Ren was as surprised as anyone when he didn’t use Sig as a distraction to try to run from the three gang members that showed up. He blamed his fondness for Sitara, and his desire to be able to look her in the eye again.

He was the most surprised of anyone when he stepped around Sig’s meathead friends and kicked out street thug number two’s knee. For this he blamed the instincts Garam had been drilling into him.

But he had no idea what madness possessed him to stay after Little-Fist arrived with Basher.

He supposed there were some horrors he really wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.

Ren put a hand on Sig’s shoulder. He was honestly impressed the boy wasn’t quaking.

“Sig,” he whispered from the corner of his mouth, “follow me.”

Then he turned and ran.

A cacophony of thumping and splashing followed him, so he assumed that Sig and his friends had listened. Their only hope was Basher’s reputation for playing with his prey.

They flew through alleys, filth splashing up into eyes and panting mouths. They slammed into walls as they hurtled around corners. They pushed aside dirty beggars who lived in the backstreets as he once had.

There was no time to slow, to look back, to care. Only to run.

Then they made it.

The alley was one of the medium ones, but a teetering pile of garbage and broken wagon parts lined one of the walls, making the run-able passage quite narrow, and forcing foot traffic through a deep pool of liquid.

Puddles and sharp edges and loose ropes and shadows.

“Step where I step!” Ren yelled over his shoulder, trusting that the three boys would be on his heels.

He bounded in a pattern he’d practiced. The filthy clothes that came from splashing in a puddle of sewage had earned more than one of Norn’s glares, but it was all worth it now.

He only hoped their pursuers wouldn’t see the ropes that were just barely holding the pile of sharp trash up.

He made it to the far end of the puddle, where the pile also ended, and stopped, spitting out black sludge.

Sig and the meatheads passed him. The meatheads kept running, but Sig stopped.

“What are you doing?” He was panting. Probably too tired to remember any insults.

“You should go,” said Ren. He didn’t take his eyes off the men who had reached the puddle on the other end of the alley and charged into the narrow passage.

“COCK-PISS-ANT-FUCKER!” One of the goons screamed as he hobbled through the puddle. He’d stepped on one of the pointy presents Ren had left for them.

The others slowed, sliding their feet to make sure they didn’t step on any of the broken bottles or upturned nails hidden in the filth. Even better.

Once the men were halfway through, Basher entered the passage too. Little-Fist was right behind him, but the gangly guy with the big mouth was waiting. His eyes met Ren’s, then flicked to the pile on the side of the alley.

He smiled.

Ren didn’t care what that smile meant. As the man opened his mouth the boy who had lived and breathed these alleys reached out and tugged on a lavender piece of fabric that looked very much like a scarf.

The pile groaned and the ropes came undone, and Ren turned and sprinted. He was surprised to see that Sig was still with him.

Before they reached the bend in the alley a great crash echoed from behind them, followed by unintelligible howling and cursing.

It had worked!

Ren was beaming so wide that he didn’t even think about the fact that he was still in the presence of boys who might still want to beat the shit out of him.

That reality hit him as soon as they made it to Copper River Ave and Sig put a hand on his shoulder.

The big boy was frowning. His eyes screwed up and narrowed.

“You didn’t leave us,” said Sig. It was a statement that sat heavy in the air for a long moment.

Then Sig pulled on his shoulders and wrapped his arms around Ren, squeezing in a big bear-like hug attack, lifting him from the ground. Ren couldn’t breathe.

Or was this just a hug.

Sig put him back down and met his eyes.

“You’re alright. I was wrong about you.”

And that was it. No apology. No remorse. Just a statement of fact. Ren supposed that was better than it could have been.

He looked over at meathead number one and meathead number two. They were pale and panting.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“Truth is,” he said, “if you hadn’t caught up to me so fast, it would be you in that pile.”

Sig slammed a big hand on Ren’s back and smiled. “Looks like Katarn put some fuzz on your peaches after all.”

Ren tried not to wince.

“Before we go, we need to talk about Sitara,” Sig said, his face serious again.

“Nothing to talk about,” he replied. “I care about her enough not to get in her way. But if you hurt her-”

Sig barked a laugh. “You know, foreign-blood, you’re not half bad.”

Ren opened his mouth to finish his threat but Sig interrupted him again. “Don’t you worry, little warrior, this has all been a wake-up call. I won’t take her for granted again.”

Ren’s stomach soured. This whole thing was fucked up. He sure as shit wasn’t going to give this guy his blessing. But at least they saw a little more eye to eye now.

He walked away.

***

As he passed through the tavern on his way to the bath, he noticed a collection of men in greys and reds of military dress.

Now that he thought about it, he’d been seeing a lot more military folks around recently. Was there a war coming?

Seven Burning Gods. He hoped not.

Norn tried to say something to him, but Garam stopped her with a wave. Spirits bless that man.

Once he got out of the bath, he noticed a letter laying on a pile of clean clothes that Norn had left for him as usual.

It was from the Osirus!

They’d agreed to meet about the debt at his earliest convenience.

***

On his way to the Osirus headquarters, Ren pondered what had happened in the alley. He supposed Sig had some redeeming qualities. At least Sitara would be safe with him.

Nope. That thought still made him want to launch his lunch all over the ground.

More than that though, the trap had worked. And he’d stood up to those bastards and landed a blow. And he’d charged past the meatheads while they were still cowering in Sig’s shadow, and acted.

He laughed as he imagined himself decked out in heroic armor, a sword gleaming in his hand, ladies swooning as he strode through the streets. Irah had always encouraged his imagination. Didn’t hurt anything to dream, did it?

But alas, he was just a mortal, with a cultivation manual he basically couldn’t use and a flute he was half decent with. It was best to appreciate the things you had when you had them.

He had a warm roof to sleep under, food, Garam, Norn, and he could see his family several times a week. He also had a hefty bag of coins. Maybe it wouldn’t be too long before his family was free.

He rounded onto the Osirus’ block. And froze.

Guardsmen milled about. City workers scrubbed the street. And above them… Above them, was a body impaled on a spike driven into the stones in front of the main house of the compound.

The eyes were cut out, and the jaw broken open.

An arm protruded out from the mouth.

And the body was missing an arm, no doubt the very same.

Beneath the body was an assortment of items lined up neatly.

Eyes. Fingers. Toes. Genitals.

He couldn’t look away.

Ren’s own eyes traveled back up till they landed on a crest embroidered upon the fine robe the corpse was wearing. The Patriarch of the Osirus clan.

His guts lurched and he promptly vomited out anything and everything that was in his belly.

***

Ren stared blankly across the table. The new patriarch, a fairly young man with a pinched nose and beady eyes, had met with him personally.

The man was smiling at him. Smiling.

“I’ll repeat that, since you seem to have lost your wits, dear boy,” said the man. “Under provincial court ruling 6787, in the case of Clan Green Mountain versus the Karakas Estate, the extra cost and risk of housing ill indentures, such as your father, allows the party with custody to set a fee for the cost of support, to be levied against any value contributed by indentured family members. Given the real estate value for a four-bed apartment such as the one provided to your family, and the cost of inconvenience having to navigate around the schedule that your father is strong enough to work and your mother isn’t busy caring for him, the debt has grown. Furthermore, as the new Patriarch, I am unable to justify the expense of further treatments, should they be needed. As I said before, under the central court precedents for such cases-”

Ren raised a hand, cutting him off. “So you are saying that my family’s debt is growing. It will continue to grow. And if my Dad’s illness flares up again, you’re going to let him die.”

It wasn’t a question. He just needed to say the words.

He met the man’s eyes. They had kind-looking smile lines surrounding them, but there was no warmth under the surface.

***

Ren wandered for a while. Numb.

He should have checked in on his family. No doubt, they’d been told the news already.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t face them.

For a shining, foolish, stupid, idiotic, cursed moment he had thought things were going to be okay. He’d thought that maybe he could help them. That he wasn’t powerless after all.

But what was the value of dropping trash on some gangsters when he couldn’t even help the ones he loved. He’d had to give up Sitara, since he had nothing to offer her, now this?

“Hey pretty boy, is that you?” It was a silky voice. Mature, but still girlish. Familiar.

He looked up. “Seraphina?”

“The one and only, sweet-cheeks.” She patted the stoop near where she was standing, adorned in a patchwork of shear silks that hid nothing. “You look just as down as the day I found you and you gobbled up that whole chicken.”

Seraphina. The only person in all of Katarn that had given him a lick of care when he’d been cast out on the streets nearly nine months prior.

Until he met Garam, of course. And he supposed Norn was on that list too.

“Come, tell your big sister what’s troubling you.” She ran a hand down his sleeve, and smiled at him as he sat down. “I’m glad to see your fortune turned around somewhat, at least.”

The wind blew and a white speck lilted slowly toward the earth. The first flake of snow.

“How do you stand being out in the cold with so little on?” he asked.

“I asked my question first, young man.” She squatted down beside him and stroked his hair.

“You remind me of him, you know. My son.”

“How old is he?”

“He would have been about your age.” She reached out and caught a snowflake on her palm. It melted almost as soon as it landed.

They sat in silence for a while.

Then he told her. He told her everything that had happened. About the fear and the loneliness. About the time he tried to say hi to her but she turned away. About the cold and the old man and the inn and his flute and his siblings and Norn and Garam and Sitara. And she held him while he wept. And she wept too.

She didn’t have any advice. Just companionship. But sooner than he’d have liked the street lamps were lit and she had to get to work.

The manual. He realized on his way back to the inn. The manual was the key.