Stealthy Steps Towards a Nighty Goal

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Baurous underwent a palpable transformation. Long shadows stretched like grasping fingers across the cobblestone streets, and the city's heartbeat slowed, then shifted. Joah watched from the back alley, his bandaged hands resting on his apron, as the daytime workers trudged homeward. Their faces, etched with the day's toil, sought the comfort of family or the quiet of solitude. He understood that weariness; it mirrored the ache in his own young muscles.

Nightfall ushered in a different breed. These were the revelers, the storytellers, the ones who thrived in the amber glow of pub lights. They flocked to the taverns, their laughter and boisterous voices weaving a tapestry of sound that echoed through the darkening streets. Joah often imagined the stories they spun, the friendships kindled and tested over mugs of ale. He yearned to be part of that easy camaraderie, but his nights had other demands.

The busiest pub in Baurous was a beast of its own. From his post in the alley, Joah could hear the kitchen come alive — a cacophony of clanging pans, sizzling meat, and the sharp, biting scent of spices battling with the richer aroma of roasting pork. It was a tempest contained within brick walls, and at its eye was the chef, a man whose voice could shatter stone, demanding perfection with every bellow.

Earlier, Joah had been part of that storm. His hands, quick and precise despite their youth, had danced with a knife, reducing a slab of pork to neat piles of fat and lean meat. Each slice was a careful negotiation, a delicate balance between avoiding the chef's wrath and securing his meager earnings. The coins he earned each night were more than just wages; they were stepping stones, each one bringing him closer to a dream — a better life for him and his grandmother, far from these lands.

Now, with the task done, he stood in the alley's relative quiet, a stolen moment of peace. His hands, wrapped in rough cloth to protect the cuts and burns that marked his trade, throbbed a dull counterpoint to the city's rhythm. He rotated his wrists, a slow, deliberate ritual to ease the knotted muscles, a testament to the relentless work.

'It would be soon.' The thought surfaced, sharp and clear, amidst the swirl of weariness and longing. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the familiar, slender form of a cigarette. It wasn't a craving, not really, but a way to mark the end of the work, a brief pause before he faced the night again.

Sometimes, he told himself it was homesickness, a phantom ache for parents he barely remembered. But the feeling was more elusive, a yearning for something he couldn't name. It was like the echo of a song, the melody faded, but the emotion was still resonant. The faces of his parents, once vivid in his mind, had blurred with time, replaced by this indefinable longing, a bittersweet ache that both wounded and comforted him.

He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that this yearning was a force, a hidden spring of emotion that had once fueled him. Now, it felt like that spring had run dry, leaving behind an emptiness, a void where something vibrant had once bloomed. He felt like a young tree stripped bare by its first winter, the promise of blossoms withered before they could unfold. He missed that vibrant pain, the sharp edge of longing that had, paradoxically, made him feel alive.

Joah's head turned as he heard the pub door swing open, followed by the chef's booming voice, "And good riddance! A cow has more sense than the two of you combined!" The door slammed shut, and a young woman, not much older than Joah, emerged, her face alight with amusement. "The chief's as lovely as ever, isn't he?" she quipped. Beside her, a middle-aged man snorted, one hand scratching at his ample belly. "Damn him, I'd rather be living off the land, hunting game, than dealing with that madman."

The young woman waved a quick goodbye to Joah, her footsteps light as she hurried towards home. The man, Randy, shuffled closer, his hand outstretched. Joah sighed, already knowing what was coming. He pulled out a cigarette and offered it. "Ol' Randy, you should really buy your own pack," he said, a hint of resignation in his voice.

Randy was a sight – a rugged man with a deep scar that snaked across his left arm, the veins beneath the skin pulsing with a life of their own, evidence of his powerful build. He took the cigarette, his fingers thick and calloused. "Thanks, kid," he rumbled, lighting it with a practiced flick of his wrist. "Like I always say, better to keep my coin for worthier things than to waste it on what I can get for free. 'Sides, you're the only one around here with the good stuff."

"Whatever," Joah muttered, shaking his head slightly. "So, marrying? Really?"

Randy paused, drawing deeply on the cigarette before exhaling a plume of smoke that curled into the night air. "Marrying?" he scoffed, a hint of wistfulness in his voice. "Hell, that ship sailed long ago. I ain't like you, kid. Fate's got me pegged as a dreamer, nothing more. Maybe my kid will make something of himself, and maybe you will too."

Joah nodded, his gaze firm. "I hope so. I need to."

Randy shifted, adjusting his worn jacket. "Take care, kid. The chief's gonna miss those quick hands of yours." He started to walk away, then paused, his voice gruff but carrying a weight of experience. "And listen here, don't be too quick to trust anyone. This city chews up the naive and spits 'em out."

Joah leaned back against the brick wall, his thoughts drifting as Randy's advice faded into the night. He gazed up at a nearby streetlamp, its light flickering, drawing in a swarm of moths that danced erratically around the glowing orb. A cat, hidden in the shadows, watched him with unblinking eyes.

His moment of reflection shattered as a figure emerged from around the corner of the alley. The man moved with a predator's swiftness, pressing Joah against the wall. A calloused hand clamped over his mouth, stifling any sound, while the other hand gripped his left wrist, preventing him from reaching for the knife hidden in his pocket.

"Listen up, you worthless shit!" The man growled, his voice thick with the rasp of a smoker.

Joah struggled, his mind racing. He recognized the man — his landlord. The landlord was a hulking presence, a blend of muscle and fat that made him physically imposing. His face was weathered, marked by a life of hardship endured in the northlands. Yellowed teeth, many missing, were often revealed in a menacing snarl. His gaze, partially obscured by thick eyelashes, held a glint of hard living, and his left eye was noticeably damaged, a cloudy white orb that seemed to see more than it should. He wore an old black leather jacket, creased and worn, its fur lining barely visible at the edges.

"Listen up, I don't care about your fancy tricks or whatever, but I ain't taking any bullshit from you. You're gonna get me an injection from that alchemy shop, the one that's all white with a green glow. It's for pain, got it? And if you don't, you better haul your sorry ass outta this city, 'cause I ain't playing around!"

Joah tried to speak, the words muffled and distorted behind the hand clamped over his mouth. "What... talking...?"

The landlord's boot slammed into Joah's stomach, a brutal, gut-wrenching blow. The force of the impact sent waves of sharp pain through his body, doubling him over. He collapsed onto the hard cobblestone, his body curling instinctively, arms wrapped around his midsection in a futile attempt to ease the throbbing pain. He gasped for air, each breath a ragged, painful effort. The landlord's pungent odor assaulted his senses — a foul mix of stale sweat and cheap tobacco that choked him. The man loomed over him, then spat casually on the ground beside the crumpled boy.

"You think I'm a damn fool, huh? You, living in that crumbling shack that's probably haunted to the gills, somehow always have food and those fancy pills. You're a damn thief, kid! I don't give a rat's ass. You're getting me that injection tonight! You hear me? Or you're gonna be wishing you'd never crossed paths with old me!"

The landlord took a step back, turning away. His heavy boots echoed against the cobblestones as he muttered to himself, "Damn kids... think they can pull one over on me. This life... it's a bitch, but it's my bitch."

Joah slowly regained his strength, using the wall for support as he pushed himself to his feet. Each breath was labored, the lingering pain in his stomach a dull, throbbing reminder of the beating and the reason for his relentless work in the kitchen. His hand instinctively went to his abdomen, fingers pressing gently against the bruised flesh. He stood there for a moment, his back against the rough brick, drawing in slow, steadying breaths.

Focus regained, he started to walk, his steps initially shaky. He moved with a determined gait, each footfall growing steadier as he traversed the familiar path.

He approached a small tent pitched at the corner of the street. A young man, not much older than Joah himself, sat beside it. He wore simple clothes, a worn jacket pulled tight against the evening chill. The tent was a makeshift affair, colorful cloth stretched over a rickety frame, advertising its wares: fried fish skewered on wooden sticks, nestled beside neatly sliced onions.

"Oh, my chief," the young man called out, a friendly grin on his face. "How did it go today?"

Joah tossed him a coin, taking a stick of fried fish in return. He took a bite, the savory flavor a welcome distraction. "Hey, Buck. It was good, good. Last day there."

They settled onto small stools beside the tent, the scent of fried fish drawing the occasional curious glance from passersby, though none stopped. Buck spoke, his voice tinged with a hint of excitement. "I'm planning to trade this fishy aroma for sea salt soon. The captain's got a spot for me. I'll be sailing off next week. Bet the sea air will smell better than that old chef's kitchen."

"Really? That's great! Guess we're both off to new adventures."

"Aye, leaving the grease for the greater seas! Though, I hope the Academy smells better than this alley. Maybe I'll catch a giant fish out there, and you can cook it when you're not buried in your books!"

"Deal!"

"I've heard the only smell those academy folks like better is the smell of fresh ink. Speaking of which, you heard any of the latest talk going round? There's this rumor about a drug messing with the workers' heads over at the ale fabric."

Joah shook his head slightly. "Heard little about it. Folks say it's making them act like animals."

Buck chuckled. "Well, maybe it's what you get when you mix too much ale with a little bit of crazy. Anyway, the Awakened are all over it, sniffing around like dogs with a nose for trouble."

Joah nodded. "Hope they solve it before it spreads."

"Anyway, Joah, I wish you all the luck in your studies."

"Same, Buck. And may the winds guide your sails, friend. Catch plenty of fish, and send me a Jumper if you find one floating out there!"

Joah waved goodbye, a faint smile playing on his lips. He appreciated Buck; their conversations were easy. It was refreshing to talk without the weight of secrets or hidden agendas.

The pain in his belly flared again, a sharp, insistent reminder of the evening's earlier encounter. He wondered if the greasy fish had been a mistake. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves and ease the discomfort. As his house came into view, he straightened his posture, running his fingers through his messy hair and smoothing down his clothes. It was important to appear calm, to shield his grandmother from worry. Here, he could leave the troubles of the street behind, adhering to the unspoken wisdom of those who had endured, "Let the street belong to the street".

His home stood modestly, a small structure built primarily of wood, resting on a sturdy stone foundation. Age had marked the building, evident in the weathered planks and occasional patchwork repairs made with inexpensive materials. A short, creaky staircase, worn from years of use, led up to the front door.

The roof was a haphazard mix of wood, clay, and straw. Small holes dotted the surface, a witness to the ongoing battle with leaks that sprung up during heavy rains, requiring the strategic placement of bowls throughout the rooms.

Inside, the house mirrored its external simplicity, yet it was imbued with a warmth that transcended its limitations. Joah's eyes lit up with familiar comfort as he surveyed the room.

Shelves and surfaces were adorned with an assortment of items collected over the years by him and his grandmother. Bottles of various shapes and sizes, well-worn books, aged artifacts, and remnants of magical tools filled the space.

The room was dominated by the heating steam tool, strategically placed in a corner to maximize its efficacy. This device, their most valuable possession, radiated warmth throughout the house. It had been a significant investment, representing a year's worth of savings, a sacrifice made willingly to ensure his grandmother's comfort during the harsh, cold seasons.

"Oh, Joah, is that you?" Came a voice from the kitchen.

His grandmother was busy making tea when he entered. The smell of steeping herbs mingled with the aroma of fresh bread she had picked up earlier. Steam curled from the kettle, and the warm bread lay invitingly on the counter.

She was a small woman in her sixties, moving with a grace that defied her age. Her ever-present smile warmed her face and echoed the kindness she carried within. She placed two cups on the small table with careful, precise movements, then settled into a chair. Taking a sip of her tea, she nodded contentedly.

"It's alright, dear, quite alright. These herbs are better than the last ones I got from Hone. You know, I heard she was feuding with Amer. I always said they weren't meant to be together."

Joah sat across the table and greeted her. "Hi, Grandma."

"Oh, and did you hear about that elderly gentleman, the storyteller from Hone? Poor Arryin was weeping her heart out, saying his tutor got nabbed by the church!"

"Which old man?"

"You know, the guy who always tried to snag more ale than his pockets could hold. Word is," she leaned in, her eyes widening with intrigue, "it was an exorcist who captured him!"

"An exorcist? Why did they arrest him?"

"I'm not sure, but Hone mentioned that Arryin's been silent since then. People around here think maybe he was up to no good with those kids. Let me tell you, these streets aren't as safe as they used to be, back in my day, thirty years ago."

She then pushed two pieces of bread toward Joah. "Eat up, my dear, you have to be hearty and strong for those Academy exams."

"By the way, did you get the newspaper?"

"That little thing delivered for us," she pointed at the ceiling, to a small hole barely visible in the dim light. "I think we're getting another leak soon. Oh, and I left the newspaper on your bed."

Joah looked up and sighed with a tired smile. "Soon, Grandma. In three years, I'll make enough to bring us to Martimus, and we'll find a better home far from here."

She chuckled as she poured herself more tea. "Don't you worry about an old lady like me, dear. Go chase those dreams of yours. I'm just a sack of tired bones here, waiting to reunite with your grandpa up in heaven. You've put in so much effort for those exams, don't worry about me."

Joah stood up to go to his bedroom, resisting the urge to clutch his aching stomach. "No, I made a promise to Dad, and I'll keep it."

His grandmother sighed, her head drooping slightly as she whispered, "I hope he's in a better place."

For those who endured the city's whispered secrets and faced battles beyond their control, challenging the law felt inevitable. Joah was no exception.

He yearned for a better life, but the means to achieve it eluded him. Guided by life's lessons, he chose to learn the ways of the streets, embracing a life of instinctual cunning and strategic evasion. With each foray into the world of illicit gains, the thrill of avoiding capture coursed through him.

His actions were not driven by a lack of morality, as his father had instilled strong values in him. Instead, it was his unwavering creed that made it easier to navigate this path. In his mind, he kept things simple, only taking what was necessary and refraining from indulgence or greed.

Tonight, like many nights before, he ventured into the darkness. His actions were not solely for himself but for his only family.

"I'm going to bed early, Grandma."

"Alright, dear, have sweet dreams."

Joah waited for his grandmother to fall asleep. He moved with quiet precision, dressing in black. He handled each garment with deliberate care, ensuring not a single sound would reveal his late-night venture.

Fully dressed, he moved toward the window, guided by the moon's soft glow. He skillfully slid through it, stepping onto the rooftop without a sound. Cloaked in his new identity, he merged with the shadows, his movements silent and seamless.

He navigated the rooftop labyrinth with ease, gracefully jumping from one building to the next. His footsteps were soft, almost inaudible, as he melted into the darkness of the suburban night.

The evening's sounds surrounded him. In the distance, dogs barked, and the occasional cat added to the nocturnal chorus.

Each house contributed its own sounds: whispers of affection, the clash of arguments, bursts of laughter, the hum of music, frustrated outbursts, and sweet declarations of love. Far off, the heavy footsteps of patrolling soldiers echoed, resonant and vigilant.