Day Three began with rain.
Water trickled along the cobblestones and soaked Caius's sleeves. He had slept poorly beneath the crate behind the bakery, waking whenever a cart rattled by or a stray dog nosed through the alley. His body felt weaker than it should have after only two days, but the trial's rules were not written for fairness. They were written for pressure.
He tried the construction site again. The foreman did not even let him finish speaking.
"I told you yesterday. We don't need you."
"Then tell me what I can do."
The man snorted. "Leave."
Caius nearly snapped back. The words crowded his mouth: he was a duke's heir, trained in etiquette and swordplay, someone who could order an entire household to obey. But the people of Eldenbrook did not know his title. Here, he was a thin stranger with no papers, no money, and no useful skill.
His old identity could not buy him a meal.
He spent the morning searching for work and the afternoon trying to sell more carvings. A woman examined the little dragon and praised the detail, then returned it without paying. An elderly man told him that children were the only people who bought toys, and children had no money.
By evening, he was too tired to keep walking. He begged once more near the fountain and collected a handful of coins. It was just enough for a roll, perhaps two if the baker was generous. He bought the cheapest loaf in the shop and held it close while he searched for a safe place to eat.
The three beggars were waiting near the alley.
Caius stopped. The tallest one smiled at him, and the smile seemed worse than a threat.
"Back again?"
Caius changed direction. They followed. He turned into a narrow passage and moved faster, but one caught the edge of his cloak. He spun, striking the man's hand away. For a second, his training took over. He shifted his weight, stepped inside the attacker's reach, and nearly drove him to the ground.
Then weakness betrayed him. His legs trembled. The second beggar hit him across the mouth, and the third seized the bread.
Caius fell hard. The men fled with their prize.
He tasted blood and dirt. More than the pain, the humiliation burned. He had spent his entire life believing that competence would keep him from being helpless. He knew how to read a room, recognize a blade stance, and calculate the distance between two opponents. None of it mattered when his body lacked the energy to fight.
A memory came uninvited: the Duke's cold eyes across the dining table.
Your strengths are still unproven.
Caius pressed his forehead against his knees. "I know," he whispered, though there was no one to hear him. "I know."
He stayed in the alley until the rain stopped. When he finally dragged himself to his feet, he saw a little girl standing at the far end of the passage. She wore a yellow dress and held a wooden bird. Her face was bright and curious.
"Are you hurt?" she asked.
Caius went still. Her voice was not part of any repeated market call. He had not seen her before.
"I'm fine," he lied.
She tilted her head. "You look hungry."
He almost laughed. "That's because I am."
The girl held out the wooden bird. "You can have this."
"I don't need a toy."
"It isn't a toy. It's mine." She looked down at it, then back at him. "But you look like you need something."
Caius hesitated. The offer was so simple that it felt dangerous. He wanted to accept it. He also wanted to reject it, because taking charity from a child felt like surrendering the last shred of his pride.
Before he could answer, the girl's mother called from the street. The child turned and ran toward the voice. The wooden bird remained on the wet stones.
Caius picked it up. Its tiny wings had been carved with surprising care. On the bottom, someone had scratched a small symbol: a circle split by a single vertical line.
He had seen that mark before—not in the novel, but on the ancient door behind the waterfall.
The rainwater around the toy began to shimmer. For one heartbeat, the little girl's face appeared reflected in the puddle, though she was already gone.
Then the image vanished.
Caius closed his fist around the bird. It might have been a clue. It might have been a trick. Either way, he could not ignore it.
That night, he slept with the wooden bird tucked against his chest. He told himself he was preserving evidence, not comfort.
That night, the dream of the execution returned, but the prisoner's face had changed. Instead of silver hair, Caius saw his own crimson locks darkened by blood. The man did not plead for rescue. He merely watched as if measuring the person who had come to witness his death. Caius woke with his jaw clenched and the taste of iron in his mouth. He told himself the dream was another attempt to weaken him. Still, he kept the wooden bird near his heart. For reasons he could not explain, it felt less like a toy than a promise left by someone who had known he would fail once before.
He tried to make a plan out of the defeat instead of allowing shame to swallow the evening. The three beggars had a pattern: they waited near the bakery around closing time, chose people who carried food, and avoided crowded streets. Caius could change the time he bought bread, hide it beneath his cloak, or choose another route. On a scrap of paper, he wrote each possibility and ranked them by risk. The list looked like a child's exercise, but it steadied his mind. In the academy, he would need to read enemies who were stronger and cleverer than he was. In Eldenbrook, the enemy was hunger, and it was teaching him the same lesson: observe before you act.
He was still hungry when he woke.