The following day, he strolled through the market with confidence in his stride.
He bumped into a neighbor—an elderly man who lived three shacks away, a beggar who occasionally exchanged information for coins.
"Denny," the old man acknowledged.
"Garrett." Denny smiled. "Perfect day for it, right? The sun is actually shining."
"That's rare." Garrett's gaze shifted to Denny's shack. "I heard you have someone staying with you."
Denny shrugged casually. "Yeah. A kid. Found her nearly dead in my crate, can you believe it?"
"Is she yours?"
"Nope. She's an orphan. Just couldn't let her die, I suppose." He chuckled. "I'm getting soft as I age."
Garrett nodded slowly. His face was expressionless, but something flickered in his eyes. Calculation. Thoughtfulness.
"Well. That's kind of you."
"Yeah, well." Denny patted him on the shoulder. "Someone has to have a conscience around here."
He walked off, whistling.
Garrett observed him leave. Then he turned and headed in the opposite direction, toward the guard station at the district's edge.
Five gold was a significant amount.
Enough to eat for a month.
Enough to bury the guilt.
Inside the shack, Reerie sat by the fire Denny had started before he left.
She gazed at the flames and recalled Kilifay's blood soaking into the mud.
The soldier's sword.
The way Kilifay's eyes had become lifeless.
She hugged her knees to her chest and pressed her face against them.
Outside, footsteps echoed in the alley. Voices drifted on the breeze. The city pulsed and moved and schemed around her, uncaring of the small girl hiding in its shadows.
But for now—just for now—she had a fire. And a roof. And someone who talked enough to break the silence.
It wasn't safety.
But it was a shelter.
That evening, Denny returned home feeling cheerful.
"I made eight silver today," he declared, dropping coins onto the table. "I caught a forger the magistrate has been pursuing for weeks. The guards looked foolish. Again."
He poured himself some ale and smiled at her.
"You know what the best part is? The guards claimed they had a lead on him. I told them if their lead was so reliable, why did it take me six hours to find him while it took them three weeks?"
He laughed—loudly and boldly, filling the shack with his voice.
Reerie observed him from her place by the fire.
He lifted his mug in a playful toast.
"To being too damn good at my job."
He took a deep drink.
XXX
Outside, in the dark, twisted streets of the slum, gold coins exchanged hands.
Information was shared.
Orders were issued.
And in the guard station three districts away, a captain smiled as he read the report about a fugitive slave—six years old, with Gobifrakan features, last seen with a known deserter and thief-taker named Denny.
"Well," the captain said softly, reading the writ from the slavers' guild. "Isn't that convenient."
He turned to his men.
"Gather a squad. We leave at dawn."
XXX
Inside the shack, Denny downed his ale and sank into his chair, his eyes feeling heavy.
Reerie was curled up on her rug by the fading fire.
For a brief moment—just a brief moment—the shack seemed almost warm.
Almost secure.
Rain started to fall again, tapping on the roof like a warning neither of them could perceive.
Denny's breathing grew deeper as he fell asleep, rough and irregular.
Reerie shut her eyes.
And in that delicate tranquility, danger lurked in the shadows—waiting patiently like death, as certain as dawn.
XXX
The door burst open before dawn arrived.
Reerie was jolted awake by the sound of wood breaking, heavy boots stomping, and steel clanging in the dark.
Denny shot up from the table where he had dozed off, his ale jug spilled, and coins scattered on the floor. His eyes were red, and his movements were slow—still feeling the effects of last night's drinking.
"What the—"
Four guards rushed through the shattered door, their torches lighting up the shack like a blaze.
The lead guard—a muscular man with a scar across his cheek—smirked at Denny's bewilderment.
"Good morning, Denny. Apologies for waking you from your beauty rest."
Denny stumbled to his feet, unsteady. "What the hell is going on? You can't just—"
"Guard business." The scarred man brandished a folded writ, waving it mockingly. "We're searching for stolen goods. A writ from the slavers' guild. A six-year-old Gobifrakan girl, who escaped from a slave caravan."
His grin grew wider.
"Word is you've been hiding her."
For a brief moment—just a brief moment—Denny's expression went blank.
Then realization hit him like a bucket of cold water.
His big mouth. All the boasting. Telling Garrett. Telling half the damn neighborhood about the girl he had found, the orphan he had taken in, how he was getting soft in his old age.
"I'm too damn good," he had said just hours earlier, toasting himself.
Too damn good. Too damn foolish.
"I don't know what you're—"
"Don't." The guard's voice sliced through the air. "Half the slums heard you bragging about your little orphan. You told old Garrett her entire story—found her dying in your crate, couldn't let her perish."
He stepped closer, his boots crunching on the scattered coins.
"Touching. Really. But she's not yours to save. She's worth five gold coins to the guild. And you—" He grinned. "You're a thief."
Denny's jaw tightened. "She's a child."
"She's a runaway slave."
"She's SIX YEARS OLD!"
"And worth five gold coins." The guard signaled to his men. "Search the place. She must be here somewhere."
Reerie was already on the move.
She had learned while in the wagon, during the escape with Kilifay, and in the alleys after Kili's death: when danger approaches, you find a place to hide.
The loose floorboard. The one she had discovered weeks earlier, the one Denny was unaware of.
Her fingers located the edge and pried it up. She slipped into the darkness below and replaced the board over her head just as boots began to stomp on the floor above.
The space was tight, musty, filled with the scent of old wood and dust. She curled into the smallest shape possible, covering her mouth with her hands to silence her breathing.
Above her, muffled through the boards:
Denny's voice, loud and aggressive, even inebriated: "Do you have a warrant? Do you have the authority to break down my door at dawn like some kind of—"
"We've got this. That's all the authority we need in the slums, Denny. You know that."
"That's just a piece of PAPER! Do you think paper gives you the right to—"
The sound of a fist striking flesh. Something heavy crashed to the floor.
"Where is she, Denny?"
"Go to hell."
Another hit. Denny grunted, but his voice returned strong—defiant, even mocking through the pain:
"Is that the best you can do? I've been hit harder by beggars."
A guard laughed, sharp and cruel. "Still got that mouth, huh? Let's see how it sounds with a few teeth missing."
The sounds of a struggle. Furniture being overturned. Denny's roar of rage—wordless, animalistic.
Then: the wet thud of a baton striking ribs.
Denny's breath escaped him. He fell to the floor hard enough to shake the boards above Reerie's head, dust falling into her hiding place.
"Search every corner," the scarred guard commanded. "Under the bed, behind the crates, inside everything. She's small—could be anywhere."
Boots stomped across the floor. Wood splintered. Denny's few belongings—the table, the chair, the crate he had found her in—were thrown and destroyed.
Reerie's heart pounded against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Do you know who you are?" Denny's voice was thick with blood, yet he continued to speak. Even now. Even after being beaten. "You're just King Adam's dogs. You can't think for yourselves. You can't solve a crime unless someone like me does it first—"
A boot to his stomach cut him off.
"Shut. Up."
But Denny couldn't stop. Even while bleeding, even drunk, even aware he was going to die—he couldn't keep his mouth shut.
"You think... you think this gives you... power?" He coughed, spitting blood onto the floor. "You're just... thugs with badges..."
Another kick. The sound—boot hitting flesh—made Reerie flinch in her hiding place.
"Beating up... one drunk thief-taker... really impressive..."
Another kick.
"At least... at least I'm good at my job..."
The scarred guard crouched next to him, grabbed his hair, and yanked his head up so Denny had to look at him.
"You WERE good, Denny. That was in the past. Now you're just a drunk with a big mouth who backed the wrong kid."
He slammed Denny's face into the floor.
The impact echoed through the boards like thunder.
"I found something!"
A guard near the hearth. He stomped on the floor, testing it. The hollow sound rang out.
"Loose board here."
Reerie's breath caught.
No. No, no, no—
The board was ripped away with a shriek of nails pulling free.
Light flooded in, blinding after the darkness.
A hand shot down—thick fingers, calloused, iron-strong—and grabbed her wrist.
She was yanked up, weightless and terrified, pulled from the darkness like a fish from deep water.
Her feet hit the floor. She stumbled, almost falling if the guard's grip wasn't so tight.
She didn't scream.
Her throat was locked, choked by fear. No sound would come. Just like after Kilifay died. Just like in the wagon. Just like always.
Her mouth opened but nothing came out.
Chains wrapped around her wrists before she could think to escape.
Cold. Biting. Familiar as breathing.
She just stared with wide, dark eyes as the metal dug into her skin.
Denny's gaze was fixed on Reerie's.
All the bravado. All the arrogance. All the loud confidence that had filled every silence in the shack for a month.
Gone.
Taken away by pain and fear and the realization that his ego—his foolish, prideful, unstoppable mouth—had destroyed them both.
"Kid—" His voice was now just a whisper, nothing like the loud declarations he'd made just hours earlier. "Kid, I'm—"
A boot struck his ribs. He bent over, coughing blood that splattered on the floor in dark drops.
The guards pulled Reerie toward the door.
She struggled in their hold, bare feet scraping helplessly against the wood, and looked back at him.
Their eyes connected.
And for the first time since she had known him—for the first time in a month filled with constant noise and stories and boasting—
Denny had no words.
No jokes. No bravado. No stories about how clever he was, how skilled at his job, how the guards would never catch him.
Just a broken man bleeding on his own floor, watching the one thing he had cared about in ten years being taken away.
His lips moved. One word, formed in blood and breath:
"Sorry."
She didn't hear it. The guards were already dragging her through the splintered doorway, into the grey dawn light.
But she saw his face.
Saw the regret etched in every line, in his eyes, in the way his hand reached for her—trembling, useless, too late.
Not I wish I never helped you.
But I should have been wiser. Quieter. Less of a damn fool.
I let you down.