My stomach gurgles. You’d think I’d be used to hunger by now, after years in the slums, but apparently no one told that to my stomach. As I roll myself out of bed, or at least the bundle of blankets that passes for a bed out here, I spy a few of the local rats scurrying around, and do a quick body-check for new marks. Thankfully, I don’t see any new bites. New day, infection risk avoided, we’re off to a good start.

  Of course, If I were a proper soulbinder, such things wouldn’t be an issue– I'd have a bonded creature to scare off vermin. Actually, scratch that, if I was a proper soulbinder I wouldn’t be here in the slums; I’d be up in the great trees, with all the other novices, being trained in the basics of the arcane arts. Not much point thinking about it now. I haul myself to my feet and head for the baker. If I’m lucky, my scraped together savings might finally be enough for a pork bun instead of the leftover bread the baker normally gives to me.

  The familiar trek through the brisk morning is strangely comforting. The day may be miserable, but the hope of a nice pork bun warming my stomach is more than enough motivation to get me across town. I know I’m getting close when the smell of fresh bread baking begins to reach my nostrils. It must be nice, getting to live in a home that always smells of doughy goods and comfort. Maybe one day I could scrape enough together to get an apprenticeship, but it’s hopeless for now. They don’t take street kids, something about us rummaging through the trash making us a hazard to the kitchen, or so ol’ John says.

  As I approach the doorway, the wooden panel slides open, a small mechanical octopus’ tentacle on the handle.

  “Hello Thompson.” I step past the clockwork-assistant, noting the pastries in its pickup tray, waiting for the usual morning customers.

  “What, no hello for me, Niko? After all the times I’ve given you bread?” Ol’ John pipes up from behind his counter. The old man acts offended, but I know by now when he’s pulling my leg.

  “Nah, Thompson gets priority, they’re cuter.” I tease, patting the octopus’ metallic shell. “Just look at its little face.”

  I’m not just teasing. There really is something adorable about Thompson’s wide, jeweled eyes and pinched face, and the way it whirs when you pat it.

  “It’s a traitorous little mongrel,” Ol’ John chides Thompson gruffly. “Stealing my customers' attention away. So much for a helpful assistant. Half the customers like him more than me.” He humphs dramatically, and we both chuckle.

  “I assume you’re here for your bread?”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “That depends on if you have your pork buns.” I reply, giving Thompson a final pat before darting over to the counter. “I’ve been saving up all week, and I finally have enough.”

  I dump my coin purse on the table, the small pile of coppers pouring out. “Seven whole copper. That’s enough, right?”

  “Sure is. About time you get to try my good cooking, I’d hate for you to think stale bread is the best I’m capable of.“ He sweeps my coins into his purse and begins preparing a satchel of buns.

  I eye the overburdened satchel nervously, trying to tamp optimism. “John? Are you sure I had enough for that many? That seems a little more than seven copper worth.” I cringe as I say it. Just shut up and take the extra food moron, for the love of Phogeling, you know you need it.

  “Well kid, it’s a few extra buns, but consider it a first time buyer's reward. A little celebration for your first taste of some good food.” He smiles as he slides me the satchel, leather branded with the logo of the bakery.

  “Well, thanks.” I say quickly as I snatch one of the buns out of the satchel, ignoring the warm juices dripping onto my hand as I dig in. The crispy exterior of the bun contrasts with the soft, juicy meat inside perfectly, and the flavor– Spicy sauce-covered pork with just enough heat to match the bread’s cool blandness.

  “How on earth are you in the slums with cooking like this? Your stale bread was one thing, but this? You must carry the blessing of some god or another.”

  His face falls, eyes growing cold. “You know as well as any of us that the ‘Blessed’ don’t care about skill, only being born lucky. Doesn't matter if you’re the greatest chef in the world, or bind a dragon later in life, if you were born with a rat, you’ll always be a rat-borne as far as they’re concerned.” He pauses, gazing at the tattoo-like birthmark on his arm, the Chinchilla, his soulborne.

  Dammit Niko, you should have remembered it was a sensitive subject! Oh well, time enough to regret that later. “Hey, I’ve got to go before someone takes my stuff, but thanks. This’ll be my next few meals.” I give a little wave and scurry out the door before he can reply.

  As I return to my alleyway, sprinting with the satchel of buns, something feels… off. I feel a strange sense of heat in the side of my neck, where the gods-brand marrs in my skin. They’re hunting me again. I turn the corner into my alley, dashing for my stuff so I can flee, when a wall of fire erupts in front of me. I trip, scrambling to avoid the flames, and am pinned to the ground.

  “Well, look who I found.” The girl kneeling on my back coos. “All those years they couldn’t catch you, yet Archas and I were able to find you on our first junior assignment. They really must be starving for good troops these days.” A flaming bird lands beside us, orange eyes glowing as it hops up to the girl's shoulder.

  Fuck, a blessed. Just my luck, someone powerful would finally come for me. Sure there had been the occasional bounty hunter over the years, but very few people with any real power were willing to sully themselves coming to the slums to hunt me down.

  “Why?” I struggle to get the word out, ash clogging my lungs. She leaps gracefully to her feet and flips me onto my back. Her phoenix hops down off her shoulder to sit on my chest, fluffing up like a baby chick. It’d be adorable if I didn’t know it could immolate me.

  “Oh Niko, we’ve been looking for you for a long time.” She taps my nose playfully. “You think someone would be branded by the gods and we’d just let them get away? I’m here to take you to face the punishment for your crimes.” For all her mockery, she looks inexperienced, her face too unguarded for a real Soul-knight. Good. Maybe she’ll make a mistake and I can give her the slip.

  “Just let me go, I never hurt anyone.” I glance past her, looking for my blankets and books, but all I see is charred wreckage.

  She scoffs; “Never hurt anyone? Please. Tell that to the gravestones Martha and Jerick Corvus. No Innocent person would bear the brand of the gods on their chest.”

  She blows on her hand, exhaling a gush of flame, before dragging a white-hot fingernail down my chest, searing a straight line down my shirt-front and splitting it open.

  “The brand is right there, clear as day. So save your breath denying your crimes.” She makes a twisting motion with her hand, and I feel cold flames rush down my throat, eating through all the air as everything goes black.