2 Chapter 1: Slums (1)

A young street rat, barely of age, malnourished and gaunt slowly opened his eyes to a dreary sky amid some dilapidated back alley. It was dark, and the sound of footsteps from a bright mainstreet were creating a distant white noise that emphasized the bleak separation between classes.

His body was lying prone with his back to the ground. Stiff and numb from a seeping cold, he could hardly move a finger. His eyelids felt heavy, and soon enough they began to droop as the sheer confusion of his situation took its toll.

"Noah! Noah! Noah!"

Unfortunately, voices were calling him, spurred by the movement of his eyes.

"D-Don't die! E-Eat! Eat, you'll get better!"

Something rancid was forcibly stuffed into his mouth. He spluttered, yet the weak craving in his body signaled that it didn't care and would take any form of sustenance. However, his mouth would not chew as the gag reflex had him going wide-eyed and terribly retching to the side instead.

"D-Don't spit it out! You have to eat it!"

He hardly had the strength to muster any words, and just stared in silence at the perpetrators of his misery beside him.

Two dirty children were staring at him with tears in their eyes. One was thin enough to see bone, a young boy, John, and the other, a young girl who appeared better off. At least she looked like she had more fat on her, but she was the one crying the most.

Little Leah, the youngest whom her older brothers did their best to care for despite the orphaned family's destitution.

Family? No, not just that, he knew the names of the children?

Noah groaned, a splitting headache causing him to gasp as memories filled his mind. His name, this place, this situation, it gradually played back as if it were some twisted joke of a fantasy.

He was Noah Lambert, the fallen son of a central nobleman ousted from the family by the machinations of his jealous aunt. He was the eldest of two other siblings who were too young to remember the faces of their father, mother, and family home in the royal capital of the kingdom Aletera.

Banished to the border city of Amaranth, Noah had been forced to beg and do miscellaneous work in the slums for the sake of his siblings. It had been five long years. John had just turned nine, and Leah, seven. Noah himself was fourteen.

It was all so ridiculous, but the tears and concern directed at him were real.

Noah had fallen sick, and without proper shelter, could only do his best to recover in the street of a back alley where planks of discarded wood created a make-shift shelter for the family of three. Malnourished, and the sole breadwinner of the siblings, the situation was a death sentence.

In all likelihood, 'Noah' had died, leaving his two siblings behind unaware of his departure.

The children clung to his sides, shaking and urging him to eat, not knowing how tragic it all was for the Noah who took 'Noah's' place.

Wordlessly, Noah picked up the food he'd spit out, and put it back into his mouth.

He forcibly swallowed down, trying his best not to imagine what exactly he was eating for fear of throwing it up.

"It's late," Noah rasped to John and Leah. "The twin moons are up. Go sleep. I won't leave you."

"That's what old Ben said, and he never woke up again." John sniffles.

Leah quietly lies next to Noah and stubbornly drapes his left arm over her like a blanket. "Not sleeping," she blubbers with teary eyes.

Noah shut his mouth. Old Ben was the kind old grandpa who begged on the mainstreet outside the slums of Amaranth. He was the one who helped Noah live and watch out for his siblings for the past five years. He had a conflict with a passing aristocrat, was beaten, and then succumbed to his injuries on a frigid night.

"I'll keep a look out tonight." John wiped his nose on his torn clothes and manned up.

The old witch of the slums was always on watch to abduct unsuspecting beggars and vagrants into slavery. Her agents roamed the foul side streets searching for opportunity. All everyone could do was run before they got caught. Given the family's current state, they were at their most vulnerable.

John walked away before Noah could get another word in.

Noah pursed his lips, then turned his attention to Leah who was wrapped at his side and vigilantly staring at him. He met her gaze, and held it for far longer than she could. Leah was a child. Emotion could only fuel her stubbornness for so long before sleep would take her at the early hours of the evening. Sure enough, her eyelids began to droop.

Noah stayed perfectly still, waiting until Leah closed her eyes and her breaths evened out before letting out a breath.

He needed time to think things through.

Whatever food he ate was working its magic. If he could only wiggle his fingers before, now he could somewhat move his arm. Well, his right arm at least. Leah had misappropriated his left.

Rubbing his face to clear a feeling of disorientation, Noah paused as he got a good look at the back of his right hand.

A sigil of a white cross marked the back. He was certain from 'Noah's' memories that the mark hadn't been there before, rather, the symbol was one that was foreign to the original Noah.

To the present Noah, however, there was meaning in the symbol: A mark of the faith he'd gradually lost belief in the first time he died.

The answer to how he arrived at his present condition was inexplicably answered, but that only led to more questions.

Absently opening and closing his fingers, he stared as a weak yet warm light emitted from his palms.

He could not understand.

Why him? What was this place, and what was he to do now?

Lord, what was the correct path?

What purpose did he have in this land?