Morning came late to the slums.
The sun reached the rooftops slowly, as if reluctant to shine on the broken streets, the piles of rusted metal, the stench of rotting food and smoke. Arin stepped outside with Lyra close beside him, still shaken from the voice at the door the previous night.
Whoever had knocked never returned.Whoever had spoken his name had vanished with dawn.
But Arin's instincts screamed danger.
He needed allies—real ones.
Lyra tugged at his sleeve. "Where are we going?"
"To get food," Arin said quietly. "And to talk to some people."
People he trusted. At least, as much as anyone could trust anyone in a place like this.
They walked the cracked, winding alley that led deeper into the slum heart. Children played with makeshift toys from garbage. A drunk man slept on a crate. A woman yelled into the street about stolen laundry.
And there—leaning against the broken steps of an abandoned shop—was Elira.
The cold girl. The observer.Her long black hair fell like a curtain, and she kept her arms folded tightly, as if holding herself together. Her eyes were icy, almost expressionless—but sharp. Sharp enough to cut.
She noticed Arin immediately.
"Morning," Arin called.
Elira nodded once, but her gaze flicked to Lyra first—always to Lyra—before returning to him.
"You look pale," she said bluntly. "Fever?"
Arin stiffened. "It's nothing."
Elira's lips barely moved, but Arin could see her thinking. She always thought. Always watched.
Lyra stepped forward timidly. "Elira… are you okay today?"
Something softened in the cold girl's eyes—something tiny, almost invisible.
"For once," she said quietly, "yes."
Elira rarely spoke this much. This was almost… warm.
Arin smiled. "Good. I actually wanted to talk—"
A loud whistle split the air.
Both Arin and Elira turned.
A girl sprinted down the alley, jumping over crates, sliding across dirt with practiced ease. Wild short hair, bruised knuckles, a grin sharp enough to be a weapon.
Mira.
The slum's tomboy warrior.
"Arin! Elira! You're both alive, great!" she yelled, skidding to a stop. "Thought I heard someone screaming last night. Was that you?"
Arin stiffened. Lyra hid behind him.
Elira narrowed her eyes. "You shouldn't yell names in the open."
"Oh please," Mira scoffed. "Everyone here already knows everyone. If someone wanted us dead, we'd be fertilizer by now."
"Not helping," Arin muttered.
Mira grinned, undisturbed. "So, what's the plan today? I found a broken knife handle. Thought I could fix it and—"
Then her gaze sharpened.
Her smile faded.
"Arin… what happened to your face?"
He blinked. "What?"
Mira stepped closer, squinting. "Your eyes look… weird."
Elira tensed. "Weird how?"
"Like you're haunted," Mira said simply.
Arin's breath caught.
He opened his mouth to respond—but a voice interrupted.
A hesitant, cracking voice.
"U-Um… Arin?"
Tobin stood at the end of the alley, clutching a small sack of stale bread. Skinny, shaking, clothes too big for his frail frame. His face lit up when he saw Arin, but dimmed slightly when he noticed the girls were already there.
Tobin.The loyal friend.The weak one.And the most quietly jealous.
"I brought… food," Tobin said, lifting the sack. "I thought maybe you and Lyra hadn't eaten."
Lyra smiled gently. "Thank you."
Tobin brightened—too much—and shot a glance at Arin, searching for approval.
Arin exhaled. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to!" Tobin blurted, too loudly. "I mean… I don't mind."
Mira groaned. "You sound like you're confessing to him."
Tobin flushed scarlet. "I—I'm NOT—!"
Elira rolled her eyes.
Arin stepped forward, lowering his voice. "Tobin, relax. It's just bread."
But Tobin wasn't listening.
His eyes were locked on Mira, who had casually slung an arm across Arin's shoulder.Then he noticed Lyra gripping Arin's hand.Then he noticed Elira watching over Arin with her cold, protective stare.
Tobin looked down, realization heavy in his chest.
Why do they all get to be close to him?Why am I always the outsider?Why do they gravitate to Arin, not me?
Still, he forced a smile.
Arin accepted the bread. "Thanks, Tobin. Really."
Tobin's throat tightened.
"Anything… anything for my friend."
The four slum children—even broken, bruised, and hungry—formed something like a circle around Arin and Lyra.
The first hint of a family.
Arin studied them.
Elira — cold, distant, sharp, her eyes carrying secrets.Mira — fierce, reckless, bold, always ready to fight.Tobin — weak but loyal, his admiration tinted with envy.
Maybe they could help him.Maybe they could protect Lyra.Maybe—
A gust of cold wind rushed down the alley.
Everyone froze.
Elira's eyes darkened instantly. "Something's wrong."
Mira spun, fists up. "I hear it too."
Tobin trembled. "Wh-What? What do you hear?"
Lyra pointed.
Arin followed her gaze.
At the far end of the alley, a figure stood.
Cloaked. Tall. Too still.
Watching them.
His heart dropped.
That presence—that silent pressure—that weight in the air—
It felt exactly the same as the knocking last night.
"Arin…" Lyra whispered, gripping his shirt. "He followed us."
Mira positioned herself between Arin and the figure. "Friend of yours?"
Arin shook his head, dread filling his chest.
"No. He's not a friend."
Elira stepped forward, voice flat and cold. "Then we run."
But the cloaked figure raised a hand—
—and the entire alley darkened as if the sun had been swallowed.
The five children gasped.
The man's voice drifted toward them like smoke.
"Arin… bring your sister.Your time in this slum is over."
Arin felt his blood freeze.
Elira whispered:
"Arin… who is that?"
Arin swallowed.
"I don't know."
And that was the most terrifying answer of all.
Cliffhanger:A mysterious cloaked man has tracked Arin into the slums—and demands both him and Lyra.