“What is it, Murdik?” The clunkier of the two guards bellowed back to his compatriot from behind a crumbling bone-stone pillar. His voice echoed against the rocky surfaces, sending shivers down Khazmine’s arms as she held Aranthus close. “You find something?”

Don’t move. Khazmine trembled while hoping against hope that Aranthus would instinctively comply. Don’t blink. Don’t breathe. Don’t cry…

The spike at the end of Murdik’s polearm pulled up a small leather pouch with a hempen cord that easily fit in the palm of his hand. His weapon had pierced the bag clean through, ruining it for future use. Khazmine winced at the sight of the familiar pouch, and clenched her eyes shut so as not to react foolishly. She hadn’t even noticed that the money purse had fallen from her side as she dove to hide Aranthus earlier and clenched her jaw at yet another setback.

“Oh, aye. Looks like a few copper fawns an’ a silver doe in ‘ere.” Murdik counted Khazmine’s money in his muscle-bound palm and chuckled to himself. “It ain’t no king’s ransom, but a nice little bonus for working this bloody shift, eh Rolly? D’you think there’s more somewhere?”

Please, just go away. Khazmine begged the Ancients so loudly inside that thoughts ricocheted in her skull.

“I dunno. Are you quite finished mucking about over there?” The other guard snapped, clearly disgusted with the laughable nickname Murdik had given him since the start of their shift that afternoon. His patience had worn thin after having been partnered with his dim-witted and greedy Cheapsider for the third day in a row, and he kicked at loose stones in frustration. “We’re due back to report to his lordship. Come on.”

His lordship… I wonder which one that could be. Khazmine spared a single thought for whoever had orders to patrol so deeply into the ruins. As far as she knew, only the holy house’s “honorable benevolent” overseer, Lord Vythorne, had dominion over this ancient, sacred place. Not that it truly matters anyway… Death at one man’s hand is no different than death from another’s.

Khazmine waited until long after the echoes from their clanking steel armor receded into the distance before moving a muscle. Long, pale-lilac ears twitched once she realized that the guards had finally departed, and Khazmine released a deep, pained sigh.

D*mmit. Broke AGAIN… Khazmine scrunched her nose before brushing dust from her clothing. Her pained expression drew Aranthus’s interest, but he had no means of helping this half-breed recover her lost money. I shouldn’t have done it. Gah, I shouldn’t have chased this Outsider in the first place…

It was a cruel reminder that involving herself in other outcasts’ business was a losing proposition. Khazmine had lost time, peace of mind, and now her last handful of money, and for what?

“I’m sorry, Lady Kiss-Me.” Aranthus ran trembling fingers over the sea green bottle full of water. His closed eyes barely held back tears as his voice cracked. “I didn’t hear them coming and I almost got us both—”

Killed. Khazmine finished his sentence in her head with a grimace. She knew all too well the punishment for trespassing among these sacred stones. The holy house doesn’t call them “The Forbidden Ruins” for nothing, after all.

Khazmine shuddered as she remembered the consequences of ignoring one of the chief rules of Old Sarzonn. The outcast rubbed her arms at the memory of that gloomy day that Lord Amias Vythorne announced an edict forbidding passage through these lousy ruins, and the public punishment of trespassers that followed. His esteemed lordship had ordered torture, mutilation, and execution for anyone caught at the sacred site. Burials and coin offerings for trespassers would also be refused; there was no place in the Great Hereafter for heretics and interlopers.

After seeing so many terrified commoners undergo their “atonement ceremony,” Khazmine swore that she’d never go close to Lord Vythorne’s domain again… and yet, here she was.

“Hush now.” Khazmine ran her fingers through the rat’s nest in Aranthus’s hair and ruffled his tangled locks to stop his tears. “You survived. That’s what matters. Never forget that, little one.”

The dust-covered half-breed echoed those same words she’d heard many years before and derived a strange comfort from them again. Her head filled anew with memories of the woman who’d told Khazmine that exact same thing so long ago, and she absentmindedly reached for Aranthus’s free hand to escort her back to his lean-to.

Khazmine hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but Aranthus tucked his own hand in hers, and felt the calloused skin against his palm. It was easily the most warmth he’d felt in ages. The tiny Outsider glanced up at the towering half-breed and tried to put a word to this experience. What was it that this elder outcast made him feel?

“Ah, there it is. Come on, little one.”

If Khazmine’s vantage point hadn’t alerted them to the lean-to’s location, poor Pavo’s coughing would have. He’d tried to cover up the painful sounds when the pair approached, but Aranthus fretted over his companion all the same once they reunited.

“Look, Pavo! Water!” Aranthus tilted the bottle so that the D’jabareen child could drink. “Tastes good, doesn’t it? Hey, what are you doing?”

Khazmine reached high above the boys’ heads and began untying the hasty knots in the threadbare rope that held the lean-to's sailcloth in place. It was obvious to her that such knots were easy to unravel and unsuitable during the monsoon season.

“I’ll bet this falls down on you every day or so.” Khazmine wrapped the ropes tightly and secured them properly as she spoke. “You’ve gotta thread them like this, see? Nice and tight.”

The boys sat in astonishment as Khazmine fixed their sailcloth in place. For the first time since they’d scavenged the old cloth from a wagon in The Dregs, the cloth was angled, taught, and capable of shielding them from monsoon rains.

“There now, at least it’ll keep you dry.” Khazmine stood back and admired her handiwork with hands on her hips. “Oy, Aranthus. Fetch me that knife, would you?”

It was a risky proposition, handing over his only weapon to the half-breed outcast, but Aranthus did as he was told. The rusty knife gingerly landed in Khazmine’s outstretched hand, and she cut off the excess rope used to tie down their sailcloth. It was ratty and old, but it was always a good idea to keep extra rope on hand. Khazmine said as much to the boys as she beckoned Aranthus to come closer.

“Now it’s your turn.” Khazmine gestured with a friendly hand. Aranthus clearly feared what the half-breed had in mind and waited for her to clarify. “Oh, come now. Who’s afraid of a little haircut?”

Aranthus swallowed hard and sat himself on a flattened stone so Khazmine could get a better angle to slice off his ragged knots. Tensed fingers ran over the sacred writing etched in the altar piece, which the poor child was too young to know how to read. He tensed and flinched as the knife sheared heavy tangles of hair from his head. By the time Khazmine had finished, Aranthus was left with a choppy mess of white hair without a single knot in it, and a literal weight was lifted from his narrow shoulders.

“There, that’s better.” Khazmine ruffled what locks remained to free it of excess flyaway hairs. Her abrasive hand caught a few as she untangled herself from the almost affectionate contact. “Remember, long hair is easy to grab, especially in combat. Either keep it short or tie it back, always.”

Something in her tone alerted Pavo to an uncomfortable sensation as Khazmine stooped low to dispose of some rubbish around the shabby lean-to. There was a certain finality to her speech, almost as if this were “goodbye.” His tiny fingers rubbed at the silver locket around his frail neck and his friction polished it to a mild shine.

“There you go. Now don’t go stealing from other thieves now, you hear? They won’t be as nice as me, understand?” Khazmine fished out the lion’s share of wheat and rye heels for the pair and placed them gingerly in front of Pavo on his fabric pile. She saved only a handful of crumbs for herself and kept the bag to dispose of it properly.

Pavo and Aranthus both stared at Khazmine expectantly. She caught their piercing stares and managed a weak smile as a distant peal of bronze cathedral bells for evening mass broke their concentration. A shaft of light from the midtown sun clock beamed across the dreary skies, catching the trio’s attention. Before too long, the rains would start again and Khazmine needed to find shelter before then.

“It’s about time I took off.” Khazmine rose from the filthy ground and brushed off the dirt from her ragged attire. She gently laid the rusty knife down on the bone-stone rock she’d been sitting on and pursed her lips briefly before continuing. “Feel free to call out to me if we cross paths again. And remember, don’t steal from other thieves, all right?”

Khazmine fiddled with her bangs to block herself from seeing the forlorn expressions on the two boys’ faces. The pair remained silent as the half-breed readied herself to depart.

This is for the best, yeah? Khazmine winced. You’ve fixed up their shelter and gotten them water. That should be enough, right?

“I’ll see you around.” A quick glance back was all Khazmine could spare for the weary children in their dank, dirty shelter. “Good luck to you boys.”

A lingering pain stung in the half-breed’s chest as she turned away. Little Pavo’s wheezing interrupted the silence as Khazmine strode away through the ruins, and her sharp ears picked up a saddened whisper between bouts of coughing.

“Please, Lady Kiss-Me...” Little Pavo begged, just loudly enough for Khazmine to hear. “Please don’t go.”

Don’t you DARE turn around, Khazmine. The half-breed scolded herself for even thinking of it. You’ve no money, no home, nothing to give those children. If anything, you’d have even LESS with a couple extra mouths to feed.

This was clearly the right call. It just made logical sense. At least, that’s what the outcast repeated to herself with each step away from the two boys. Khazmine wasn’t gifted with conjuring magic, nor could she secure a home or food for all of them on her own merits. At the end of the day, sharing what scraps she had was the best Khazmine could do for them.

And yet, the painful sting remained, and her mouth filled with the taste of ashes. This didn’t  feel right, even if Khazmine knew, deep down, that this choice better prepared her to survive.

Besides, it’s “survival of the fittest” out here. You know that better than anyone. Khazmine reasoned as she approached the fallen stone archway to the Forbidden Ruins. She reached the entrance just in time to watch the hapless denizens of Old Sarzonn scurry for cover under a fresh deluge of monsoon rains. Merchants closed their stalls and shopkeepers shuttered their windows for the intense downpour.

Khazmine sighed under the overhang of a nearby shoemaker’s shop and glanced back towards the decrepit ruins she’d just left. With Pavo and Aranthus’s voices echoing in her ears the whole way, plus the random cracks of lightning overhead, Khazmine knew she’d have an exceedingly long night ahead of her. The only comfort the half-breed could cobble together was the wavering belief that she’d done what was best, even if it wasn’t quite right.

***

There wasn’t a day that went by over the next week that Khazmine didn’t think about the tiny outcasts. Their memories plucked at her conscience every time she had a setback or a windfall in Cheapside and Merchant’s Quarter. And Khazmine often found herself meandering back to the fallen archway of the Forbidden Ruins to check for signs of life.

Khazmine spent her days either hunkered down in to avoid the rains or begging for work in Merchant’s Quarter. No one in Cheapside would hire a half-breed “abomination,” so she didn’t bother to ask. To be fair, Khazmine did pick-pocket several lesser nobles to afford food, and Cheapsiders were justified in being suspicious of her. Regardless of her efforts, Khazmine had exhausted nearly every possibility for work from peddlers and tradespeople on the strip by the evening of the seventh day.

Hungry, drained, and low on spirits, Khazmine was just about to try her luck as a char girl at The Blanched Hart tavern when a peel of hideous laughter erupted from behind her. It was so loud and obnoxious that a few passersby even stopped to witness what was going on. Khazmine swallowed hard, drew her ears back, and clenched her shaking fists at her sides to brace for another challenge to her tenuous survival.