His mother stood above him rolling out patties of bread dough while Keenin squatted on the floor using his childish hands to squash crudely shaped buns which he placed on the pan beside him. There had been a time once when his mother and father would trade stories about their day as they prepared the meal and Keenin would fetch water from the well for their afternoon bath, but with just the two of them the work became more and the fun became less. 

 Keenin had almost finished forming all the buns when a knock sounded at the door. His mother looked in the direction and after a long pause, she wiped her flour powdered hands on her apron and went to see who it was. 

Keenin hopefully wished the charming and kind figure of his father would be on the other side, knowing full well that his father

His mother opened the door and a young man in a familiar set of soldiers' clothing greeted them. Keenin wondered if this man had the wrong door. Perhaps his mother thought the same. She began to close him out, but he pressed a hand against the wood and held the door open just a fraction. 

“Mam, I know this is too much, but for your child please accept the payment.”

His mother's hand clutched the handle harder. Her expression was deathly stern like she wanted to beat the man for his words, but her other hand lifted to receive an offering and the door eased slightly wider. 

The soldier lifted a rather large pouch, and settled it onto her palm. 

“There is a community over in Behoden you might consider but…”

The door was shut. His mother left the bag on the edge of the counter and continued rolling dough. Keenin looked up at it from beneath. The cloth sagged and a single silver coin fell into his hands. 

Keenin opened his eyes to a narrow yellowing sky as he sat barefoot in the dirt of an alleyway. The jangle of animal harness and quiet chatter filtered into his thoughts. He turned his head and the familiar house across the street came into view along with the young girl poking in the dirt outside the door as she waited for her father. The husband soon arrived with a large sack of potatoes and they went inside for dinner.

"Keenin."

Keenin turned to his friend Lester who looked back at him. He had gained many friends when he joined the local group of thieves, but Keenin still felt left behind.  

“You always look like you might go somewhere,” Lester said.

“What? No,” Keenin said. “I just…keep thinking about what it would have been like if my mother didn’t leave.”

It was a silly idea. That had been eight years ago, but he still clung to the faded memories that resided in his old house. He remembered his mother’s wispy blond hair, the pastry stains on her dress, and the rough walls that kept them safe.

“I think you would have gone hungry all the same,” Lester said honestly. 

“You’re probably right.”

“Anyways, I’m going to see if they threw out any bread at the bakery. Want to come?”  

“You’re still doing that. All the good stuff will be gone and the rest burnt because of their new baker.”

With a distant war being waged more food was going to soldiers and their little farming community was becoming a popular place to live and shop. 

“It’s just singed on the outside.”

“I’ll get you dried fish if you wait till nightfall,” Keenin said. “I saw the new arrivals drying it out by the river. And I got three bruised apples fresh off the cart.”

Keenin pulled one from his deep pockets. Lester took it.

“Not bad, but you better keep the rest. You know the boss likes money and trinkets.”

“He’s an idiot.” 

“He is the boss. I wouldn’t show up until you have something to show.” 

“I get it.”

The others would hassle him if he didn’t have any stolen goods.

“And stay out of the camps. They have dogs.”

“Sure, sure. You go take care of those idiots who can’t feed themselves.”

Lestor left and Keenin turned back to the street to see that the shadows had lengthened. People wandered by; ladies with baskets of food, fathers carrying sleepy children, young women gesturing to show off their latest jewelry to friends. The market street must have been closing.

“I want to play with Sophie’s dog,” a child whined.

“Sophie’s dog has to work. She’s a sheep dog,” the mother’s reply drifted over as Keenin heard the crunch of their boots.

“Then I’ll get the work done faster and we can play.”

The mother laughed. She came into sight as she passed his hiding spot. Her green dress flared with the step of her boots as her free hand kept a tight grip on her daughter’s hand. The girl spotted him before being pulled away.

“Mother,” the girl called in excitement, but Keenin had already left.

He wandered back through the village and came out from between the buildings beside the butcher's house to a flagstone street that contained as many weeds as the fields beyond. Here villagers wandered by with the last of their purchases from the market. Keenin put his hands in the worn pockets of his pants and absently inspected the ground for fallen coins or forgotten trinkets. 

Instead he noticed a torn flyer with the letters “You Could Be Chosen” and the image of a man holding fire and ice in his hands. It was true that Keenin wanted more than a thief life and an elemental could choose you at any time, but that didn't happen to kids like him. 

He looked up and across the street expecting to see empty booths. Instead his eyes fixated on a small green bottle glinting in the last light of the sun and balanced at the edge of the medicine stall. The street had become mostly deserted and the owner of the stall, a famous retired war hero, was bent down to pack his other goods.

The shadow of a cloud streaked over Keenin's face. Then he was gone. He ran though dying light and deepening shadow and caught the bottle as he passed the-

“Hey!” the merchant hollered.

Lester will be jealous, Keenin thought as rushed down the street towards a narrow ally. His pursuers boots pounded the cobbles and Keenin’s heart thumped in his chest. A sense of thrill coursed through him as he realized he would be the first person to steal from the old hero. Keenin envisioned the look on the other thieves’ faces, but was distracted by a sound. What was that sound? Like a whoosh. Like a- He suddenly tripped, saw the ground, tucked, and rolled over the cobblestones.

When he stopped, it was a painful relief, but he knew that the war hero, Alaban, stood over him. 

Keenin didn't want to look. Tonight he would not be able to share his earnings with Lester. His feet were tied and the only thing he could expect was a cold night in some cellar while the town council discussed his fate. Keenin forced himself to look over his shoulder to meet Alaban's gaze and opened his right hand where the bottle still rested intact.

"Undamaged merchandise," Alaban said, "In that case maybe a bit of humiliation in town square would remind you to respect personal property. A day tied to the post for being a public nuisance."

Keenin considered this. A display in the square was not jail, but having the entire town know his face wasn’t in his favor. Alaban reached for his possession, but Keenin tightened his hand around it.