Darkness was a liar.
It promised peace, but gave fever. It whispered of silence, but buzzed with memories like flies on a corpse. And for Veyne, it wrapped him in illusions sharp as razors-memories he didn't want, images he never asked to remember.
The shadows shifted behind his eyelids, coiling like smoke. Not dream. Not death.
Something in between
****
He was small again. Barefoot on wet stone. Rain fell, heavy and warm, cutting through the grime coating his skin. Somewhere nearby, a drunk cursed and vomited behind a broken cart. But Veyne didn't flinch. He was used to the sounds of the Lower Wedge-the chaos, the stink, the screaming.
He watched a rat chew through a half-rotten crust and debated fighting it for a bite.
Then he heard her.
"Veyne... don't sleep in the rain, love. You'll catch your death."
He turned.
She stood by the archway, leaning against the brick like her bones couldn't hold her anymore. Her hair was dark, matted from fever-sweat. Her cough was getting worse. But her voice.... it still tried to be warm.
His mother.
Not dressed like a noble, or even a real peasant-just threadbare rags and skin too pale to be healthy. She smiled anyway. She always did. Even when the blood came up after a coughing fit.
"Look at you," she whispered. "Skin and bones."
Veyne looked down at himself-nine years old, stick-thin, face hollow, eyes too sharp for a child.
"I stole bread yesterday," he said proudly. "Gave half to the boys."
"Always giving," she chuckled, then winced. "That'll get you killed."
He remembered this night. Not because of the bread, but because it was the last time she smiled at him. The next morning, her lips were blue.
And her eyes didn't blink anymore.
****
The memory twisted.
Now he was older- twelve maybe,couldn't really be sure- hunched beside a fire made from furniture scraps. He held a blade in his palm, blood dripping from the edge. Another boy lay nearby, groaning, clutching a deep gash in his leg.
"He tried to take my coin," Veyne muttered to no one.
But the street didn't care.
Neither did the corpse.
*****
Pain bloomed across his ribs.
His eyes snapped open.
Light leaked through wooden slats above-gray and muted, like a sun that didn't dare rise too far. He tried to sit up. Failed.
Everything ached. His ribs burned. His shoulder throbbed. His arm was wrapped in tight, makeshift bandages.
A shack.
No windows. Rotting timber walls. The scent of mildew, smoke, and old piss. Outside, he could hear the faint squawk of gulls and the low rumble of carts-meaning he hadn't been dragged too far. Still somewhere in the sprawl of the Lower Wedge. Probably deeper than he'd ever gone.
Something creaked nearby.
His hand twitched toward the shadow of a knife left by the cot.
"Relax," came a voice from the corner. "If I wanted you dead, you'd still be bleeding."
Veyne blinked and turned his head slowly.
A man sat on a stool. Old, by the look of him, though the sharpness in his voice didn't match his age. His cloak was worn, hood up, face mostly in shadow. What little could be seen was leathery and scarred-one eye cloudy with some old wound, the other still sharp and watching.
"Where...?" Veyne rasped.
"Slumside shack. Rented. Cheap. Safe. For now."
"Who.."
"Too many questions. You're still half-dead."
Veyne coughed, tasting blood.
"Fever?"
"Mostly passed. You lost too much blood. Don't know how you made it to the altar."
"Stubborn," Veyne muttered.
The man let out a faint chuckle. "And lucky. You had a blade in your gut and still delivered the scroll."
"Package," Veyne corrected, his voice rough.
The man snorted. "Disguised, yes. Clever for street trash."
Veyne narrowed his eyes. "You, Gray Codex?"
The man went still. Just for a second.
"Careful with names like that," he said flatly.
"You knew the drop. You knew what was inside."
"I know many things," the man replied. "But I'm not in the habit of sharing with strangers who pass out in my shack."
Veyne coughed again, this time catching it in his arm. "You gonna tell me what I almost died for?"
"No."
Silence.
Veyne stared up at the ceiling. Rain had started again-soft, tapping.
"You could've left me to bleed out," he murmured. "But you didn't."
"I had use for you."
"Still do?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
The man didn't answer. He stood instead, walking to a crooked shelf against the wall and pouring something dark into a chipped cup. He brought it over.
Veyne sniffed it.
Burnt herbs. Boiled ashleaf. Maybe a drop of bloodroot. Something to dull pain and stop infection.
He took a careful sip, then another. Bitter, but bearable.
The old man sat again, studying him. "You've killed before."
Veyne's gaze didn't flinch. "And?"
"You don't hesitate. Not like most gutter-bloods."
Veyne's jaw tightened. "Mother died coughing in an alley. Father's a ghost. People like me don't get time to hesitate."
The man leaned back, arms crossed. "Fair enough."
Something shifted between them-almost respect. Almost.
Veyne's thoughts returned to the scroll. The fight. The ambush. The dying eyes of the last man he stabbed.
Sanctum wanted him dead now. That wasn't going to change.
"Was it worth it?" he asked suddenly. "Whatever's in the scroll?"
The man tilted his head. "You care?"
"I bled for it."
A long pause. Then: "What's worth changes depending on who's alive to see it."
Cryptic. Old bastard.
Still… Veyne didn't hate him.
He hated almost everyone, but this one? Something about him didn't stink of power games or pity. Just old fire buried under scar tissue.
The drink burned all the way down.
Veyne exhaled slowly. His limbs still felt weak, but the fog in his head was starting to lift. Muscles ached. Ribs twinged. But he'd survive.
He always did.
The man stood again, walking to the door.
Veyne tilted his head. "Where you going?"
"Checking something."
He pulled the door open a crack.
Then froze.
***
A flicker of motion outside. A weight in the air, sharp and wrong.
Then--
"Halt. Don't move!"
The order barked from just outside the shack.
Low. Commanding. Not street-guard.
Sanctum.
Veyne's body tensed, adrenaline flooding in before his breath could catch up.