The sun barely peeks over the jagged rooftops of Araes when I wake. The air is thick with the scent of damp wood and the lingering musk of last night's rain. Esther is still asleep beside me, her breathing steady, her auburn hair a tangled mess against the thin blanket.

  I roll onto my back, staring at the cracked ceiling, my thoughts already racing. Rent is due by the end of the week. I promised Esther I wouldn't steal again, but what other choice do I have? Honest work is out of the question—nobody hires street rats like me. Not when there are proper workers, people with names that mean something. People who aren't cursed.

  I clench my fists, bitterness rising like bile. It's always been like this. The city has always been a battlefield, and we've always been at the losing end.

  A soft knock at the door startles me. My body tenses. I glance at Esther, but she doesn't stir. Carefully, I slip out of bed, tiptoeing across the room before cracking the door open just enough to see who's there.

  A boy stands in the dim morning light, shifting on his feet. He's around my age, maybe a little older, with dark curls and sharp eyes that dart down the hall. His clothes are ragged, patched in too many places to count.

  "Hey, Dawn!" he says, grinning widely as he leans against the doorframe. The smile on his face is the same one I've seen too many times—bright, easy, full of charm.

  I hesitate. Jax isn't a friend, not exactly, but he's someone I've seen plenty of times in the back alleys of Araes. A runner, like me. A thief, like me. But Jax is the kind of guy who doesn't mind getting in your face with that perfect smile and making you believe he's someone you can trust. That's his game.

  "What do you want, Jax?" I ask, keeping my voice steady but not bothering to hide my suspicion.

  He laughs, leaning in closer as if we're old pals. "What, no hello for your favorite alley rat?" His tone is light, teasing, like there's no one else in the world but the two of us. "I was just passin' by, figured I'd drop in. You know, see how you're doing."

  I narrow my eyes. "I'm good. Why don't you take your smile somewhere else?"

  He gives me a mock pout, and I can't help but feel a tiny bit annoyed. "That's the first." He pushes the door open a little wider and slips inside, looking around like he's just popped into a friend's house for a chat. "I'm just sayin', it's been a while since we hung out. Thought you might wanna do something."

  He walks further into the small room, taking a casual glance around, though I can't shake the feeling that he's taking mental notes. He is good at that—making himself seem like part of the furniture, when all along he's scheming something.

  Esther still hasn't woken up, thank the gods. I can't let her see him hanging around; she won't like it, not one bit.

  "Look, Jax," I say, folding my arms across my chest. "I'm not in the mood. I've got enough stuff to deal with."

  He flashes another grin, not bothered in the least by my cold reception. "Aww, come on. No need to be like that. Just a little company, that's all. The city can be a lonely place, you know?" He leans against the cracked wall, making himself comfortable like he's been invited. "Besides, I've got a little gig lined up, something that could make both of us a nice little pile of coin. You in?"

  I feel a flicker of temptation at the thought. Easy money. Jax's kind of jobs always were. But I shake my head quickly, determined to stay firm. "I'm not interested," I reply, but there's something in my voice that sounds like an apology.

  He lets out a long breath, clearly not taking my rejection seriously. "Alright, alright," he says, a little mockingly. He tilts his head, eyes glinting with that playful mischievousness. "I won't lie, it's a good offer. Nothing you can't handle."

  I feel the weight of his words press against me, but I don't budge. "I said no."

  He raises his hands in mock surrender, though the grin never fades. "No need to bite my head off. Just thought you could use a little fun. You could always use a little Jax in your life."

  The way he says it, as if it's a joke, just makes me more uncomfortable. His charm is thick, but I can see right through it. He doesn't care about me or what I'm going through—he's just offering a job to anyone who's willing to take it. And the more I think about it, the more I realize he is the type to smile while sticking a knife in your back.

  "You're still a pain in the ass," I mutter, though I can't quite hide the hint of a smile pulling at my lips despite myself.

  He winks, pushing off the wall with a flourish. "Only the best kind of pain, if you ask me." He lingers a moment longer, watching me with a knowing look before stepping back toward the door. "But if you change your mind, don't be shy. I'll be around."

  He pauses at the door, one last smirk on his face. "I'll let you get back to your beauty sleep, princess. But don't stay cooped up too long. Araes is a big city, and you don't wanna miss out on all the fun."

  Before I can say anything else, he's gone, leaving behind the lingering scent of smoke and a sense of unease.

  I close the door slowly, my hand resting against the cool wood. My chest tightens, the temptation still tugging at me, but I can't go back. Not after everything I've sworn. I lean against the door, my breath slow and steady, forcing my heart to quiet. Jax's words linger like the scent of smoke he left behind—sweet, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.

  Easy money. Quick job. Nothing I can't handle.

  I shake my head, trying to push the thoughts away. Esther would kill me if she knew I even considered it.

  I glance at her, still fast asleep, curled up beneath the thin blanket. She looks peaceful like this, as if the weight of the world hasn't settled on her shoulders just yet. But I know better. The exhaustion is there, just beneath the surface. She's been pushing herself too hard, working too much.

  And for what? Rent? A roof over our heads? For me?

  My stomach twists. I must do something.

  I sit at the table for a long time, my stomach churns but not from hunger. It's the weight of everything—Mona's threat, the empty purse, the look on Esther's face when she tries so hard to act like everything's fine.

  I can't keep doing this.

  I won't let Esther carry this burden alone.

  I grab a scrap of parchment from the table, the back of an old letter Esther never got around to throwing away. The ink is dry and faded, but the other side is blank enough for what I need. My fingers hesitate for just a moment before I press the charcoal tip to the page.

  Esther,

  Went out early. Don't worry. I'll be back before sundown.

  -Dawn

  It's short, simple. A lie wrapped in just enough truth to keep her from worrying too much. I don't want her to wake up and panic, thinking I'm back to my old ways.

  I leave the note where I know she'll see it, pinned under the weight of a rock. Then, moving as quietly as I can, I grab my coat and slip out the door.

  ~

  The morning streets of Araes are slow to wake. The storm from the night before has left everything damp, the air heavy with the smell of rain and mud. The cobbled roads are slick, and the few merchants setting up their stalls mutter curses as they brush water from their wares.

  I pull my coat tighter around me and keep my head low, weaving through the narrow alleyways where I know I'll find Jax. He's predictable like that, always lurking where trouble brews.

  The market is alive with voices now, traders shouting prices, customers haggling, the scent of fresh bread mixing with the less pleasant stink of damp wood and unwashed bodies. I slip past the fishmonger's stall, the old woman behind the counter giving me a sharp look. She remembers me, no doubt. A few months ago, I would've tried my luck snatching one of her salted fish. Not today.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  I spot Jax before he sees me. He's perched on a crate near a wine vendor, casually flicking a coin between his fingers, his usual smirk firmly in place.

  I take a deep breath and approach.

  He notices me immediately, of course. "Well, well," he drawls, flicking the coin into the air and catching it with ease. "Didn't think I'd see you so soon, princess. Changed your mind about my offer?"

  "Not exactly." I cross my arms. "I need a job. A real job."

  Jax's eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn't look surprised. If anything, he seems amused. "That so?" He leans back against the stall behind him, stretching his legs out like he's got all the time in the world. "Didn't take you for the 'honest work' type."

  "I'm not," I admit. "But I need money, and I'm not stealing anymore."

  At that, Jax actually laughs—low and easy, like I just told him the sky turned green overnight. "Alright, sure," he says, flashing a grin. "You wake up one morning and decide to turn respectable. That's cute."

  I scowl. "I'm serious."

  "I can see that." He tilts his head, studying me like I'm some puzzle he's trying to figure out. Then, with a lazy shrug, he flicks the coin one last time before pocketing it. "Sweetheart, you do know I'm not exactly in the 'honest work' business, right?"

  "You know people," I say, exasperated. "You hear things. There has to be something."

  Jax exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head with an almost fond sort of disbelief. "Dawn, you really are something else." But despite his teasing, he doesn't brush me off. Instead, he drums his fingers against his knee, considering.

  After a moment, he says, "There's a place near the docks. Weeping Mermaid. Real charming establishment, if you don't mind the occasional bar fight."

  I frown. "A tavern?"

  Jax shrugs. "They always need extra hands. Cleaning, running errands, keeping drunks from stabbing each other. Honest work, more or less."

  I hesitate, and he smirks like he can hear the gears turning in my head. "What's wrong? Not glamorous enough for you?"

  "It's just…" I sigh. "Are you sure it's safe?"

  He snorts. "Define 'safe.'"

  I shoot him a look, and he raises his hands in mock surrender. "Look, it's a job. It pays. And it doesn't involve lifting purses. That's about as safe as it gets in this city."

  I mull it over. It's not exactly what I had in mind, but Jax isn't wrong. I need something, and this is better than nothing.

  "Fine," I say. "Where do I find it?"

  Jax grins, tilting his head toward the eastern part of the city. "Near the shipyard. Big sign with a mermaid crying her eyes out. Can't miss it."

  I nod and turn to leave, but Jax's voice stops me.

  "Dawn."

  I glance back.

  He's watching me with that same unreadable look, but then he just shakes his head and lets out a soft chuckle. "Good luck keeping your hands clean."

  I don't answer right away. Instead, I square my shoulders and say, "I'm gonna try."

  With a half-smile, he flicks the coin into the air again. "Just don't expect me to start doing honest work anytime soon."

  I roll my eyes and walk away, ignoring the way his laughter follows me down the street.

  ~

  The closer I get to the docks, the thicker the air becomes with the scent of salt and damp wood, mixed with something sharp—spilled ale, maybe, or the unmistakable stench of unwashed sailors. The eastern side of Araes is louder than the market, filled with the constant creak of ships rocking in the harbor, the shouts of dock workers hauling crates, and the occasional crash of something—or someone—being thrown against a tavern wall.

  I spot the Weeping Mermaid easily enough. Jax wasn't exaggerating—the sign hanging above the entrance is crude, painted with a mermaid whose tears streak down her face like she's just heard the worst news of her life. The wooden double doors look battered, one slightly off its hinges.

  I push open the door.

  Inside, the place is exactly what I expected. Dim candlelight flickers against the stained wooden walls, and the scent of ale is thick in the air, clinging to the damp floors and the sweat of the men hunched over their drinks. A few sailors crowd a table near the back, voices loud and slurred. A burly man with a scar across his nose is cleaning a tankard with a rag that looks dirtier than the mug itself.

  I take a breath and step forward.

  The man behind the counter looks up as I approach. He's older, maybe in his late forties, his expression is flat, unreadable, as he wipes the counter with slow, deliberate strokes.

  "50% off on our ursa steak if you buy 5 pint of beer." he grunts before I can speak.

  "I'm not buying anything," I say quickly. "I'm looking for work."

  That makes him pause. He leans against the counter, eyes raking over me like he's deciding whether I'm worth his time. "You don't look like tavern folk."

  I cross my arms. "And you don't look like someone who turns down free labor."

  A pause. Then, to my surprise, the man chuckles. "Got a mouth on you."

  The broad-shouldered man is built like someone who's spent his life throwing people out of taverns rather than serving them drinks. He has a shaved head, a thick, grizzled beard peppered with gray, and arms covered in faded tattoos—symbols of old allegiances or past regrets. His skin is rough and weathered, like old leather left too long in the sun, and a long, jagged scar runs down the bridge of his nose, splitting his face into something permanently set in a scowl.

  He sets the tankard down and leans forward. "What's your name, girl?"

  "Dawn."

  "Well, Dawn, you got experience working in a place like this?"

  "Not exactly," I admit. "But I can clean. I can serve. Whatever you need."

  He exhales through his nose, then gestures toward the mess behind him. "See that table in the back? Bastards left it lookin' like a storm rolled through. Clean it up. Do it fast, do it right. Then we'll talk."

  I nod and move without hesitation.

  The table is a disaster—half-eaten food, spilled ale, a broken bottle. I grab a rag from the counter and get to work, scrubbing the sticky wood, stacking empty plates, trying to ignore the way the sailors still seated nearby eye me as I pass.

  By the time I'm done, my hands reek of beer and something sour, but the table is clean.

  I straighten up and turn back toward the counter. The owner is watching me, arms crossed.

  "Not bad," he says. "You work like that all the time?"

  "I work like someone who needs the money," I reply.

  He smirks at that. "Good answer."

  He nods toward the bar. "Name's Rogan. You start tonight. Pay's a few coppers a shift. You steal from me, you're out. You get smart with the wrong customer; you deal with it yourself. That clear?"

  Clear enough.

  I nod. "Got it."

  "Good. Then grab a rag."

  Just like that, I have a job. It's not glamorous. It's not safe, exactly. But it's mine.

  And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm walking a different path—one that doesn't lead straight into the dark.

  By the time my shift ends, my feet ache, and my hands are sore from scrubbing tables and dodging drunken hands. But there's a small weight in my pocket—coins. Honest pay. It's not much, but it's real.

  As I step out into the cool night air, I pull my coat tighter and start walking home. I adjust the weight of the coins in my pocket, feeling their edges press into my palm. They're not much, but they're honest. The thought makes my chest tighten with something I don't quite have a name for.

  I cross through the market square, now nearly empty save for a few stray dogs sniffing at abandoned scraps. The stalls, once brimming with goods, stand eerily still, their bright fabrics dulled by the lack of light. It's strange to see the city like this—bare, exposed, like the bones of something once grand.

  My fingers brush against the splintered wood of a cart as I pass. A few months ago, I might have lingered, checked the crates for anything worth taking. Now, I keep walking.

  Old habits die hard.

  I push the thought aside as my building comes into view. The lights inside are dim, but I know Esther is awake.

  The door creaks as I step inside, and the warmth of home immediately wraps around me. The scent of something familiar lingers in the air—stew, maybe, though knowing Esther, it's likely stretched with too much water and too little meat.

  She's at the table, her hands wrapped around a chipped mug, steam curling from whatever's inside. At the sound of my footsteps, she looks up, and relief flashes across her face—until she takes a good look at me.

  "You're late," she says, her voice light but edged with worry.

  I hang my coat on the hook by the door, rubbing at my sore hands. "I told you I'd be back before sundown."

  She raises an eyebrow. "And I told you not to make me worry."

  I huff a small laugh, shaking my head as I drop into the chair across from her. My entire body aches from the hours at the tavern—my feet, my back, my hands, all of it—but there's a strange satisfaction in the exhaustion. It feels earned.

  Esther watches me, sharp as ever. Her gaze flicks to my clothes, still damp from the sea air, then to my hands, stained faintly with ale and grime. Then, slowly, she sets her mug down.

  "What did you do?"

  I exhale through my nose, knowing there's no way around this. "I got a job."

  She blinks. "You what?"

  "At a tavern," I say, meeting her eyes. "The Weeping Mermaid. I clean tables, serve drinks. It's not much, but it's something."

  Esther stares at me, the words clearly struggling to settle in. "You… went out looking for work?"

  I nod. "Yeah."

  She leans back, arms crossing over her chest. "Without telling me?"

  "I didn't want you to stop me."

  She frowns, and for a second, I think she's going to argue. Instead, she studies me in silence. I see the thoughts racing behind her eyes—This is dangerous. What if someone finds out? What if—

  I don't let her say it.

  "It's fine, Essie," I say, my voice steady. "I'm fine."

  She doesn't look convinced. "Dawn, your—"

  "Don't." I shake my head, cutting her off before she can bring it up. "You don't have to remind me. I know what I am. I know the risks." I lean forward, my voice softer now. "But I can't just sit here while you work yourself half to death. I need to do something."

  Esther's face twists, guilt flickering in her expression. "You don't—"

  "Yes, I do." I gesture at her, at the exhaustion lining her face, the tension in her shoulders that never seems to go away. "You've been carrying everything on your own. Rent. Food. Me. I can't keep letting you do that."

  She presses her lips together, glancing away. "You're not a burden, Dawn."

  I give her a small, sad smile. "I know. But that doesn't mean I can't help."

  She exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over her face. "Is it safe?"

  "As safe as it gets in this city," I admit. "Rogan—he's the owner—he doesn't ask questions. He just wants the work done."

  Esther is quiet for a long time. I know she's still uneasy, that the fear is still there, coiling beneath her skin. But eventually, she sighs and reaches across the table, squeezing my hands in hers.

  "I don't like this," she murmurs. "But if this is what you want…"

  "It is."

  She gives me a look, tired but affectionate. "Then I guess I have to trust you."

  I grin. "Yeah. You do."

  Esther lets out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. "The Weeping Mermaid, huh?"

  "Yep."

  "Sounds charming."

  I snort. "Oh, it's delightful."

  She laughs as she nudges a bowl of stew toward me. "Eat," she says. "Before you pass out at the table."

  I don't argue. I just pick up the spoon and take a bite, letting the warmth settle in my chest.

  For the first time in a long while, I feel like I'm doing something.

  Moving forward instead of standing still.