Chapter 1

The streets were crowded at this time of evening. People running errands, merchants and sellers, children playing in the streets. Rye raced past all of them, dodging between them with great balance and an unnatural lightness to his step. He ran straight down to the end of the market, starting to get within the streets of the old abandoned factories. Not slowing down, he turned left, then right, past people carrying fruits and clothing, zigzagging between parents on their way home for the day. With a loaf of bread in one hand a hunting knife in the other, Rye turned to see if he was still being followed.

The man chasing him had kept up. There he was, big and burly, barreling through the crowds, pushing people out of his way. He didn't run with the grace that Rye did, but he didn't fall behind either. Rye made a sharp right into an alley with a dead end. Time to use the gift that gods had bestowed upon him. He backed into the shadows near the entrance of the alley, stood facing the entrance, and waited with his knife poised and ready to fight.

Breathing heavily, the man following Rye stopped at the alley and looked in. He couldn't see Rye anywhere, yet he knew that he had followed him to the right place. "Come on out, you little thief!" shouted the man into the darkness. "I know you're here somewhere." Making his way into the shadows, he looked around, glazing right past Rye. "You gotta pay for what you take from me." Quietly, he added, "And if you can't pay in money, you can pay in blood."

Rye watched the man, his eyes gleaming. As a child, before he learned to control his gift, he resented that his presence was always overlooked. His own parents never seemed to notice when he was in a room. Now, though, he saw the gift it was, and was grateful that though this man was a mere three feet away, he was walking right past. The man walked deeper and deeper into the dead end alley, until he had unwittingly trapped himself. Rye silently stepped out, clutching his knife, and stalked up behind the man.

Growing weary and confused as he reached the end of the walkway, the man stopped. He was sure that Rye had come down this way, but his searching eyes found no trace of anyone with him. With a sigh of indignation, he turned back to the mouth of the alley, and found himself suddenly face to face with Rye. The knife in Rye's hand was coming out straight for the man's neck, and all he had time to do was lift his arms in defense.

The knife, long and sharp, slashed through the man's flesh and muscle with ease. It gave a deep cut from wrist down to elbow of the man's left arm. It would probably never heal properly. Crying out in pain and shock, the man brought his arm in close to his chest and cradled it with his remaining good arm. Looking up into Rye's big dark eyes, he saw his own horror mirrored back at him.

The man swung his good hand out and grabbed at Rye's neck, but Rye had taken a half step back, and escaped with just a scrape on his neck. The man stumbled forward as Rye blended back into the shadows, and the man lost track immediately of where his opponent was. Growing scared, the man searched frantically for Rye. Though he had only moved a step to the man's right, he looked right past him and failed to find any sign of life. Fear mounting, the man realized this would not be a battle he would win; how could he fight someone he couldn't track? Rye stepped forward and made a small slash across the man's right cheek. Bringing his hand up to cover the wound, the man stepped back, until he hit the wall. "Please," the man suddenly pleaded, looking around hopelessly. "Please!"

Rye looked down at the man. He didn't like torturing others; he didn't like causing pain for others. It was just the way of the world. With Ash and Tark back home to take care of, he couldn't afford to die here. He longed for the days of a higher civility, back inside the walls of the city with his real parents. But he was never going to be allowed back in there, and on some level he didn't care to go back. Life was more peaceful in there, but he felt more free out here. Except in moments like these, when the necessities of life lead him to brutality. Kill or be killed, yet he wasn't a murderer. He could not kill this man.

Without hesitating, Rye kneed the man in the gut and watched as he fell over, bracing himself for the death he was sure would come. Confident that he wouldn't be followed back now, Rye backed away, leaving the man injured and scared, but alive. Bread still in hand, he left the alley, walking calmly out onto the streets between the abandoned factories again, joining the hustle of everyone heading back to their homes.

He, however, didn't go home. He made his way back to the market, down past the merchants, and toward the river than ran through the middle of their town. He washed his blade off, and filled up his small water jug, then just sat by the river, watching the innocence of the children playing by the river as their parents worked in the market.

I don't enjoy hurting other, Rye thought to himself. But he wasn't so sure it was actually true. He learned long ago to control the gift that the gods had given him. He learned to walk silently, to blend into crowds, to be like a living ghost. They called his kind of people Shadows. Not impossible to see, but easy to look past, and difficult to notice. It was easy to let himself blend in all the time. He had to actively concentrate to become noticeable by others. Why, then, would he allow himself to be seen by the merchant that he stole the bread from? Why entice him into a fight he could not win?

As the evening grew cooler, the children gradually went inside. The streets started to grow quiet from the days' events, and they would only be quiet for a few moments before the night life started to grow. Rye got up and started to make his way back home as the sun set. He found his way back to the abandoned factories, and into the old sugar mill where he lived with the men who took him in after he was thrown out of the city.

Walking past the other families that lived here, and making his way to the top floor of the sugar mill's tower, Rye studied the bread he had taken. It was a nice loaf, dense and filled with nuts and seeds. They would eat well tonight. Briefly, Rye considered telling Ash and Tark what the price of their meal was. But after all they had done for him--giving him a place to sleep, raising him as if he was their own son, loving him like his real parents never had-- Rye couldn't burden them like that.

His secrets would be his own. His burdens were his alone to carry.