Leon had one hour left.
The cell was barely wide enough to lie in, its stone walls slick with damp and cold enough to gnaw through skin. He sat in the corner anyway, back pressed against the wall, ignoring the chill crawling up his spine.
One hour.
He stared at his hands resting on his lap bruised and swollen but still attached to him.
His right eye was nearly closed, puffed and purple. He didn't need a mirror to know how bad he looked. The guards had made sure of that. So had the passersby who'd felt generous enough to add their own kicks when he'd been dragged through the street.
Thieves weren't hated because they stole.
They were hated because everyone was hungry.
"Those bastard soldiers, I'll kill them if it's the last thing I do." Leon said through gritted teeth.
He imagined himself rushing a soldier grabbing a blade and striking them down. The thought died almost immediately. Fighting the evolved was a hopeless task for anyone but the evolved.
He slouched and leaned back against the wall, resting his head against the cold hard stone. It was strange how often you think about the past when your life was in danger.
Three meals a day. That was the best part about prison. Stale bread and cold gruel. Better than most days outside. Better than watching his father cough blood into a rag and pretending everything was fine.
"How did it turn out like this?" Leon muttered to himself.
He scanned the bars, searching, analyzing every inch for something anything that might give him a chance, no matter how slim. His eyes suddenly widened as they landed on the food slot.
"Why did I not think of that before?" he breathed, pushing off the wall and rushing toward the bars, snatching a plate of half eaten gruel on his way.
So far he had tried everything. He had tried stealing the keys. He had tried picking the lock. He had even tried breaking the bars from their hinges.
He reached the cell door and began slathering the gruel over his body, starting from his head and working his way down. The cold sludge clung to his skin, dripping onto the stone beneath him.
The plan was simple. He would slip through the food slot. Breaking a few bones was better than losing his hands.
When he was finished, he lay flat on his stomach and pushed his right arm into the opening.
It slid through easily. He smiled as a ray of hope surged in his chest. He could do it, he could escape.
He shifted forward, preparing to force his head through the narrow gap.
A loud creak cut through the silence of the corridor.
Leon froze.
Then came the steady, rhythmic thud of boots striking stone, echoing through the prison.
Leon jumped to his feet, hands trembling as adrenaline flooded his body. His thoughts spiraled out of control. Were they here for him? Could he still escape? Should he try to steal a weapon and fight?
He stood frozen, breathing hard. Sweat mixed with gruel ran down his face, stinging his eyes. The footsteps grew louder, then they stopped just outside his cell.
Leon stared at the four figures beyond the bars.
He recognized the guard. The man had been there when Leon first entered the prison. The three standing behind him, however, were strangers.
At the front stood a tall man with long flowing black hair and dark brown eyes touched with a faint reddish hue. Glistening white armor covered his body. At his waist rested a long sword, its hilt carved with a golden eagle so finely crafted it almost seemed alive.
Leon felt the color drain from his face. His heart pounded against his ribs.
That was the emblem of the Deramore clan. One of the five major clans that had helped found the nation.
"What the hell is going on here ?" Leon thought. "What does such a big shot want with me?"
His gaze shifted from Mr Goldenspoon to the two figures behind him. He nearly sighed in relief when he saw no other crests or emblems marking them as members of the major clans. For someone like Leon, involvement with a major clan meant trouble.
"Ok so that's one."
The second of his unexpected and deeply unwelcome guests was a woman with black hair and dark brown eyes tinted with a strange shade of green. She wore a long blue robe and a matching hat, gripping a wooden staff polished smooth with use.
"That's two."
The third was the most unassuming of them all. He wore dark robes and a hood that shadowed his face. He stood in the dimmest part of the corridor, head tilted down, his features hidden.
"And that is probably three," Leon thought. "Shit."
As Leon silently mourned his impending doom, Mr Goldenspoon stepped forward and addressed the guard.
"Is this him?"
"Yes, sir. Leon Krow. Age sixteen. No known residence. No known family."
"And what is he in for?"
"Thievery, sir. He is scheduled to have his hands removed in one hour."
"I see. That will be all. We will call for you if necessary."
"Yes, sir."
The guard gave Leon one last glance before turning and walking briskly down the corridor.
There was a brief silence, as if the three strangers were waiting until the sound of his boots had faded completely.
Then Mr Goldenspoon stepped closer to the bars.
Before he even spoke, Leon already knew how this would begin. Bluebloods were all the same. Honor. Duty. Glory. They loved the sound of their own voices. Leon couldn't stand them.
"I am Julius Deramore of the Deramore clan," the man said evenly. "I assume you are familiar with our family name."
"Bingo," Leon said with a smirk.
Julius blinked. "What?"
"My apologies for the poor manners," Leon said, giving an exaggerated bow. "I am just a slum rat, after all."
Julius studied him for a moment, then continued.
"There is an opportunity before you, should you choose to accept it. My companions and I are explorers. We depart immediately for an expedition into the Deepgrove Forest."
Leon's eyes widened for the second time that day.
Even an uneducated slum rat like him knew the Explorer Association's rating for the Deepgrove Forest. For anyone who was not a certified explorer, entering it was a death sentence.
Julius paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle.
"You must be wondering why I am telling you this," he continued. "Due to the urgency of our departure, we did not have sufficient time to secure a porter."
His gaze fixed on Leon.
"That is where you come in."
Leon understood immediately.
"That is a death sentence," he said. "No one in their right mind would leave the city walls. Let alone go to Deepgrove."
"Tell me," Julius replied calmly, "what future do you have here? Hm?"
His gaze was steady, unreadable.
"At least out there you have a fighting chance. And you need not fear. We will see to your safety. You will be paid a porter's wage, with additional compensation for the short notice. And once we return I will see to it that my father pardons all your crimes."
He paused.
"So. What do you say? Decide now. We will leave shortly."
Leon opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He did not know what to say. He had never imagined a choice like this being placed in front of him. Yet here he was, standing between two equally terrible ends.
"If I stay, my life is over. One hundred percent. If I go, I will probably die." Leon muttered to himself internally.
He let out a slow breath.
"Well," Leon said quietly, "I think the choice makes itself, does it not, sir?"
A faint hum escaped Julius.
"Good. Fred, fetch the guard."
The hooded figure gave a single nod before gliding down the corridor toward the entrance.
Leon's attention shifted back when the woman spoke.
"Julius, are you certain about this?" she asked. "He will be dead weight."
"We have no alternative, Claire," Julius replied, turning to face her. "There is no one else available. And we cannot carry all the equipment ourselves. It would slow us down. That could prove fatal in a fight."
Silence followed.
Claire's eyes moved over Leon slowly, assessing him as though he were a tool being inspected for cracks.
Moments later, Fred returned with the guard.
Without a word, the guard stepped forward and slid his key into the lock. There was a soft click as the mechanism turned. Then the cell door swung open.
He stepped aside and gestured for Leon to come out.