Rations were already late when the line started forming.

  That alone put everyone on edge. Rations were one of the few constants: they came when they came, and everyone got them. In the lower tiers, consistency mattered. Not many other things were guaranteed.

  The ration hall squatted at the center of Low Tier Seven like a bruise — a wide stone chamber reinforced so many times that the original walls were barely visible beneath layers of patchwork and steel ribs. The air inside was always warm, always damp, always thick with the smell of boiled grain and unwashed bodies.

  Today, it smelled worse.

  Kael joined the line without speaking, Riven close behind him. The queue stretched from the distribution troughs all the way out into the corridor, bodies packed tight, shoulders brushing, heat building fast.

  No one complained out loud.

  A guard stood near the front, hands clasped behind his back, eyes unfocused. Not watching anyone in particular. Watching everything.

  Kael noticed the bins first.

  They were smaller.

  Not by much — just enough that someone who wasn’t paying attention might miss it. The lids didn’t sit quite as high. The grain level inside dipped lower than usual.

  Riven leaned in. “They shorted it.”

  Kael kept his voice low. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe nothing. That’s less.”

  “Shut up, Riven.”

  Ahead of them, a woman from Tier Eight hissed under her breath when she saw the portions being ladled out. The worker didn’t look at her.

  When it was Kael’s turn, he stepped forward and held out his bowl.

  The ladle dipped. Rose. Poured.

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  Thin.

  Not watery — never that — but sparse, the grains floating too freely in broth that should’ve been thicker. Enough to quiet hunger for a while. Not enough to satisfy it.

  Kael accepted it without comment.

  Riven didn’t.

  “That’s it?” he asked.

  The worker’s eyes flicked up briefly. Tired. Blank. “That’s the portion.”

  “For who?” Riven pressed. “A child?”

  The guard shifted.

  Not fast. Not threatening.

  Just enough.

  Kael’s hand closed around Riven’s wrist.

  “Drop it,” he murmured.

  Riven swallowed and stepped aside, jaw tight.

  They moved off to the wall and ate standing up, bowls cradled close to their chests like something that might be taken away.

  Around them, murmurs rippled.

  “They didn’t say anything—” “—again—” “—yesterday it was full—”

  A shout cut through the noise.

  “Quiet!”

  The hall obeyed instantly.

  Kael finished his ration slowly, letting the warmth settle in his stomach. It dulled the edge, but not the ache underneath.

  “They do this before inspections,” Riven muttered. “Cut intake. Make us lighter.”

  Kael nodded. “Or before transfers.”

  Riven went still.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  They left the hall together.

  Low Tier Seven looked different on ration days.

  People moved slower. Tempers shortened. Fights broke out over nothing — a shoulder bump, a stare held too long. Kael passed a cluster of kids near one of the side buildings, arguing in low voices over a scrap of bread.

  One of them shoved another hard enough that he hit the wall.

  No guard intervened.

  They reached the shelter just as a group was being escorted out.

  Kael slowed.

  Four kids. All around their age. Cleaned recently — hair damp, clothes less ragged than they should’ve been. They walked in a tight cluster, eyes down, hands clasped in front of them like they’d been taught to do it that way.

  A guard walked ahead. Another behind.

  “Reassigned,” someone whispered near Kael.

  “To where?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Kael watched until they were gone.

  He recognized one of them.

  A boy named Hale. Quiet. Good worker. Always traded his extra ration for soap.

  Riven stared down the corridor. “You sure?”

  Kael nodded.

  They stood there too long.

  A voice snapped from behind them. “Move.”

  They did.

  Later that night, Kael tried asking again.

  Not loudly. Not openly.

  He waited until the shelter settled, until the conversations dulled into exhausted murmurs. Then he leaned toward an older boy — demoted down from Tier Six a while ago, scarred hands, eyes that missed nothing. They said he’d punched an overseer.

  “You knew Denzel,” Kael said.

  The boy stiffened.

  “…why?”

  “Just wondering where he ended up. You still know people up in Six, right? We thought maybe he was transferred up.”

  The boy’s jaw tightened.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t say his name like that. Don’t… wonder,” the boy hissed. “You think you’re the first to notice?”

  Kael held his gaze. “So you have noticed.”

  Silence stretched.

  Finally, the boy looked away. “People who get moved don’t come back.”

  “That’s not true,” Kael said. “Some do.”

  The boy shook his head. “Not lately.”

  Riven leaned in. “Where do they go?”

  The boy stood abruptly. “I don’t know.”

  “You just said—”

  “I don’t know,” he repeated, louder. “And if you’re smart, you won’t either.”

  He left, squeezing past bodies without apology.

  Riven exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

  Kael lay back on the stone, staring at the ceiling cracks again.

  The shelter felt tighter tonight.

  Hungrier.

  Somewhere above them, lanterns burned brighter than they ever would down here. Kael thought about that on nights like this.

  Somewhere above them, meals were eaten hot and full.

  And somewhere within the city’s bones, children were being prepared for something no one bothered to explain.

  Kael closed his eyes.

  Tomorrow, he decided, he would ask again.