Just before dusk, Voron pushed open the door of the Broken Wheel tavern, his heart hammering with a mixture of fear and anticipation. The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread hit him like a physical force, making his empty stomach clench painfully. How long had it been since he'd eaten a real meal? Weeks? Months?

The tavern was moderately busy, filled with the kind of working-class patrons who came for cheap ale and cheaper food after a long day's labor. No one looked up as Voron entered; he was just another poor soul seeking shelter from the world. He spotted Milo immediately, sitting at a corner table with a clear view of both the door and the rest of the room. The Obroian had positioned himself like a man accustomed to watching his back.

Milo gestured to the empty chair across from him, and Voron approached slowly, every instinct screaming that this was a trap, that nothing good could come from a mysterious stranger offering help. But the smell of food was overwhelming, and Milo's question echoed in his mind: What have you got to lose?

He sat.

"Good," Milo said approvingly. "I wasn't entirely certain you'd come. Some people are too proud to accept help, even when they're starving." He raised a hand, and a serving girl appeared almost immediately. "Two of whatever's hot, and ale for me. Water for the boy—he needs to rehydrate before he can handle alcohol."

The girl nodded and disappeared, and Voron found himself staring at Milo with a mixture of confusion and wariness. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what? Buying you a meal?" Milo leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert. "Call it an investment. I'm interested in recruiting you for a job, and I've found that people negotiate better on a full stomach."

"A job," Voron repeated flatly. "What kind of job?"

"The kind that pays well," Milo said with a slight smile. "But we'll get to the details. First, tell me—how did you end up like this? Those runes, that mutilation... that's not standard punishment for petty crimes. Someone wanted to make an example of you."

Voron's jaw tightened. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Fair enough," Milo said easily. "Though I'll note that a man who won't discuss his past is usually either guilty or traumatized. Given that you walked away from an easy theft three days ago, I'm inclined to believe the latter." He paused as the serving girl returned with two steaming plates of stew and bread, along with their drinks. "Eat," he commanded. "We'll talk after."

Voron didn't need to be told twice. He fell on the food with a desperation that would have shamed him if he'd had any shame left to spare. The stew was simple—chunks of meat and vegetables in a thick broth—but it tasted like the finest cuisine he'd ever eaten. He forced himself to slow down after the first few bites, knowing that eating too quickly after prolonged hunger could make him sick, but it took every ounce of willpower he possessed.

Milo watched him eat with an expression that might have been pity, though it was hard to tell. The Obroian sipped his ale and waited patiently, not speaking until Voron had finished the entire bowl and most of the bread.

Finally, when Voron sat back with a sigh that was almost painful in its relief, Milo set down his mug and leaned forward.

"Better?" he asked.

Voron nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Good. Now, let's talk business." Milo's tone shifted, becoming more serious, more focused. "I'm looking for someone to assist me with a particular task. It's work of an... unsavory nature, shall we say. Not strictly legal, though not entirely illegal either. It exists in that gray area where the law becomes flexible depending on who's paying and who's being paid."

"You want me to help you commit crimes," Voron said bluntly.

"I want you to help me complete a contract," Milo corrected. "There's a difference, though I'll grant it's a subtle one." He studied Voron's face. "You're wondering why I would choose you. A broken, starving boy with no skills, no connections, no resources. Yes?"

Voron nodded slowly.

"Because you have nothing to lose," Milo said simply. "And that makes you perfect. A man with nothing to lose is a man who can take risks that others won't. A man with nothing to lose is a man who can be molded, trained, shaped into something useful. And most importantly..." He gestured at the broken antlers. "A man who's already been marked as a criminal has very little reason to fear becoming one."

The words hit Voron like a slap. "I'm not a criminal."

"No," Milo agreed. "Not yet. But look at yourself, boy. Look at what they've done to you. Those runes on your antlers—do you know what they mean to the world? They mean you're a thief, regardless of the truth. They mean no honest work will ever be available to you. They mean you'll spend the rest of your life scavenging and starving and sleeping in alleys, until eventually you die of disease or exposure or simple despair." He leaned forward, his blue eyes intense. "Or you can accept that the world has already judged you, and you can use that judgment to your advantage. You can become what they fear you are, but on your own terms. You can take control of your own story."

"What kind of work?" Voron asked again, his voice barely above a whisper.

Milo smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "The unsavory type, as I said. We'll be working for nobles, primarily. Recovering things they've lost, delivering messages they don't want traced, occasionally applying pressure to people who need... convincing. Nothing too violent, at least not at first. You're not ready for that yet."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you walk out of here with a full belly and we never speak again," Milo said with a shrug. "I'll find someone else. There's always someone desperate enough. But I think you're smarter than that, Voron. I think you understand that this is probably the only real opportunity you're going to get. Because let's be honest—what are your other options? You can't go back to your people. You can't find legitimate work with those marks. You can't even steal successfully because you're too damn honorable." He said the last word with a mixture of admiration and exasperation. "So what's left? Slow starvation? Eventual suicide? Or you can take my hand and at least try to build something from the ruins of your life."

Voron stared at him, his mind churning. Everything Milo said was true, and that was what made it so terrible. He had been clinging to some vague hope that things would get better, that somehow he would find a way to survive with his integrity intact. But a year of suffering had taught him the harsh reality: integrity didn't fill an empty stomach. Honor didn't keep you warm at night. And the world didn't care about the truth of your innocence when lies had been carved into your very bones.

"Why me?" he asked again, but this time the question was different. "You said I have nothing to lose, but there must be hundreds of desperate people in this city. Why follow me specifically for three days?"

Milo's expression softened slightly. "Because you walked away from that shop. Because when you looked at those runes, you chose to remain innocent despite everything they'd done to you. That tells me you have principles, Voron. And a man with principles can be trusted, even when he's doing untrustworthy things. A man with principles has lines he won't cross, and that makes him predictable. Reliable." He paused. "And because I saw something of myself in you, if I'm being honest. I know what it's like to be cast out, to be marked as something you're not, to have to rebuild yourself from nothing. I know that particular kind of pain."

There was something in his voice, a note of genuine empathy, that made Voron believe him. This wasn't just a recruitment pitch. Milo had lived through something similar, had walked a path that paralleled Voron's own suffering.

"What would I have to do?" Voron asked quietly.

"First, you'd need training," Milo said, his tone becoming businesslike again. "You're in no condition to be useful to anyone right now. You need to regain your strength, learn some practical skills, understand how to move in the shadows without being seen. That will take time—months, probably. I'll provide food, shelter, and instruction. In return, you'll work for me. You'll assist me with my contracts, and you'll help me with a particular personal matter."

"What personal matter?"

Milo's expression hardened, and for the first time, Voron saw something dangerous in those blue eyes. "Twenty-two years ago, a woman escaped from Obros. A woman with red hair and blue eyes, like mine. Her name is Fleur Duval, and she's family—though the exact relationship is complicated. She took something that didn't belong to her when she fled, and she's been hiding ever since. I've been searching for her for a very long time, and I'm getting close. Once you're trained, once you're ready, you'll help me find her and recover what was stolen."

"And then what?" Voron asked. "What happens to her?"

"That depends on her," Milo said coldly. "If she returns what she took and comes back willingly, then perhaps mercy is possible. If not..." He left the sentence unfinished, but the implication was clear.

Voron felt a chill run down his spine. This was more than just unsavory work. This was a blood hunt, a family vendetta that had been simmering for more than two decades. And Milo wanted him to be part of it.

But what choice did he have?

He looked down at his hands, thin and scarred from a year of hardship. He thought about the broken antlers, the clipped ears, the runes that named him thief. He thought about Sana's cold stare, her father's disgust, the Council's judgment. He thought about the year of suffering, the endless hunger, the slow erosion of everything he had once been.

And he thought about Milo's words: You can become what they fear you are, but on your own terms.

Maybe that was the only real choice left to him. Maybe the only way forward was to embrace the darkness they had thrust upon him, to become something new from the ashes of who he had been. Not a thief, perhaps, but something else. Something harder. Something that could survive in a world that had no place for broken, honorable fools.

He looked up and met Milo's eyes.

"I'll do it," he said quietly. "I'll work for you."

Milo's smile was genuine this time, reaching his eyes and transforming his face. "Excellent. I had a feeling you'd make the right choice." He raised his mug in a mock toast. "Welcome to your new life, Voron. I promise you, it won't be easy. But it will be better than eating garbage and sleeping in alleys."

"When do we start?" Voron asked.

"Tomorrow," Milo said. "Tonight, you'll sleep in a real bed for the first time in awhile. I have rooms at an inn on the edge of the city. Tomorrow, we begin your training. And Voron?" He leaned forward, his expression serious. "Once we start this, there's no going back. You understand that, yes? You'll be crossing a line, and once crossed, it can't be uncrossed. You'll be committing yourself to a path that most would call criminal, immoral, wrong. Are you certain this is what you want?"

Voron thought about it for a long moment. Was he certain? No. He wasn't certain of anything anymore. But he was tired—so desperately tired—of suffering, of starving, of being nothing and no one. And if the world had already judged him guilty, if his own people had already marked him as a criminal, then what did it matter if he actually became one?

At least this way, he would be choosing his own fate rather than having it chosen for him.

"I'm certain," he said, and was surprised to find that he meant it.

Milo nodded, satisfied. "Then drink up, boy. Tomorrow, your real education begins."