He had expected death. Welcomed it, even.
The cold had seeped so deep into his bones, he thought it would never leave. He remembered seeing an angel before the darkness swallowed him — long hair like smoke, eyes like mercy. So waking now, wrapped in warmth, under a blanket softer than anything he'd ever touched... it felt like a dream cruel enough to be real.
Somewhere nearby, iron struck iron. A sharp, rhythmic clanging — familiar, distant. A blacksmith's forge. He'd heard that sound only once before: the day he'd stolen stale bread from a smithy. His first theft. He had been starving. Since then, he'd stolen more times than he could count. Maybe Lady Luck had finally decided he owed her.
He thought he'd wake in Hell. Or whatever pit the poor were sent to rot in.
But then — the smell. Soup.
His eyes snapped open.
No pain. No snow. No blood freezing on his skin.
He sat up quickly, heart pounding. Stories from the slums raced through his head — of children taken, butchered, chopped up and cooked. He clenched his fists beneath the blanket. Maybe they'd drugged him. Maybe he was the next ingredient.
The door creaked.
"Oh, you're awake!" said a voice — dry, ancient, and oddly amused.
A tall, stooped man stood in the doorway.
"Vivi!" he called, glancing back. "The boy you brought in — he's up!"
Footsteps — quick and light. A girl burst into the room, no older than ten. Her hair was a strange shade of violet, tied back in a loose braid. She held a wooden bowl carefully with both hands.
"What were you thinking?" she said, her voice rising. "Sleeping in the snow like that? Are you trying to die?"
"Now, now, Vivi," the old man chuckled, stepping inside. "Don't scold our guest. And judging by those bruises… he wasn't lying there by choice."
He turned his gaze to Arcose. "Were you?"
Arcose hesitated. "No, sir," he said quietly.
The girl marched forward and held out the bowl. "Here. Eat this. It's hot."
Steam curled from the soup. Arcose stared at it, his throat tightening.
He remembered Tarin. His voice. The way he used to scrape together scraps to make soup for their little gang of orphans. The way they'd all huddle together, laughing over tasteless broth just to feel human again.
Arcose blinked. His vision blurred. He swallowed it down.
"Why…" he began, his voice hoarse, "why are you helping me?"
The girl tilted her head, genuinely confused. "Because you needed help."
"You help everyone in the slums, then?" Arcose asked. His voice sharpened, guarded. "Everyone here needs saving."
She frowned, thinking. "I don't go out much. But in the books, the hero always helps people. So I do too."
"You can read?" Arcose stared at her, stunned.
She nodded cheerfully. "A little. Grandfather teaches me. Sometimes he reads to me when it gets cold."
Arcose glanced at the old man, who gave him a warm, knowing smile.
"You can read?" he repeated, more to himself this time.
Vivi laughed — a bright, gentle sound. "You're funny."
Heat crept up Arcose's neck. He looked away.
"Now eat," she said, turning toward the door. "Soup gets cold fast."
Her braid swayed behind her as she left, leaving behind warmth that lingered longer than the bowl in his hands.
"The warmth was a lie. A fleeting illusion, like the kindness of strangers. But in that moment, it was all he had. And for the first time in years, Arcose wondered if it was worth clinging to."