The Trash Picker and the Secret King

My hands are bleeding again. Thick red lines cut across my palms, soaking into the rough fabric of my work gloves. I pull a heavy black trash bag out of a metal bin and toss it onto the high pile. The smell here is always the same: old food, sour water, and things people threw away because they did not care anymore.

Down in the slums of River City, nobody cares about trash. They only care about surviving another day.

Above us, high up in the clean air, the rich people live in glass towers that shine like diamonds in the sun. They look down at us like we are bugs crawling in the dirt. But I do not have time to look up at them. I have a job to finish before midnight, or Aunt Elena will lock me out in the cold.

Aunt Elena is not a warm person. She does not hug me or ask how my day went. She stands by the door with a wooden stick and counts every single bag I bring home. If the number is too low, she takes my dinner away. She says kindness makes people weak, and the world only rewards those who obey every rule without a question.

I pull off my right work glove to wipe the sweat from my forehead. For a second, the skin on my palm glows with a bright purple light.

I stop and stare at my hand. My breath catches in my throat.

The light disappears as fast as it came, leaving only my scarred skin. My heart beats hard against my ribs. This has happened three times this week. Every time it happens, my hands feel hot, like a small fire is burning underneath my bones.

I shove my glove back on fast. People in the slums do not have magic. People in the slums have empty bellies and sore backs. If anyone sees me glowing, they will call the city guards. And the guards do not ask questions before they take you away for good.

Kian!

Aunt Elena's voice cuts through the noise of the dump. She is standing at the edge of the dirt path, wrapped in her dark coat. Her face is hard like stone in the dim light of the street lamps.

You are moving too slow, she says as I walk toward her. The truck leaves in ten minutes. If you miss it, you sleep outside.

I am working as fast as I can, I say, keeping my eyes on the dirt. I do not want to look at her cold eyes.

Fast is not enough, she says, turning around to walk back to our small room. In this city, you are either the one who throws the trash or the one who gets thrown away. Make your choice.

I follow her back through the narrow, muddy alleys. Our room has no windows and a leaking roof, but it is home. I sit on the edge of my thin mattress and pull off my boots. My feet are bruised and sore.

Aunt Elena hands me a bowl of grey soup with hard bread. She does not say another word. She sits by the small table and sharpens an old kitchen knife with a flat stone. Screech. Screech. The sound makes my teeth hurt.

I eat the soup quickly, trying not to think about the purple light on my hands. What is happening to me? Am I getting sick? Or is it something worse?

Later that night, after Aunt Elena goes to sleep, I lie awake on my bed. The room is dark and quiet. I pull off my work gloves and hold my hands up in the shadows. Nothing happens. The skin looks normal, just old scars and dirt.

Maybe I am losing my mind. Life in the dump can do strange things to a person.

Then, a loud crash shakes the metal door of our building.

I sit straight up. Aunt Elena is already out of her bed, holding the sharpened knife in her hand. Her face is pale.

Stay here, she says.

Before I can move, the door flies open with a loud bang. Heavy boots stomp into our room. Three men in shiny black armor stand in the doorway. Their faces are hidden behind metal masks, and their hands hold glowing blue swords.

They are elite guards from the high glass towers. They never come down to the slums unless someone is scheduled to die.

Aunt Elena steps in front of me, raising her knife. Get out of my house, she says, but her voice shakes.

The lead guard does not even look at her. He raises his blue sword, and a bright beam of light shoots forward. Aunt Elena lets out a sharp gasp and falls hard to the floor. She does not move.

Aunt Elena! I shout, jumping off the bed.

The guard turns his cold metal mask toward me. His voice sounds flat and mechanical.

Target confirmed. Kian Vance. The bloodline ends tonight.

He raises his sword to strike, and the purple light on my hands suddenly bursts into flame.