Sol hadn’t stopped running since the fire. He fled the city like the people ran from the streets at as night descended. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw bodies submerged in flames—he hadn't seen them burn, but he could feel the scorching fire burn through the skins of his siblings. He had woken in a hospital ward, scanning the room for a familiar face with phantom hope engulfed in his palms. But when the nurse’s voice delivered the truth, when he learned there were no survivors, he broke down in tears again.

  The nurses whispered in hushed, pitying tones.

  "That’s the boy who survived the orphanage fire."

  "He has no one left."

  "He was supposed to be adopted..."

  Labels settled around him like ash, and he refused the paperwork, the social inquiries, the neat folding of his future beneath another roof. The hospital’s golden belonging to the gas-lamps felt like interrogation. He refused to be sent to another orphanage and fled the hospital the same night he had heard those words.

  Back in the poverty-strewn streets of upper Solthar, he walked through air heavy with the stench of damp and dirt. And his heart pounded like a war drum, echoing the loss he had faced. His eyes were hollow, no longer lit with dreams that he shared with his friend days prior.

  When the sun was high, and the light filtered flat through the smog, he entered the tavern. Iron lanterns swung low from rusted chains, casting shadows over the faces of men who stared at him in confusion. Steam hissed from the walls as if the place itself was breathing.

  And Solthar did breathe.

  Sol stepped in, staring at the floor, he did not dare look up. Conversations stalled the instant he crossed the threshold. Men who’d been arguing a second earlier straightened to assesses him as if he were a mistake in the room. Why would a child walk in here, anyways?

  "What are you doing here, kid?" Someone dared demand--the man behind the counter.

  "I’m looking for work. Something that pays well."

  One man nearly choked on his drink, before other's erupted in mocking mirth. No one would dare waste money sending a kid out on a job.

  "I’m not asking for charity," Sol held, voice steady. His hunger would kill him if he didn't make a penny. "Just tell me where to start."

  The man scoffed at his words. "Information doesn’t come that cheap. And no one’s handing good coin to an untested brat."

  "Get that nursery boy out of here!"

  "I’m not asking for your approval. I’m asking who wants to." His words quieted a few, but no one stood and no one answered.

  An eclipsed figure in a cloak sat by the bar, not reacting to anything just staring at the scene unfolding in the tavern, even when a tall man picked Sol up, throwing him out of the tavern. The fall sent pain through Sol’s joints.

  "Take that, nursery boy!" He mocked, "Don’t show up where you don’t belong."

  The door swung shut behind him as Sol limped up, body aching from the drop. He suddenly heard an unrest in the market.

  "Please help!" A lady yelled in his direction. He whipped to find a figure rush past him with a satchel in hand. "He's got my rations! Anyone!"

  A thief.

  Sol pushed himself to his feet. The thief was already halfway down the market steps, satchel swinging. Yet, no one else moved. People watched, locked into their small economies of indifference, while one lady scrambled for the stolen bag in a futile attempt.

  Sol moved because the body that had once practiced running for pleasure now ran because it had nothing left to lose.

  I’ll move.

  His legs were sore from the throw, his breath ragged, but he ran anyway. Past the vendors and carts, down into the city’s veins. Not for the woman’s coin exactly, not for her praise, but because one victory, however small, was his to take.

  He passed the metal stairs, hopping down in tow with the thief, dodging people and horse carts as they passed the streets. The city of steam blurred past him during the rush hour.

  He reached the ruined amphitheater near the edge of the city. The one where street duels used to be held. It was mostly abandoned now. Rats and weeds had colonized the amphitheater; kids used its tiered stones for rough games. The thief found a dead end against mossy grey-brick walls and turned to face Sol with the desperate, animal look. No, not the one of a cornered animal, yet Sol hadn't realized it.

  It was a dead end for the thief. Sol grinned in glee, he was cornered, the boy thought. Yet, he hadn’t noticed that the masked man did not flinch when Sol got closer. He turned and leaped at Sol, who panicked at the sudden shift.

  "Your stance is all wrong. You’re going to lose your teeth like that."

  The short figure jumped from above, landing a kick onto the snatchers face, knocking him out completely. The newcomer landed like he had practiced falling through air for years. Sol raised a brow, picking up the purse from the ground to return it to the woman.

  "Hey! Wait!" The boy called after him, jogging up beside him. "You’ve got the look. Like... you’ve seen some real stuff, you know!"

  Sol didn’t answer, frowning at that energy, but the boy only grinned wider. Sol studied it with a side-eye, the one with the same recklessness, the kind of grin Finnian used to wear. His chest tightened. That memory knifed the hollow space beneath his ribs, but he did not let himself reach for it. This time, he wouldn’t lose someone because he hesitated. Sol promised himself that.

  "Name’s Loen. I can fight, sort of... And talk, mostly." The newcomer, Loen, introduced himself. "You got a name?"

  "Sol," he answered.

  "Like the Sun?" Loen’s mouth worked before his brain did. "You don’t say much but that’s fine. I say enough for both of us."

  Sol stopped walking. "Why are you following me?"

  Loen shrugged. "A little birdie told me you are looking for a well-paying job."

  Sol sighed. It seemed the boy had seen his embarrassment in the tavern.

  "You saw me in the tavern. You think I’m desperate," he commented, gripping the purse.

  "No. I think you’re reckless enough to be useful," Loen chirped besides him with a grin. "No one would go to a tavern for their very first job!"

  He didn’t want to be alone anymore. Even for a moment, company would do better than wandering alone.

  "So, tell me, what's the job? Who’s paying? Or are you just another mouth running?"

  "We should go eat!" He spoke, "You must be starving after chasing that guy across all of Solthar. I'll tell you about it all!"

  And so, Sol silently agreed.

  When they returned to the lady, she thanked them profusely, and gave them a few pounds. Loen was delighted to say the least, he grinned so brightly, Sol wondered if he could become the Sun of Solthar. Afterall, he had the look of too young, blond hair catching patched light. Loen’s energy crouched on the edge of dangerous optimism to the point it was concerning.

  The short boy bounced ahead, his boots skidding on cracked cobblestone. Sol followed slowly, dragging the weight of his grief behind him with a rusted chain.

  The market never slept, hawkers still bartered with scraps of brass, children begged with soot-stained hands, and the Sun Cathedral hummed faintly in the sky above, a showcase of grandeur with it's spires.

  They reached the edge of the market square, where the remnants of forgotten magic whispered among the cogs. The sky was still covered densely. Sol looked up and wondered how it was clear that night when the moon was so bright it could have replaced the sun.

  "So, what exactly have you signed up for?" He asked fired.

  They sat down near the stall, where the cook slapped bread on a hot iron plate, and humming a hymn to the Sun under his breath. Oil and steam clung to the air, thicker than incense.

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  "Oh, just some labor, and that’s always good coin for quick hands." Loen sighed, leaning back as though he had just revealed a secret treasure.

  "Seriously?" Sol muttered as !he old man dropped plates in front of them. That sounded like a piece of cake.

  "The pay is decent! Stacking crates, hauling sacks, unloading ships down by the docks. It’s dirty, it stinks of fish, and your back will hate you—" The blonde grinned, feeling proud of himself. "—but it pays!"

  "That’s what you dragged me into!?" That was surely going to be some struggle.

  "Hey, don’t scoff. Labor pays safer than gutting rats on the trade routes!" Loen retorted. "Look, we start small, with people talking at the docks. You never know who’s going to be lending a well-paying treasure hunt out there!"

  Sol said nothing, leaning back to let out a deep sigh. His heart was still too heavy to speak lightly. Though, Loen didn’t seem to mind. He filled the silence with humming, holding his hands behind his head.

  "Besides," Loen went on to ramble, chewing his food, "I can’t lift a crate twice my size alone. With you, though? We’ll be done before the night watch even yawns."

  "I… am not sure anymore…"

  "What? Why?" He questioned in surprise, "The pay will be divided equally, and don't worry, labor is usually not difficult! Just need more people!" He chirped, almost pleading. And the other opened his mouth to reject him, but failed.

  "Fine," he muttered, defeatedly. "Show me this job."

  Loen slammed his cup down triumphantly. "Knew you’d come around!"

  The docks hit Sol like a mean punch in the chest. The whole place reeked of sweat, seaweed, and rust. Salt burned his nose, and fish guts squelched under his boots. The air was so thick with tar smoke it made his throat ache, and the boy among dock workers already wanted to leave. Besides him, Loen marched like he owned the place, weaving between workers with an easy grin and short greetings. He had been here before, with the familiarity that he moved with, Sol thought.

  "Ah, the sweet smell of commerce!" Loen inhaled like it was perfume.

  Sol shot him a look. "It stinks," he retorted.

  "That’s the smell of coin, dear Sol." He grinned.

  He stopped at a broad-shouldered man chewing tobacco by a stack of barrels, and declared, "Got two pairs of hands, sir! Strong and cheap!"

  "One of ’em looks half-dead." The man spat, eyeing Sol up and down.

  "Half-dead works twice as hard!" Loen shot back without missing a beat. "Don’t worry, he’s tougher than he looks."

  The old man grunted, then jerked his chin toward a mound of cargo. "Fine. Stack those crates to the top. You dare drop anything— you pay." He emphasized the last part, sending a shudder down Sol’s spine.

  The first crate Sol lifted nearly buckled his skinny arms. The wood dug into his palms, splinters bit his skin, and his shoulders screamed as he staggered across the uneven planks. By the time he set it down, his chest heaved like he had run a mile. Loen trotted past with another crate balanced on his shoulder, all while whistling a tavern tune.

  "Don’t tell me you’re already tired."

  Sol glared at his companion. Sweat ran down his spine, and he immediately snapped back. "This isn’t work. This is torture."

  "Nah," Loen said cheerfully, slamming his load into place. "This is honest labor. Builds character, and muscles. Look—by tomorrow you’ll be able to crack walnuts with your arms!"

  "I don’t like walnuts."

  The hours dragged. Crates stacked high, barrels rolled into place, sacks of grain were hauled from ship to ship. Sol’s back burned with every lift. The constant shouting, the stink of fish, and the endless crash of waves battered him even worse than the work itself. This is hell!

  Loen, somehow, only grew louder. He joked with the dockhand, and even tried to juggle a set of oranges until one burst across the planks. The men only chuckled, and Sol scowled. This guy is slacking off!

  By nightfall, his body throbbed like a bruised drum, maybe even like the busted orange on the plank. The old man finally tossed them a few copper coins, just enough to buy bread, enough to feed his screaming stomach.

  "See?" Loen jingled his share with a grin. "Wasn’t so bad."

  Sol stared at the coins in his palm. His skin was raw, his back felt broken, and his stomach was still empty. The noise of the docks still roared in his head, ready to burst it from the inside.

  "I hated every moment," he said.

  Sol looked out at the black water churning beneath the ships, swallowing the moonlight whole. He wondered if this was what survival meant in Solthar. The backbreaking work, stinking air, and barely enough coin to keep breathing.

  He clenched the copper tight. Perhaps, the orphanage was a heaven in disguise, and this? This was hell. He shook his head after, refusing to think of that place again.

  The two boys left the din of the docks and found a quiet spot near a stack of crate piles, where gulls squabbled over fish guts. The waves lapped against the stone.

  Loen tore their bread in half and handed the bigger piece to Sol with a grin. "For the heavy lifter!" He said.

  Sol took it wordlessly, and not without hesitation. He stared out at the dark water. The bread sat heavy in his stomach, no comfort against the ache in his body. "It’s not enough."

  Loen leaned back against the stone, lacing his hands behind his head. His eyes sparkled even in the half-light. "Then we’ll find more. The docks are just the start."

  Sol didn’t answer, tired out of his mind. Next to him, Loen hummed, as if the whole world were still worth singing to.

  "How are your jobs usually like?" He finally asked.

  "Well, it’s never anything crazy." Loen did not hesitate to tell, "There are usually restless beasts that disturb the trade routes for Solthar. We just go there and take them down as mercenaries! Sometimes, when times are bad I take other odd jobs." He leans back again, "I can fight around, but the pay is never big enough, and there are always too many people!"

  "Right."

  Loen took a bite of his bread, chewing it, "So, how would you fight? Throw hands? Magic or are you blessed?"

  Sol stared at him. Right. He hadn’t cared how things went down around him. When he moved, it felt as if everything around him could be consumed with flames. It was the Sun Charm given to him by that old granny in the outskirts. Perhaps, if he goes there again, he can find another charm… Yeah, I cannot possibly take more from her…

  "Just this and that." He sighed. "Though, I am looking for a… weapon to use. Maybe, a sword."

  "Right!" Loen perked up. "I know just the guy! The guy who will sell even to kids!"

  · ? ·

  The bell jingled as the door was shoved open. A boy with blonde hair entered, with Sol following behind curiously. Inside, the air smelled of metal, and wood shavings. The walls were crowded with racks of gleaming weapons, and Sol’s golden eyes looked at them in awe.

  He didn’t have the luxury of exploring different places when he lived in the orphanage, the most he did was go back and forth between the market.

  "Oi! Ioannis!" Loen called out, grinning.

  In a short while, a tall man emerged from the back, ducking slightly to avoid the low door frame. His hair was stuck out in unbothered tufts, and he adorned an apron that had clearly survived multiple skirmishes in the forgery. The man blinked slowly, then spoke in a drawn-out manner.

  "Loen. You bring in… another child?"

  "Not a child," Sol bristled. The man simply nodded in response, and a bored look on his face.

  "We are looking for something for him." Loen pointed a thumb at Sol, who Ioannis simply gazed at for a short moment before getting busy with his other work.

  "Hey! We really will buy!"

  "Sure… Look around, and see… What it is in your budget."

  Loen exclaimed nonsense again.

  Sol drifted down the aisle, his eyes catching on a row of beautiful greatswords where each was crafted with skilled hands. One with a gold ornaments, another had winding floral patterns, a third blackened as if forged in shadow. He reached out to one, running his fingers along the cool metal that reflected the light of the room.

  But then his gaze shifted.

  "What about this?" He stepped closer to a dull corner of the shop, and asked. A pistol sat, hidden on a small table, in the corner. It's design was unlike anything he’d seen before. A sleek and polished steel, etched with runes.

  Ioannis, who had been pretending to organize, looked up again. "Ah… the prototype. Not for sale." He answered, with a shake of his head.

  "Why not?" Sol asked.

  Ioannis tilted his head, his voice dipping to a murmur. "It is… temperamental and still in testing." His words were confusing, and Sol tilted his head.

  "I would want it."

  "Of course you do!" Loen groaned, taking a seat.

  Ioannis rubbed his chin before he shrugged. "If it takes a liking… to you… maybe."

  As Sol picked up the gun, the faint runes along the barrel pulsed once like a heartbeat. He carried it to the counter the tall man stands behind. Ioannis reached under the counter and pulled out a small wooden box. He flipped the lid open to reveal a row of dull, copper-tipped bullets. And each was etched with the same runes as the pistol.

  "Trial shot," Ioannis said.

  He gestured to the far wall, where a battered training dummy leaned against a rack of axes. A few dagger stuck to it’s body, clearly a result of earlier customers. Sol grimaced.

  "Wait, here?" Loen asked, taking a step back in worry. "You’re gonna let him fire that inside?"

  "Walls are thick, and the shop can handle it. And if it can’t… well…" He did not continue. Surely, the cathedral had more things to be concerned about.

  Sol loaded the bullet with shaky hands. He fumbled with the mechanism before it was clicking smoothly into place. The weight felt strange. As he aimed, the runes glimmered faintly, casting ghostly light over his fingers. He squeezed the trigger with a breath.

  His grip was stiff, elbows locked, stance uncertain.

  "Relax your shoulders," Loen spoke. "And breathe."

  Sol exhaled, finger tightening on the trigger further. The shot cracked and the air rippled. The bullet hit the dummy square in the chest. Instead of tearing cloth and straw, a burst of heat shimmered outward, searing the target. The scent of ozone lingered in the air for a while.

  Ioannis’s lips curled into smile. "It likes you." It was the first emotion he had shown. That is a creepy thing to say! Sol sighed.

  Loen glanced between them. "That’s… mildly terrifying." Exactly!

  "How much?"

  Ioannis tilted his head, thinking for a moment. "For you? Anything you like."

  Loen glanced between them. "You’re just gonna give that to him?"

  "Not giving. Selling." Ioannis waved, retreated to the inner parts of his shop. "Leave your price at the counter, now or later… I'm… busy." And he vanished, leaving them among the swords and glimmering metal.

  Loen was the first to break the silence.

  "Aren’t you so lucky?" He exhaled, shaking his head with mock envy, "A free weapon and a bullseye in your first shot."

  Sol gazed at the pistol in his hands, it felt like a perfect support for him. A gun coated in magic, one that shot fire than just bullets.

  "Just who are you?" Loen spoke, not with suspicion, but with a squint that was somewhere between curiosity and teasing.

  "I—" He frowned at the words his friend spoke, "I don’t get it."

  The question felt heavier than it should

  "Never mind that. Let’s hope you don’t burn off your eyebrows before we get paid." Sol followed at Loen exited the shop, he would return eventually after his pay.