The slums woke slowly that morning, as if the sun itself hesitated to pour its light upon a place that forgot hope long ago. Thin smoke drifted from broken chimneys. Mothers shook dust from blankets. Children with hollow eyes hunted for leftover scraps from the market three streets away.But inside a narrow alley, beneath a collapsed roof held together by old rope and desperate faith, Arin and Lyra sat huddled beside a shivering stray dog.It had followed them for two days—limping, ribs showing, fur matted with dried blood. Arin had tried to scare it off at first. One more mouth meant one more problem. But Lyra… Lyra couldn’t walk away.She never could.“Arin,” she whispered, cupping the dog’s head gently. “He’s going to die.”Arin looked away. He hated this feeling—the helplessness of wanting to save but lacking the power, the food, even the freedom to try. He had nothing. He was nothing. And the world made sure he never forgot that.“We can’t save every dying thing,” Arin muttered.

The slums were louder than usual that morning—shouts from street vendors, the clang of broken pots, the distant laughter of children pretending they weren’t starving. But beneath the noise, Arin felt a tension lurking in the air. As if the world itself was holding its breath after the strange symbol had appeared on their wall the night before.He kept Lyra close as they made their way toward the water barrels. Their shelter was no longer safe. They needed information—and allies.Whether he liked it or not.Lyra tugged on his sleeve. “Do you think someone will help us?”Arin hesitated. Help was hard to come by in the slums. But there were three people—three children like them—who had crossed paths with him enough times to matter.The first appeared without warning, as always.A cold voice cut through the morning air. “You’re late. The water’s almost gone.”Arin turned.Elira stood by the barrel, pale morning light reflecting off her dark hair. Her expression was as unreadable as ever—e

Fire was common in the slums.Huts burned every week—sometimes by accident, sometimes by cruelty. Dry wood, leaking oil, careless hands. People learned to live with smoke in their lungs and fear in their bones.But this fire…This fire was different.Arin smelled it before he saw it.Sharp. Bitter. Hungry.“Smoke,” he muttered, instantly alert. He pulled Lyra closer, Mira and Elira flanking them as they pushed through the narrow pathways between huts. Screams echoed ahead—panicked, desperate.“Help! Someone help!”A hut near the old water trench was ablaze, flames climbing the walls like living beasts. The roof sagged inward, crackling violently. People gathered at a distance, frozen between fear and helplessness.“There’s someone inside!” a woman cried. “A child!”Arin’s pulse spiked. He scanned the crowd, eyes searching for movement within the inferno.Then Lyra gasped.“There!” She pointed.Through the smoke, Arin saw it—a small silhouette pressed against the far wall, coughing wea

The moon bled.That was the first thought that pierced Arin’s mind as he stood at the edge of the slums, staring upward. The sky had darkened unnaturally fast, clouds pulling apart like torn flesh to reveal a swollen crimson moon hanging low and heavy.A Blood Moon.The elders of the slums whispered about nights like this. Nights when the dead listened. Nights when forgotten sins stirred. Nights when blood remembered blood.Arin didn’t believe in superstitions.But his body did.Pain pulsed through his veins—slow at first, then sharper, deeper, like molten metal being poured into his bones. He clenched his fists, teeth grinding, forcing himself to stay upright.Behind him, Lyra slept beneath the earth, hidden and safe. Mira and Elira guarded the ruined shelter, unaware of the storm building inside him.Arin staggered into the open square where the slums thinned and the shadows stretched long.The red light washed over him.Something inside him answered.His shadow lengthened, peeling

The slums settled uneasily after the public humiliation of Arin’s relatives.People pretended to return to their routines—scraping pots, trading scraps, arguing over water—but every glance lingered a heartbeat too long on Arin and Lyra. Whispers slithered through the alleys like smoke that refused to fade.That boy snapped bones.That girl walked through fire.They’re cursed… or blessed.Arin felt it all. The weight of attention. The danger it carried.He led Lyra back toward the quieter edge of the slums where broken walls leaned together like tired old men. Mira and Elira split off to keep watch, Tobin hovering nervously behind them.“People are scared,” Lyra murmured.Arin nodded. “And scared people make bad choices.”That was when he noticed the beggar.The man sat cross-legged near the remains of an old shrine, his body wrapped in layers of torn cloth so old they might have been part of him. His hair fell in silver tangles down his back. His skin was weathered, cracked like dry e