Night did not arrive all at once.
It soaked into the city the way damp soaked into cloth, darkening the edges first before settling everywhere light had grown too tired to defend. Lamps flared reluctantly, their flames thin and wavering, more suggestion than promise. Smoke pressed low against the streets, trapped by the cold, carrying the familiar winter blend of old ash, damp refuse, and iron worked too long and too often.
Kael moved carefully.
Not cautiously. Carefully.
Care was not fear. It was repetition refined into habit.
Three years in the Lower City had taught him where sound lingered, where it died, and where it echoed just enough to draw attention. He knew which stones shifted underfoot, which walls leeched warmth, and which corners collected men who did not ask twice.
The tannery alley still smelled wrong.
That was good.
Even now, long after most work had ended, the air here remained thick with rot and chemicals, sharp enough to sting the back of his throat. The walls were slick, stained dark by decades of runoff. Rats avoided it. People avoided it more.
He knelt and eased a loose brick free with practiced fingers.
It came away without complaint.
Inside the shallow hollow lay the cloth bundle. He did not open it immediately. He weighed it in his palm first, anchoring himself in certainty. The city had not taken this yet.
Copper spilled out first.
Worn thin. Mismatched. Some shaved until their markings were ghosts. He lined them against the stone, counting by feel as much as sight.
Twenty.
Two iron lay beneath them—dark, heavy, unmistakable even in poor light. Iron announced itself. It rang differently. It carried weight beyond its size.
He rolled one between his fingers.
Iron remembered.
The first iron had cost him his face.
A year ago on the docks, a foreman had accused him of skimming from a crate job. The accusation had been wrong. That had not mattered. The first blow had shattered light before it brought pain, warmth flooding where his eye had been. Blood had filled his mouth, thick and coppery.
By morning, both eyes were swollen shut.
He had worked anyway.
Blind. Guided by kicks and curses, hands moving by memory until the job was finished. When it ended, the iron coin had been tossed at his feet.
He had picked it up.
The second iron had broken something deeper.
A scaffolding job near the upper quarter. A slip—not far, not fatal—but enough. A boot drove into his ribs with a sound he still heard sometimes, dry and hollow. Breathing had become optional for days afterward.
He had not complained.
Iron was iron.
The silver lay apart.
He did not place it with the others.
Silver felt wrong.
Too clean. Too smooth. Too quiet. It caught even weak light and returned it pale and cold, as if it belonged to a different system of value entirely.
That coin had nearly cost him his remaining arm.
A courier job. Night work. Sealed message. He had felt pursuit before he saw it—the way the air changed, footsteps aligning too cleanly with his own.
When they caught him, they did not threaten.
They twisted.
Slowly. Methodically. Pressure built until a detached thought surfaced: If this breaks, I am finished.
Something inside him had compressed then.
Not strength.
Refusal.
He had torn free with a sound that burned his throat raw. The bone had held. Barely. The silver had been thrown after him as they fled—more insult than payment.
He wrapped the coins again and pressed the brick back into place, scraping his knuckles until pain returned him to the present.
Then he stood and moved.
The bakery was closing.
Warmth leaked through the open door in heavy breaths, carrying yeast, smoke, and burned crust. His stomach tightened painfully. Inside, the baker swept flour into a tin, sleeves rolled, arms dusted white.
The man glanced up. "You again."
Kael waited.
The baker snorted. "You're late."
"Work," Kael said.
"Always." The baker reached behind the counter and produced a loaf—not fresh, not good, but not moldy. He tore it in half and pushed it across. "Eat slow. You choke, I'm not dragging you outside."
The crust was hard. The inside faintly sour. It was the best thing Kael had eaten in two days.
"Thanks," Kael said.
The baker watched him chew. "Still near the forge?"
"Yes."
"Good." A pause. "Heat keeps men honest. Or at least visible."
Kael nodded.
"Winter's getting worse," the baker added. "If you disappear, I'll assume you got smart."
Kael did not answer.
When he stepped back into the street, the warmth clung to him for a few steps before the cold reclaimed it.
The scrap stall sat where the street bent inward, half-hidden by shadow and refuse. The man who ran it had one good eye and fingers permanently stained black. Crates overflowed with bent nails, cracked fittings, broken blades.
"You walk like a cat," the man said. "Makes me nervous."
"Sorry."
"Don't be." A grin split his face. "Means you're still alive."
Kael held out a small bundle.
The man untied it and whistled. "That's a lot of scraps."
"I won't need them tonight."
"No?" He weighed the bundle, then returned it half-full. "Take these. Don't want the rest."
"That's too much."
The man shrugged. "You're light. Scrap likes weight. Helps balance."
He slid a strip of dried meat across the crate. "Chew it till it forgives you."
"Why?" Kael asked.
"Because you don't complain," the man said. "And when you fall, you fall quiet."
Kael accepted the food.
He returned to the edge of the forge district as night deepened.
Heat rolled outward in slow waves, carrying iron, oil, and coal dust. Hammer struck anvil in measured rhythm. The smith worked without waste—stance aligned, motion efficient, power drawn from balance more than muscle.
Kael watched his feet.
Customers came and went. Poor ones loud. Wealthy ones silent. The smith did not change for either.
When the forge finally quieted, Kael remained.
Iron lingered in the air.
Winter was not finished.
And survival, by itself, was no longer enough.