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I know it’s probably more than a simple cold. There’s a sickness that roams these cramped quarters. If it doesn’t kill you, it weakens you enough that the dark elves have reason to discard you. I kneel beside her, carefully placing a hand on her shoulder. She’s burning with fever.

“Stay strong,” I say softly, though we both know words alone won’t chase the infection away.

I rummage through the corner where I stashed a ragged scrap of cloth and a tiny jar of medicinal herbs I salvaged by scouring the refuse behind a local apothecary. The herbs might help reduce her fever if steeped in hot water, but firewood is a luxury. I press the jar into her trembling hands.

“Try to find a way to brew this,” I suggest. “Maybe ask around the courtyard. Someone might have leftover coals.”

Mirena’s lips quiver with gratitude, though I see how exhausted she is. She coughs again, this time managing to stifle the sound. I hover a moment longer, ensuring she’s settled, then drift to my own corner—a threadbare blanket on the floor, a small wooden box for personal items.

I lower myself gingerly, back muscles screaming. Each movement is a fresh wave of pain where the whip tore intome last week. The memory is still vivid—my face pressed into wet cobblestones, my mouth filling with the tang of blood, my body on fire. All because I tried to defend another slave from a beating. My own sense of justice earned me a dozen lashes, which left me incapacitated for days.

I close my eyes, inhaling as slowly as possible so the sting in my lungs remains bearable. A thousand images race through my head—the child from the alley, the older man whipped in the street, the stench of hopelessness saturating these cramped quarters. It’s enough to suffocate any weaker spirit. But I refuse to be broken.

When I was younger, I believed in stories of human resilience. Tales whispered by my mother of how our ancestors once lived freely, how one day we might find a path to something better. Even though she’s gone, I cling to her words. Hope is a thread I can’t bring myself to sever.

I drift into a light doze, lulled by throbbing aches. Sleep in Lowtown is never deep because danger lurks in every shadow. It might be a guard checking for runaways, or a slaver looking for easy prey to amuse some noble’s twisted desires. Yet, the body demands rest. My eyes flutter closed.

A scream shatters the silence outside. My eyes snap open, and I scramble upright. Others in the shack bolt awake too. I exchange glances with Mirena, who looks panic-stricken. The sound continues, piercing the air—a high, anguished wail that abruptly cuts off.

My heart pounds. That scream wasn’t far. Steeling myself, I push off the floor and head outside. A few battered humans are already gathered at the end of the alley, their expressions tight with alarm. A pair of dark elf soldiers stand at the entrance to a cramped courtyard. The first soldier has midnight-blue hair braided in an intricate pattern, his armor polished and sleek.The second soldier is taller, clad in black-lacquered plates that reflect the dim torchlight.

Between them lies a sprawled figure—a human man, face mashed against the dirt, blood seeping from a head wound. He doesn’t stir.

“Clear away!” the first soldier snaps at the onlookers. Some recoil, while others linger, too stunned to move.

The second soldier tilts his head, scanning the gawking slaves. “Which one of you filth attacked our sentry?” he demands, voice dripping scorn.

A hush descends. The man on the ground likely did nothing beyond being in the wrong place. If he truly attacked an elf, he’d never have lived long enough to scream. Still, the soldiers need a scapegoat.

My pulse quickens. I keep to the edge, hoping they won’t notice me. But the second soldier’s gaze lingers on my face—on the bruises and scars. He points at me with two fingers, as if I’ve suddenly become a prime suspect.

“You, come here,” he orders.

I ball my hands into fists at my sides and step forward, each movement measured. The crowd parts. My scalp prickles under the force of his scrutiny.

I meet his gaze—briefly, but it’s enough. Dark elves despise insolence. I drop my eyes to the ground, feigning submission, ignoring the way my gut twists in revulsion.

“You will confirm there was no attack,” he commands, brandishing a sword that hums with arcane energy. “Explain to the others that we dealt justice to a traitor.”

Inside my mind, I spit curses. They want me to lie and quell any rebellious spark. I sense every pair of eyes on me, especially the trembling humans who’ve formed a circle around the scene. My pulse drums against my ribs. If I don’t comply, I’ll be next on the ground. If I do comply, I’ll help them keep everyone in line.

“I...didn’t see him attack anyone,” I say slowly, choosing each word carefully. “He must’ve—he must’ve tried to fight back.” The words taste like poison.

The soldier snorts, satisfied. He gestures at the prone figure. “Dispose of that,” he barks to a nearby pair of slaves. Then he spins on his heel and strides away, his companion following. The knot of onlookers dissolves like smoke, everyone eager to escape scrutiny.

My cheeks burn with shame. Despite all my defiance, I ended up spouting the official lie. I hate it. I clench my palms once more, the sting a reminder I’m still here, still alive—and still powerless.

I slip back into the shack. The others stare at me, some in pity, others in relief that they weren’t forced to speak up. Eventually, they return to their corners, resume their nightly attempts at rest. Adrenaline pumps through me. If I try to sleep now, my mind will devour itself. I decide to step outside once more, needing air to clear my head and keep me from drowning in resentment.

The night sky over Lowtown is starless, swallowed by a haze of soot and the faint glow of arcane lamps from Vhoig’s higher tiers. Each tier of the city ascends in steps, from Lowtown’s squalor to the lavish palaces near the apex. I’ve glimpsed them only from afar—dazzling spires that radiate magic. I wonder if the dark elves up there care that humans die in alleys, or if they actually delight in it.

I pass a flickering lantern, pausing to study the battered posters plastered on a nearby wall. Most are old proclamations—warnings against rebellion, announcements of new taxes for the merchant class, and occasionally a call to arms for the Miou soldiers. Another poster features a stylized silhouette of a demon’s face, horns curling behind its head, proclaiming a “Grand Gladiatorial Exhibition” next week. My stomach churns.The demons employed as enforcers amuse themselves by seeing humans thrown into the arena like bait.

In Vhoig, the line between demon and dark elf cruelty is often blurred. But I know enough about the demon who enforces the elves’ rule—Malphas, they call him. Rumor says he stands eight feet tall, devours rebellious humans whole. He is a living weapon in the service of King Grymlock, or so the whispers go. The overlords occasionally mention him in hushed tones, like an invocation of fear itself.

I turn away from the poster. My footsteps echo on the damp street, each step accompanied by the distant crash of waves. In the quiet hush, my mind wanders to the last real conversation I had with my mother, years ago. She told me to stay true to myself, to never lose hope. That single memory is a fragile lifeline in this sea of despair. I silently mouth the words she once said to me:We endure. One day, we find a way to break free.My throat constricts at the thought. She’s gone now—taken, lost, I don’t know. But her words remain.

I find my way toward an alcove beneath a sagging balcony. It overlooks a narrow canal that runs out to the harbor. The water below is murky, churning with refuse. I breathe in the briny wind that wafts through, ignoring the stench of rotting fish. When I close my eyes, I can almost pretend there’s a wide ocean out there, an endless horizon. Freedom might lie just beyond. I cling to that notion, letting it bolster my resolve.