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Trifecta Soldier
Chapter 1: The Quarter’s Harsh Embrace

Chapter 1: The Quarter’s Harsh Embrace

In the sprawling slums known as the Quarter, strangers were common enough as new arrivals were dumped here regularly, courtesy of the Empire’s silent decisions. But this one… she was too small. A girl, no more than six or seven, wearing a grimy shift that draped off her tiny frame. She huddled near a sagging signpost, shoulders hitching as she cried into her sleeves.

Mattius paused in the narrow lane, stilled by the sight. The Quarter’s morning light was flat and gray, as if filtered through layers of soot and old regrets. He could smell the usual mix: stale cooking oil, rotten produce from the half-collapsed market stalls nearby, and the tang of rusted metal that lined the old scaffolding overhead. Buildings loomed on either side, patched with scrap plating and cloth awnings, creating a canyon of rubble. The air wasn’t toxic or anything—this planet was certainly “inhabitable”—but the atmosphere felt heavy just the same, weighed down by poverty and neglect.

It had been years since Mattius himself had arrived in the Quarter, alone and terrified. He still remembered the hunger and the hopelessness that followed him every waking moment. Compassion in a place like this wasn’t just rare; it could be dangerous. Offering a helping hand was like painting a target on your back. Yet here he was, lingering, heart twisting at the sight of this crying child.

He took a step closer, then stopped. Helping her meant involving Old Karvel. The tavern keeper had his hands full already. Over the years, Karvel had sheltered a handful of strays—kids who got dumped here by the Empire or abandoned by desperate parents. Mattius had been one of them once upon a time. Karvel was no saint, but he’d kept Mattius from starving, given him a dry mat to sleep on, and taught him basic survival trades. In return, Mattius foraged scraps, ran errands, and never complained too loudly. It was a delicate balance. Could Karvel take another kid?

The practical part of Mattius said no. The Dented Flask—Karvel’s run-down tavern—was already stretched thin. Rationing was tight. Another child would mean less for everyone, and Karvel didn’t have infinite patience. Lately, the old man was more short-tempered than ever, worrying about supply deals and the encroachment of local toughs who might decide his half-rotten bar was worth shaking down. Mattius thought of the girl’s hungry eyes, the inevitable complaints. And yet…

The memory of his own arrival burned in his mind. He’d been just a boy—older than this one, but still too young to handle life here. Karvel had grumbled, sure, but ultimately let Mattius stay. Without that kindness, Mattius might have ended up dead in a gutter or working for some petty warlord who controlled a few blocks of the Quarter. He owed Karvel a debt. Would Karvel extend that same grudging mercy to another terrified child?

Mattius chewed the inside of his cheek, uncertainty gnawing at him. He tried to imagine turning away, leaving the girl sobbing against the fence. If he just walked off now, who would help her? In a place like this, isolation was a death sentence, especially for a kid. If predators didn’t find her, starvation would. And the Quarter had no shortage of predators—human and otherwise.

She sobbed again, a thin, desperate sound. He looked around, scanning the rooftops. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Sure enough, there they were: two cloaked silhouettes perched atop a crooked balcony railing on the opposite side of the street. He’d seen them before, or at least he thought he had—odd watchers who never approached, never spoke. They always stood too far away to identify their faces. Were they following him? Observing his choices?

Mattius’s spine prickled. If he helped the girl, would that draw unwanted attention from these strangers? If he didn’t, would they judge him somehow? He realized how absurd that was—they didn’t owe him anything, and he certainly didn’t owe them an explanation. But their presence felt… guiding, somehow, as if they were waiting to see what he would do.

To hell with them, he thought. He wasn’t going to let a pair of eerie onlookers dictate his choices. The only question that mattered now was whether his conscience could live with abandoning a child in need. His conscience won out.

“Hey,” Mattius said softly, taking a step forward. The girl flinched, wiping her face with a grubby sleeve as if trying to appear less vulnerable. “Are you… all right?” Of course she wasn’t. What a stupid question.

She shook her head, biting her lip. Her eyes were puffy, her cheeks streaked with grime. She looked around, confused, frightened. “Where—” Her voice cracked. “Where am I?”

“The Quarter,” Mattius said. “They put you through that big old gate, didn’t they?” The Empire was fond of these gates. They used them to cast out the ones they didn’t want—people without Talent or value. It had happened to him, too. He still dreamed about that moment, about how it felt to have the door slam behind him.

Her silence was answer enough. She didn’t know the rules here, how everything cost something, how trust was scarce. Mattius offered her a hand, slowly, so as not to scare her. “Look,” he said gently, “I can take you somewhere safer than this street. It’s not much, but there’s a tavern—Old Karvel’s place. He might have a corner for you.”

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Her eyes searched his, tears welling again. She wanted to believe him, but this was a world stripped of comfort. “You promise?” she whispered.

Mattius’s chest tightened. He couldn’t promise Karvel would be thrilled, but he could promise to try. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “I can’t take you back… wherever you came from. But I can at least make sure you’re not out here alone.”

The girl hesitated, then reached out, and Mattius felt her small, cold fingers close around his. He helped her to her feet. She was so light, so fragile it seemed a strong wind might blow her away. When he looked up at the rooftops again, the watchers hadn’t moved. They stood there, silent observers, as if evaluating his compassion. He tried to ignore the unease they inspired.

Leading the girl through the Quarter was no simple task. The narrow alleys were a patchwork of rusted fences, broken railings, and puddles of murky water. Loose stones and debris made every step uncertain. People loitered in corners, sizing each other up. A trio of adolescents eyed the girl and Mattius as they passed, but did nothing. In some corners, a few children rummaged through trash bins, looking for anything remotely edible. This was life here—scrounge or starve.

As they neared the Dented Flask, Mattius tried to sort out what to say to Karvel. The old man would scowl for sure. The last time Mattius brought someone for help, Karvel lectured him about finite resources and hard choices. Karvel made it clear that Mattius’s welcome was contingent on not pushing him too far. Could Karvel say no this time? Possibly. Then Mattius would have to figure out another solution. He had a few acquaintances in these twisting backstreets, but none as reliable as Karvel.

What if Karvel refuses? The thought haunted him. He pictured the girl’s face if he had to lead her right back outside into the dusty streets. No, he wouldn’t allow that. He’d do whatever it took—trade his morning’s salvage for an extra ration, sweep the floors double-time, anything to convince Karvel this was manageable. He was older now, stronger, and could work harder to compensate. Surely that would sway the old man.

The tavern appeared ahead. If you didn’t know its name, you might miss it entirely. The Dented Flask was just another patched-up building with a half-torn awning and a scorched wall where someone had tried to burn it down years ago. The sign out front was a piece of bent metal vaguely shaped like a flask, hammered into the doorframe with uneven nails. Inside, a single lamp usually provided the only decent light. It wasn’t inviting, exactly, but it was safer than most corners of the Quarter.

Mattius pushed the door open, careful to keep the girl behind him. The smell of old grain and yeast hit him at once. Karvel stood behind his makeshift bar: a few planks laid across stacked crates. He was sorting through a basket of wilted greens, muttering curses under his breath. He didn’t look up immediately, too focused on his inventory.

Mattius cleared his throat. “Karvel,” he said softly.

The old man raised his gaze, and his eyes narrowed on the girl standing partially behind Mattius, clutching his jacket. Karvel’s brow furrowed. He set down a handful of greens, cracked his knuckles, and then folded his arms. “Mattius,” he said, voice low and gravelly, “who’s this?”

Mattius stepped aside to let Karvel see her better. The girl trembled slightly, trying to make herself smaller. “Found her crying near the fence,” Mattius said. “Just pushed through the gate, I think. She’s got nowhere to go.”

Karvel let out a long breath through his nose. “I’m not running an orphanage,” he growled. “You know rations are tight. I can barely keep you fed, boy, let alone another mouth.”

“I know,” Mattius said quickly. He glanced at the girl’s terrified face, then back to Karvel. “I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll find more salvage, do more chores. Just… she can’t stay out there alone. Not a kid this young.”

Karvel’s lips pressed into a thin line. He glanced at the girl, then at Mattius. There was an unspoken understanding in the old man’s gaze—he remembered that Mattius had once stood in that same doorway, desperate and hungry. Finally, Karvel sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly. “All right,” he said, voice rough. “She can sleep in the back room with the others.”

The girl’s eyes lit with relief, tears threatening to spill again. She dipped her head, whispering something too quiet to hear. Mattius exhaled slowly. He’d known Karvel would come through, gruff as he was. A man didn’t keep his door open this long in the Quarter without having at least a sliver of conscience.

“Thank you,” Mattius said. He knelt to give the girl a reassuring nod. “Go on, through that curtain,” he said, pointing to a tattered cloth hanging in a doorframe at the rear. “There are others back there, kids like you.”

She hesitated, then scampered toward the curtain. Mattius watched her go, listening as her footsteps faded into the quieter murmur of the back room. The tension in his chest eased.

Karvel grunted and returned to sorting his greens. “Don’t think this means I’ve gone soft,” he warned. “You owe me, and I’ll collect. Make sure you pull your weight.”

“I will,” Mattius promised, placing a hand on the bar’s edge. He could feel the old man’s frustration—the Quarter demanded constant negotiation and sacrifice. “I’ll get more salvage today. Whatever I can find.”

“Hmph,” Karvel replied. “You’d better.”

Mattius stood there a moment longer, taking in the dimly lit tavern, the smell of old wood and stale beer. He had acted on compassion, and it had worked, at least for now. Outside those walls, the Quarter still sprawled—a labyrinth of broken lives and twisted hopes. But here, there was a small, fragile pocket of respite.

Before stepping out again to hunt for something valuable, Mattius allowed himself a brief look through the door. The watchers were gone. No silhouettes on the rooftops. Had they approved of his choice, or merely lost interest? He knew better than to dwell on that now. He had made his decision, and that was enough.

He pulled the door shut behind him and ventured back into the Quarter’s streets, wondering what tomorrow would bring, and how many more choices like this he would have to make before fate took notice.