Volume One : Beginning of Threads
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"Let's start then," Dusk muttered under his breath as his eyes opened to the faint light seeping through cracks in the roof. His pupils, a deep crimson, glimmered faintly against the dim, shabby ceiling above him.
For a moment, he stayed still, listening to the soft sound of breathing beside him. The tiny shack they called home was quiet, save for the occasional twitch of rabbit ears from the little girl curled up next to him. She slept peacefully, oblivious to the chill of dawn creeping through the gaps in the wooden planks.
With a tired groan, Dusk pushed himself up from the wooden bed. The mattress was nothing more than stuffed rags, the frame creaking under his weight. He was only twelve years old—thin, with fair skin and a body hardened not by luxury but by constant work and hunger. Running a hand through his messy black hair, he tried to flatten it into something presentable, though the strands stuck up rebelliously.
His eyes shifted to the shack around him. It was pitifully small and bare. A rickety wooden table leaned dangerously to one side as if a single touch might collapse it. Two stools sat nearby, one with a broken leg repaired badly with rope. In the corner was a crate with a hole gnawed through it, doubling as storage. Against the far wall, across from the deteriorating wooden door, an old stove sat beneath a rusty crock. The fire had long since died out, leaving behind cold gray ash that smelled faintly of smoke.
Dusk padded barefoot to the crate. Inside lay a few ragged clothes, three loaves of bread, and a small pouch of coins. Forty-seven fins —each one hard-earned. His hand lingered on the bread. Two of the loaves were blackened lumps, so overbaked they resembled charred stones rather than food. Only one loaf was soft enough to eat without breaking teeth.
Dusk's stomach growled, but without hesitation, he reached for one of the burnt loaves.
Crack!
The crust was hard enough to nearly chip his front teeth. His jaw ached as he chewed, forcing the bitter, smoky taste down. Still, he didn't complain. The good loaf wasn't for him.
Turning, he glanced at the little girl stirring awake on the bed.
"Dawn," he whispered gently. "Wake up."
She stirred, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists. Her silver hair fell messily over her face as her long rabbit ears twitched upright.
"Brother? Good morning," she mumbled, her voice soft.
"Morning," Dusk said, managing a small smile.
Dawn looked almost like him —red eyes, but her silver hair and rabbit ears set her apart. She was only nine, far too young to endure the hardships of slum life, yet she never once complained.
Dusk handed her the good bread, keeping the ruined one for himself. "Eat this. Slowly," he said, brushing crumbs from her cheek as she bit into it.
Before leaving, he reminded her in a firm tone: "Don't open the door for anyone. Not until I'm back. If you want to play outside, wait until there are lots of people around."
Dawn nodded obediently. "Okay, Brother."
With that, Dusk stepped outside.
The morning air was crisp, carrying a faint chill that made his thin shirt cling to his skin. The narrow streets were already stirring with life. Men in plain linen shirts and rough trousers trudged toward work, while women in worn dresses with oversized pockets carried baskets or called out to neighbors. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, bread, and smoke.
Not everyone was human. A man with scales like a lizard trudged past, his long tail dragging in the dirt. A woman with cat ears balanced a basket on her head, while children with dog ears chased one another through the alleys.
Still, most people looked ordinary— brown hair, brown eyes. Rarely, someone with green or blue eyes stood out. Black hair, like his own, wasn't unusual, but his and Dawn's red eyes? They were unlike anyone else's. Dusk often wondered why.
He tightened his grip on the newspaper bundle waiting at the corner. Older boys hauling the stacks greeted him with smiles before tossing him one. Dusk hefted it easily and set out, delivering each paper with sharp precision. His throws were smooth, practiced—it was clear this wasn't his first time.
By 7 a.m., his work was done. He returned to the company and collected two fins, pocketing them with a small sigh of relief. But his day had only begun.
Job after job followed. By midday, he and Dawn stood in line at the church for free lunch. The crowd was orderly, silent. Everyone knew better than to make trouble. The church was strict—if chaos erupted, they would simply walk away, leaving the hungry masses behind. Dusk still remembered the day a man tried to cut in line. The mob's fury was so great they trampled him to death before the church guards even moved.
Today, luck was on their side. The food was curd rice with pomegranate seeds—a rare blessing. Dawn's eyes sparkled as she tasted it.
"The church rarely gives rice," a ragged man nearby muttered.
"I heard an Excellency is coming for inspection," another replied. "They say it's Luminar from the church."
Dawn tugged on Dusk's sleeve. "Brother, what's a Luminar?"
Dusk only shrugged. He couldn't read, didn't know much about titles or the church's hierarchy. All he knew was that food was given every day at one o'clock. That was enough.
After lunch, he dropped Dawn home and went to his next task —scavenging near the bridge dumpster. The stench of rotting waste filled the air as dozens of children dug through scraps, hoping for anything they could sell. Dusk found little, and by three o'clock, after selling what he could, he received only a single fin.
Frustrated but resigned, he went to the river. The forest nearby whispered with the rustle of leaves as he washed the grime from his clothes. The cool water soothed him, though hunger gnawed at his belly. Counting his coins, he had twelve fins left.
He hurried to a bakery before the evening rush. The baker, familiar with him, sold him unsold bread at half price. With the bundle in hand, Dusk walked home.
Dusk looked at the kids wearing better clothes and felt a little envious.
The streets were livelier now. Children played tag, their laughter echoing. A girl about two years older than him spotted him and dashed forward, grinning mischievously.
"Dusk, you can't escape me this time!"
It was Ash, with her tanned skin, black hair, and bold confidence. Unlike him, she lived comfortably, free to play. She always teased him when she saw him, her admiration hidden beneath playful words.
"Stop it, Big Sister Ash! I have work to do," Dusk whined as she pinched his cheeks.
"Aww, look at you rebel," she teased. "Why do you always run when you see me? Am I not pretty?" She twirled, showing off.
"You are pretty," Dusk admitted seriously. Her smile widened —until he added, "But I heard pretty girls make men dumb. The prettier the girl, the dumber the man!"
Ash froze. Her lips twitched.
"Exactly!" a boy nearby shouted. "My dad ran off with a pretty woman, got tricked, and lost everything!"
Ash glared daggers at him, but before she could retort, a rough shove knocked Dusk to the ground.
It was Gary, Ash's older brother. He didn't even glance at Dusk as the bread bundle flew from his arms, landing in a muddy puddle.
Dusk froze. His breath caught as he stared at the ruined bread, his chest tightening painfully. Every loaf meant survival— for him, for Dawn. Slowly, trembling, he picked it up. The soggy lumps dripped with mud as he tried to wipe them clean on his shirt.
"Gary! You idiot!" Ash snapped. "Look what you've done!"
Gary scoffed. "It's just trash food."
Dusk said nothing. He cradled the bread to his chest, his red eyes burning with quiet resolve.
Ash crouched, guilt in her voice. "Sorry, Dusk." She pressed a few coins into his palm. "Buy fresh bread, okay?"
He shook his head, clutching the ruined loaf. "This is enough," he said firmly. His voice cracked, but he refused pity.
With that, he stood, brushed dirt from his knees, and walked away. His small figure looked frail, yet unbending. Ash watched him go, torn between shame and admiration.
The street buzzed on— until a sharp cry cut through the air.
"You dare to commit crime…!"
The shout echoed, drawing heads to turn. They froze in fear.