled the door almost closed, not latched, just barely cracked open so she could see out.

  Her heart hammered in her chest. Her Silence Step was still active, dampening any sound she might make. But if they searched the wardrobe...

  Outside, she heard shouting. Guards. Multiple voices.

  "Halt in the name of the Church!"

  Running footsteps overhead. The other thieves, panicking. Something else crashed—furniture overturning. Someone swore.

  The front door burst open. Lamplight flooded the entrance hall, visible through the study's open doorway. Heavy boots on marble. At least six guards from the sound of it.

  A different kind of chaos erupted from the back of the house. Aira heard the frantic patter of bare feet on the servant’s stairs, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of a dresser being dragged across floorboards to barricade a door. They knew the Watch's reputation as well as she did—in a raid like this, servants were often treated as convenient suspects.

  "Search every room! There were at least three of them!"

  Aira pressed herself deeper into the wardrobe. Controlled her breathing. Made herself as small as possible among the hanging coats.

  She heard them on the stairs. Running up. Shouting. The other thieves were trying to escape through the upper floors.

  More crashes. Sounds of struggle. A scream—young, male, terrified.

  "Got one!"

  "The others went out the window! After them!"

  Heavy boots thundering down the stairs. Then dragging sounds. Someone being pulled roughly.

  Through the crack in the wardrobe door, Aira saw them.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Four guards hauling a boy, maybe fifteen, red-haired, struggling weakly, down the main staircase into the entrance hall. His left arm hung at a completely wrong angle. Compound fracture. The bone pressed visibly against the skin from inside.

  One guard drove a fist into the boy's stomach. He doubled over, retching.

  "Sergeant! The others are getting away!"

  The sergeant, a hard-faced man in his forties, looked at the boy, then at the open front door where lamplight showed two fleeing figures in the distance.

  "Chain him to the banister. We'll deal with him when we get back." He gestured to two guards. "You two stay here and search the house. The rest with me, move!"

  Four guards sprinted out the front door in pursuit.

  The two remaining guards grabbed the boy and dragged him to the staircase banister. One produced a set of iron shackles, the kind with a chain and padlock. They locked one cuff around the boy's good wrist, threaded the chain around the banister's thick wooden post, and locked the other end to the post itself.

  The boy sagged against the stairs, his broken arm cradled against his chest. His face was gray with shock and pain. Blood dripped from his nose onto the marble floor.

  "Check every room," one guard said to the other. "Someone forced that study window. Might still be inside."

  They split up. One headed toward the back of the house. The other started up the stairs, stepping over the chained boy without a glance.

  Aira held her breath. The guard's footsteps creaked on the landing above. Moving away. Searching the upper floors.

  The entrance hall was empty except for the boy.

  Aira's hand went to her lockpicks. The shackles were standard Watch issue, simple pin-and-tumbler locks. She'd opened dozens of them. Could have him free in thirty seconds.

  Her Danger Sense glyph pulsed steadily. But two guards were still in the house. Four more returning soon. Her face on wanted posters. Five hundred gold bounty.

  She had lockpicks in her hand. Had thirty seconds before the upstairs guard returned. Could unlock the shackles. Give him a chance to escape before the others came back.

  Her mother's voice, from memory: You're stronger than you know, little spark.

  Nell's voice, from the journal: Don't become so hard that when you finally have the power to help, you don't care enough to use it.

  Aira's fingers tightened on the lockpicks.

  Then she heard the guard upstairs. Footsteps moving back toward the landing. Coming back down.

  If she stepped out now, she'd be seen. If she was seen, she'd be captured. Six guards in the house or nearby. Her face known. Her bounty high.

  She'd die trying to save a rival thief who'd stolen her job.

  The mathematics were clear. Cold. Brutal.

  Aira pulled back deeper into the wardrobe.

  The guard's footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs. "Nothing upstairs. You search the ground floor yet?"

  "Still working on it."

  "I'll take the study. Check that window again."

  Footsteps approaching.

  Lamplight flooded the study. The guard entered, examined the window again, checked under the desk.

  He looked at the wardrobe.

  Aira held her breath. Her knife was ready. If he opened the door—

  "Nothing here," he called back to his partner. "Must have fled when the alarm went up."

  He left.

  Aira stayed frozen in the wardrobe. Listening. Waiting.

  The two guards met in the entrance hall, near where the boy was chained.

  "Leave him there. Sergeant's orders. She'll want to question him when she gets back."

  "His arm's bad. Compound fracture. He'll be dead in a week even if we take him to the Watch physician."

  "Not our problem. Come on, let's sweep the perimeter."

  Their footsteps receded toward the back of the house.

  The entrance hall fell quiet.

  This was her chance. She needed to move now before the guards came back. They might bring dogs with them that could sniff her out of her hiding place.

  The boy was still there. Still chained to the banister. His head had drooped. She could pick the lock, help him escape.

  But she couldn’t risk it. He was too weak. He would slow her down and they would both get caught.

  The guards were outside now, searching the gardens. She could hear their voices through the walls.

  This was her chance. She slipped out of the wardrobe. Silent. Careful.

  Crossed to the study window. The boy was maybe fifteen feet away, visible through the doorway. The boy looked up and saw her.

  “Please help me,” he pleaded.

  She ignored him. Moved faster. Climbed through the window. Pulled herself up to the roof. Disappeared into the night.

  Safe. Alive. Unharmed.

  Three days later, word filtered through the Under-City's information network.

  A young thief, red-haired boy, maybe fifteen, had been questioned by the Watch. Had given up nothing despite the interrogation. Had died two days later from infection in his compound fracture.

  The Watch had dumped his body in the canal. Standard procedure for unidentified criminals.

  Cray relayed the news during an evening briefing. "Rival crew member. Hit a townhouse in the River District three nights ago. Got sloppy. Got caught. Died yesterday."

  "Anyone we know?" Lyss asked.

  "No affiliation. Just some street kid trying to move up." Cray shrugged. "One less competitor."

  Kess glanced at Aira, his expression searching. She kept her face neutral. After a moment, he looked away. Finally he turned back. "You were working that district three nights ago. Different target?"

  "Same target," Aira said. Her voice was flat. "They beat me to it. Got sloppy. I was inside when the guards came. Had to hide."

  Silence around the table.

  "You saw them catch him?" Kess asked quietly.

  "Saw them chain him to a staircase. Guards ran off chasing the others." She met his eyes. "He saw me leaving. Asked for help. I had lockpicks. Could have freed him in thirty seconds, but I needed to get out of there."

  The room went silent.

  "And?" Torvan finally asked.

  Her voice was hollow. "He was still chained there when I climbed out the window."

  "Two guards still in the house," Lyss said. It wasn't a question.

  "Yes."

  "Then you made the right call. Freeing him would have gotten you both caught." Torvan's voice was practical. "You survived. He didn't. That's the job."

  "Yeah." Aira stared at her hands. "That's the job."

  The briefing moved on. Other jobs. Other targets. Other business.

  Nobody mentioned the dead boy again.

  That night, Aira lay on her pallet in one of her rotating hideouts and stared at the ceiling.

  His eyes. His voice. Pleading. Desperate.

  She'd had lockpicks in her hand. Thirty seconds. That's all it would have taken.

  And she'd done nothing.

  She thought of Fen, abandoned behind the crates. The desperate mother she'd turned away. The six-year-old girl who'd probably died of fever. Every time she'd chosen safety over compassion. Survival over humanity.

  But this was different.

  She'd retreated back into the darkness. Kept herself hidden.

  She pulled out Nell's journal. Opened to the page she'd memorized months ago.

  "Don't become so hard that when you finally have the power to help, you don't care enough to use it."

  She'd had the power. She'd had the tools. She'd had thirty seconds.

  And she'd chosen to flee.

  Not because she couldn't help. Because she was too scared to try.

  The kitten had died from her incompetence. The boy had died from her cowardice.

  She didn't know which was worse.

  But she knew which one would haunt her more.

  Because the kitten hadn't looked at her with human eyes. Hadn't begged in human words. Hadn't known she was choosing to let it die.

  The boy had known.

  Had seen her make that choice as she fled.

  Aira closed the journal. Put it away. Didn't look at it again for months.

  She was becoming exactly what the Church had always said she was: Level Zero trash. Not because she lacked skill. But because she lacked courage.

  His voice echoed in her mind. Please help me.

  And she'd left him anyway.

  [STATUS UPDATE]

  Name: Aira

  Age: 14.5 years

  Level: 0

  Rank: Gold II (Independent Operator)

  Mental Canvas: 32 cm2

  Scripts Memorized: 12 (7 tattooed)

  Skills: Street Sense (Lv. 7), Light Fingers (Lv. 6), Combat Awareness (Lv. 4), Infiltration (Lv. 3)

  Humanity: 60 → 53

  [Little spark, you had the power. You had the skill. You had the choice. And you chose to let him die.]