Rashan waited.
The sun had long since dipped below the walls of the lower quarter, leaving the house steeped in amber shadows. The heat was finally starting to lift, but the air stayed heavy—dry, unmoving, thick with the layered scent of dust, old sweat, and something sickly-sweet beneath it.
Skooma.
The residue clung to the corners of the room like mold. Faint, but unmistakable.
The ceiling creaked softly overhead. From the bed, the woman's breath rasped in shallow pulls—not sleep. Crash.
He didn't need to look to know what shape she was in. He'd already seen it too many times.
It was nearly dark when the door creaked open.
She stepped in like a shadow—quiet, cautious, measured.
The red-haired girl.
Her movements were sharp, deliberate. Not elegant, but efficient—the way someone moved when they'd lived most of their life one bad turn from danger. Light frame. Quick posture. Small for her age, but there was nothing soft in her build. She'd been shaped by necessity.
Her hair—copper-red, dulled with grime—was tied back with a strip of torn cloth, uneven like it had been cut with a knife. Loose strands hung in her face, catching the fading light like dying embers.
Her tunic was long and patched at the seams, cinched at the waist with twine. Oversized, but tightened to move. Her boots didn't match—one leather, one hide, both warped, both barely holding together.
She scanned the room in a single glance.
Eyes like flint.
No panic. Just calculation.
Rashan didn't move.
"Do you remember me?" he asked, calm. "You took my coinpurse."
She didn't answer.
Didn't deny it.
But her shoulders shifted—a subtle lift, a brace. Not guilt. Not fear. Just readiness. Like she expected something to come next. Something worse.
"I'm not here to turn you in," he said. "The guards aren't coming."
Still no reply.
But she didn't leave.
He let the silence stretch a second longer, then continued.
"I came to offer you something."
Her expression didn't change. Not much. Just the barest flicker behind her eyes. Not disbelief. Suspicion. Smart girl.
"You've got instinct," Rashan said. "Not just survival. Awareness. Control. You move like someone who's had to learn by doing."
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
"I've seen talent before. Yours isn't polished. But it's real. And it can be shaped—if you want that."
Her eyes flicked briefly toward the bed.
He followed the glance, just for a second. The woman hadn't moved. Still breathing, still twitching slightly as her body fought through the crash.
Jalil's report had filled in most of the blanks.
A caravan had brought them into the city nearly a year ago. The father—dead before they arrived. Nobody asked how. Nobody cared. The woman had turned to prostitution not long after. First discreet clients—merchant sons, caravan guards. Then anyone with coin.
Then came the skooma.
Rashan looked back at the girl. She was still standing between him and her mother.
"I'm not going to lie to you," he said. "If you stay here, this"—he gestured slightly—"doesn't get better."
He let that sink in before continuing, quieter now.
"She won't change. Not because you want her to. Not because you love her. Good intentions don't fix people who don't want to be fixed."
He said it simply. No anger. No judgment.
The girl's hands twitched. Her jaw clenched.
But she didn't argue.
"You don't owe her your life just because she gave you one."
That one landed.
He saw it in her face, even if she didn't flinch.
Still silent. Still standing guard.
But her feet hadn't moved.
She hadn't run.
"Cassia," Rashan said, finally.
Her name hung in the air like dust. It was the first time he'd said it. The first time she'd heard it from someone who wasn't slurring or shouting.
"You don't have to decide now. But the door doesn't stay open forever."
He stood slowly. His knees cracked, but he ignored it. One hand brushed dust from his tunic. He didn't posture. He didn't tower. Just stood.
"If you want something different," he said, "come to my estate."
His tone was even.
Not offering comfort. Offering reality.
"You'll eat. You'll train. You'll learn to stand on your own."
He turned to leave, then paused at the doorframe, glancing once more at the woman on the bed.
"If you stay here, I understand."
A pause.
"But war is coming."
That got her attention.
Her brow furrowed—not in confusion, but thought.
He met her stare.
"The Imperials. The Thalmor. And when it breaks, it won't care if you're guarding a gate or hiding in a gutter. If you're not ready, it'll take you all the same."
It wasn't dramatic.
Just a fact.
Then, just before stepping out, his voice shifted—dry, not unkind.
"Oh—and next time," he said, with the ghost of a smirk, "don't go for my coinpurse. I might not be so generous."
And with that, Rashan stepped into the warm night air, leaving behind a fading room, a twitching shadow on the bed, and a girl—Cassia—who hadn't said a word, but had heard every single one
——————————————————
Cassia stood still long after he left.
The door had clicked shut, but the weight in the room hadn't gone with him.
It lingered in the stale heat. In the skooma-stained air. In the way her mother hadn't stirred once.
She didn't move. Didn't sigh. Just stared at the crack in the wall near the bed. She knew every flaw in this place. Every draft, every rotten plank, every stone that would creak if you stepped too hard. This had been her world for nearly a year.
And she hated every inch of it.
Now he'd sat in her house.
Alone. Calm. Like this wasn't the worst corner of the city.
He'd made an offer.
Most stories ended differently—someone like her caught red-handed didn't usually get a second chance.
But he hadn't grabbed her. Hadn't threatened her. Just… looked at her.
Spoke to her like she mattered.
Something different.
Something real.
A way out—if she wanted it.
She didn't know what to make of that.
Her eyes drifted to her mother.
Same as always. Curled on the mattress, one arm half-hanging off the side, mouth open, skin pale with that sickly yellow tinge. She hadn't spoken a full sentence in days.
There'd been a time—maybe a year ago—when Cassia still tried. When she thought maybe if she could just get the right food, or keep her warm, or stay quiet on the bad days, her mother would come back.
Not wake up—come back.
But she never did. And the trying started to feel stupid. So she stopped. She still brought her things. Still covered her with a blanket. But hope? That had gone dry a long time ago.
The woman in that bed was just a shadow. And Cassia was done pretending it was more than that.
What Rashan said kept looping back.
"She won't change. Not because you want her to. Not because you love her. Good intentions don't fix people who don't want to be fixed."
It hadn't come with judgment.
That's what made it worse.
It was just the truth. One Cassia already knew—but never said out loud. Not even in her head.
She crossed the room and sat in the same chair he'd used. It wobbled under her weight. She didn't care.
Her hands were calloused, fingers twitchy from a life of snatching things fast and vanishing faster. She looked at them now. Scarred, dirty, but still hers.
They weren't made for anything delicate.
But they worked.
She stood again and crossed to the bed. Her mother didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't breathe right, either.
Cassia stared at her for a long time.
Then she pulled the blanket up over her shoulder, out of habit more than care.
She wasn't sure if it was kindness or just muscle memory.
She turned toward the door.
That's when it hit her:
She didn't even know the boy's name.
Didn't know where his estate was.
Didn't know how to get there.
But she would find it.
Somehow. Some way.
She stepped outside barefoot. The stone was still warm from the day's heat. The city was quieter now, but never silent. It never really slept.
And for the last time, Cassia left her house.