Reyn Ashford hunched over a battered metal bowl, a crude wooden spoon clutched in his calloused fingers. The slop inside was a grayish mixture that smelled faintly of overcooked vegetables and something unidentifiable. It wasn't appetizing, but it was food at least that's what they called it. Around him, other slum dwellers sat in small clusters, quietly eating their portions beneath the decaying overhang of an old market square. Most of them avoided eye contact, their expressions blank and tired, beaten down by years of struggle.
Reyn pushed a strand of long, dark hair out of his face. It hung in uneven clumps, tangled and unkempt from years of neglect. His lean frame, wiry from malnutrition, hinted at a life of scraps and stolen moments. His sharp gray eyes, framed by his disheveled hair, surveyed the world with a mixture of suspicion and defiance.
He scraped the last bit of mush into his mouth and set the bowl aside with a soft clatter. Leaning back against the wall, Reyn let his gaze drift across the endless sprawl of the slums. Crumbling brick buildings and shanties patched together with rusted metal and scraps stretched as far as the eye could see. The streets were narrow and filthy, reeking of garbage and smoke from makeshift fires. The slums of Caerhurst were a place of shadows, and like shadows, its people lived unnoticed and unwanted.
Far beyond the labyrinth of decay, the gleaming skyline of the upper districts rose against the ash-gray sky. To those who lived in the city, the slums might as well be invisible. The upper districts were a place of comfort, safety, and excess a stark contrast to the starvation and violence that defined Reyn's world. Compared to the slums, at least, their streets were clean, their homes warm, their lives untouched by the desperation that gnawed at the people down here. They were blind to it all, and Reyn had stopped hoping for anyone to open their eyes.
The slums had taught him well. If you wanted to survive, you didn't dream about something better. You kept your head down, your heart hard, and your will sharp.
A scream shattered the silence, sharp and desperate. Reyn didn't even flinch. Screams were as common as the stink of rot in the slums, echoing through the narrow alleys at all hours. Someone getting robbed, beaten, or worse it didn't matter. The slums weren't kind to those who stopped to care. Once, maybe, he might have felt a pang of guilt, but the years had worn him down. He was used to the sounds, just like he was used to the hunger and the dirt.
The scream faded into the night, replaced by the familiar hum of distant conversations and crackling fires. Reyn didn't look up. It wasn't his fight. It wasn't anyone's fight.
The slums didn't reward heroes. The slums didn't reward anyone.
Reyn slouched back against the rough wall behind him, letting the hum of the old market square wash over him. It wasn't loud just the low murmur of people talking in hushed tones, the clink of bowls being set aside, and the occasional sputter of a dying fire. He stared at the ground in front of him, lost in his own thoughts, the emptiness of his stomach a familiar ache.
The sound of laughter echoed through the square loud, sharp, and out of place. Reyn's sharp gray eyes flicked up from the ground, spotting a group of four figures sauntering into the square. Their presence was jarring amid the subdued atmosphere of the slums. They stood out from the rest of the slum dwellers, hunched and quiet, who tried to avoid trouble. These were trouble.
The leader was a tall, wiry boy with a crooked grin and a mop of greasy brown hair. He walked with a swagger that screamed arrogance, a half-torn jacket hanging loose around his shoulders. Beside him was a girl with close-cropped hair and a sharpness in her eyes that matched the blade she twirled in her fingers. The blade was crude and jagged, clearly forged from scrap metal scavenged from the slums. The hilt had been wrapped in layers of worn cloth to give her a better grip, and though it wasn't pretty, it was deadly enough in the hands of someone who knew how to use it.
The other two were bulkier, silent shadows who followed the leader's lead, their eyes scanning the square like wolves searching for prey.
Reyn recognized all four of them he'd run into them enough times on the streets to know their type. The leader, Caleb, was loud and obnoxious, always trying to prove he owned whatever corner of the slums he happened to be standing on. The girl, Bree, was sharp and quick with her blade, her reputation for picking fights almost as jagged as the weapon she carried. The other two, Rick and Tomas, were Caleb's muscle slow to think, quick to hit.
He'd seen them before, loitering in alleys or prowling the market square. They were familiar faces, but Reyn had never had much to do with them. Caleb, the wiry boy with the crooked grin, always acted like he owned whatever corner he stood on. Bree, the girl with the self-made blade, was quick and
with her blade, her reputation for picking fights almost as jagged as the weapon she carried. The other two, Rick and Tomas, were Caleb's muscle slow to think, quick to hit.
"Oi, isn't that…?" The leader stopped mid-stride, his grin widening as his eyes landed on Reyn. "Yeah, that's him. That's Reyn."
Reyn didn't move. He didn't look up, didn't acknowledge the recognition. He wasn't in the mood for whatever this was about. But the group was already closing in, their heavy boots kicking up dust as they surrounded him.
"Reyn Ashford," the leader drawled, leaning in slightly. "Didn't think I'd see you here. Last I heard, you were off picking fights with half the slums. You still causing trouble?
"Fuck off I don't care," Reyn said flatly, his voice steady. He didn't want to entertain them, didn't want to be dragged into whatever game they were playing. But Caleb wasn't the type to walk away empty-handed.
Bree twirled her blade lazily, the jagged piece of scrap metal glinting faintly in the dim light. "Annoying as ever, huh? You think it makes you look tough or something?" Her tone was mocking, her sharp eyes fixed on Reyn as if daring him to react.
Caleb stepped closer, his grin shifting into something more taunting. "Hey, I'm talking to you. Don't you hear me?" He reached for Reyn's shoulder, his hand closing in.
Reyn's patience snapped. His sharp gray eyes burned with irritation as he slapped Caleb's hand away with a force that made him stumble back. "Get your fucking hand off me," Reyn said, his voice low and steady. He stood, his movements controlled but purposeful, his lean frame deceptively tense.
The square went quiet, the murmurs of the slum dwellers fading as they turned to watch. Caleb straightened up, his grin replaced by a snarl. "Or what?" he spat, his voice thick with anger.
Reyn didn't hesitate. His fist lashed out, catching Caleb square in the jaw with a sharp crack that echoed across the square. Caleb stumbled back, clutching his face, as Bree cursed loudly and lunged at Reyn with her blade. Reyn twisted out of her reach, her movements fast but reckless. He ducked low and shoved her back into Rick, the larger boy barely catching her as she stumbled.
Rick bellowed, swinging a massive arm at Reyn, but Reyn was already moving. He sidestepped the blow, grabbing Rick's arm and wrenching it behind his back. Tomas hesitated, his eyes darting between Reyn and Caleb before charging. Reyn met him with a sharp kick to the knee, sending him crumpling to the ground.
Caleb recovered, his lips bloody and his face twisted in fury. He lunged at Reyn, throwing a clumsy punch that Reyn deflected with ease. Reyn stepped into the attack, driving his elbow into Caleb's ribs and sending him sprawling.
The fight didn't last long. Reyn stood over the group, his breathing steady, his expression blank. Caleb glared up at him from the ground, his chest heaving with rage. "This ain't over," Caleb spat, his voice venomous.
Reyn didn't respond. Without a word, he turned and walked away from the marketplace, his long hair swaying slightly as he moved. The stares of the other slum dwellers followed him, but he didn't acknowledge them. He wanted to be away from the noise, the tension, and the trouble that Caleb and his crew always seemed to bring.
The narrow streets of the slums stretched out before him, dimly lit by the occasional flicker of a dying lamp. Reyn's hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as he made his way down the crooked path. The fight was over, but the irritation lingered. He couldn't stand people like them.
As the sounds of the market square faded behind him, Reyn exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly. While he was walking away, he sighed he just wanted to be left alone.