World Cry

Zephyr pressed his back against the cool stone wall of the alley, his breathing still ragged from his escape. The stench of sewage clung to him like a curse. He could feel it in his hair, under his nails, soaked into his skin. Every step he took seemed to squelch, and every breath reminded him that he had crawled through death and filth to get here. He needed to get out of the city, but like this? He might as well paint a target on his back.

No one would miss the stinking boy dripping with waste.

His eyes darted across the alley. Above, faded cloths hung from lines stretched between crumbling buildings. A washing vat sat on the ground, half-filled with rainwater. Zephyr didn't hesitate. He stripped, peeling away the vile remnants of his clothing, his skin shivering against the night air. He crouched by the vat and plunged his hands in, scooping the cold water over his body. He scrubbed—desperate, hurried—until his skin stung.

It wasn't perfect. The stink still lingered faintly beneath the surface, but it was better. It would have to be.

His gaze flicked upward again. The clothes swaying above were humble—common garb. Perfect. He grabbed a loose tunic and dark trousers, then found a hooded cloak—worn thin, but serviceable. He slid them on over his damp skin. His old clothes he shoved into a crack in the stone wall beneath a pile of refuse, hoping the stink would mask them.

Hood raised, head lowered—he melted into the night.

The streets of Taisora were never truly empty, not even at this hour. The port town thrived on shadows. Drunks stumbled home from taverns, sailors loitered near brothels, and thieves stalked the unwary. Zephyr knew these paths well. He had run these alleys as Ra'el, a street rat who climbed from nothing with sharp eyes and sharper wits.

But tonight, he was being hunted.

His stomach tightened. He needed money. He wouldn't get far without it. And coin was the one thing Taisora's underbelly always offered—if you were quick enough to take it.

Zephyr's eyes scanned the crowd. His instincts returned like muscle memory. He spotted a merchant, half-tipsy, jingling a heavy purse at his belt. An easy mark. Zephyr's hand twitched, but his mind hesitated.

In his old life—on Earth—he would have agonized over this. The thought of stealing would have gnawed at him. Now, there was no time for doubt. He moved.

A bump. A brush of cloth. Deft fingers like shadows.

The purse slid free. He felt the weight of the coins—copper and silver, mostly—before he even looked. His feet carried him forward, his expression blank, his heartbeat steady.

He turned down another street, eyes still working. Another target—this one more alert, a sailor with calloused hands and wary eyes. Riskier.

But Zephyr needed more.

He flowed past him, his fingers dancing again. The sailor shifted—just slightly—but Zephyr was already gone. The purse was his. He merged with the throng, steps casual, movements fluid.

As he pondered whether to try his hand again one last time, he slowed—

A good thief knew when the balance shifted. The hum of the streets had changed.

Whispers. Stiffened postures. Quick glances exchanged between those who lived by the same rules he did.

Something was wrong.

He paused, watching as two boys—runners, like he had once been—hurried past, one whispering into the other's ear. Their eyes flicked toward the crowd—searching.

Zephyr recognized that look.

Scarface's dogs were out.

There was probably a bounty.

He didn't know what story they had spun, but it was enough to stir the streets. Enough for every pickpocket and cutthroat to glance twice at strangers.

Zephyr moved, but this time, not as a thief. Now he was prey.

The city gates were his first thought, but he discarded it just as fast. Scarface was no fool. By now, the guards on his payroll would be tipped off, eyes sharpened for any rat trying to slip through.

The Sho Clan.

Zephyr's stomach twisted. The ruling family of Taisora—they were not to be trifled with. Their family was rumored to hold a complete magic pathway to Tier 3. If his survival reached their ears, it would no longer be street thugs after him. It would be mages.

He needed to disappear before that happened.

There was another way out. An old smuggler's route—a narrow crawl beneath the southern wall. Few knew it existed, fewer still used it.

Zephyr turned, his pace quickening. He cut through alleys, avoiding the main roads. Twice, he spotted Scarface's men—lean figures leaning against walls, eyes sharp beneath flickering lanterns. He kept his hood on, his gaze down. He was just another shadow.

He neared the exit point. Relief swelled—until he saw him.

Yan.

A fellow street rat. One of the few Zephyr might have called a friend. Yan was leaning near the passage, looking half-bored. Then their eyes met.

Recognition flickered.

Zephyr turned away, heart thudding. He blended into the crowd, but he felt it—Yan's gaze lingering. A second later, the boy moved.

Zephyr cursed under his breath.

He reached the smuggler's crawl, crouching near the narrow gap in the stone. He was about to slip through when a voice froze him.

"Ra'el?"

The name cut through the night like a blade.

Zephyr turned.

Yan stood behind him, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Ra'el… I knew it was you. Where have you been? Scarface has the whole street looking for you. They put a bounty on your head. What did you do?"

Zephyr's pulse pounded.

Yan's voice was curious—but beneath it, there was something else. Unease. And perhaps, opportunity.

Zephyr's mind raced.

Lie. Deflect. Trust?

No. There was no trust in Taisora. Not anymore.

He forced a smile—one that didn't reach his eyes.

"Long story, Yan," Zephyr said, voice low. "But I need to leave. Now."

Yan's gaze flicked to the crawlspace. Understanding dawned. He shifted on his feet, his mouth opening as if to say more.

Zephyr tensed.

Every second mattered.

Because if Yan chose wrong—if he called out—

Zephyr would not make it out alive.