The sewer tunnel spat Cain and Lira out at a drain on the fringe of Iron Crest, where the western wall loomed like a wounded colossus, its rusted spikes silhouetted against a grayish sky. The daylight, though faint, stung Cain’s eyes after hours in the gloom, and the air, thick with smoke and manure, was a relief after the sewer’s stench. His boots squelched in the mud as he emerged, filthy water dripping from his tattered tunic. Each step reminded him of his body’s limits: trembling muscles, hunger a slow burn in his gut. The rat from last night—the nutrients stolen with Flesh Shaper—had kept him upright, but the nausea lingered, a bitter echo of his experiment.

  Lira followed, shaking water from her cloak like a drenched cat. Her ears twitched, catching the distant clamor, and her tail traced a quick arc before settling. “The market’s two streets over,” she said, glancing back at the tunnel. “If the Ravens didn’t find the drain, we’ve got a few hours before they check this area.”

  Cain nodded, wiping sweat from his brow with a shaking hand. “Then we don’t waste time. I need food. Something that isn’t a dead rat.”

  She shot him a sidelong glance, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “Getting picky, huh? What happened to the guy who ate mold in the Pit?”

  “It’s not pickiness,” he said, tugging his tunic to cover more skin. “It’s pragmatism. If I’m going to keep moving, I need real calories, not scraps that make me puke.”

  Lira let out a short, dry laugh, less sharp than before. “Fair enough. The Edge Market has food, but it’s not free. Hope you’ve got a better plan than bargaining with your half-dead face.”

  Cain followed as they moved, their steps syncing out of necessity more than intent. “I’ve got ideas,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. “But you know this place. How guarded is it?”

  She shrugged, sidestepping a puddle of something viscous. “Not as much as the central plaza. It’s a fringe market, near the outer cracks. Hunters, scavengers, guys selling what they find beyond the wall. There are guards, but they’re more worried about monsters than thieves.” She paused, her eyes glinting with something mischievous. “That’s why I like it.”

  Cain caught the subtext but didn’t press. Thief, he thought, filing it alongside her confession last night: exiled from her clan, fast, honed by survival. It suited him, as long as she didn’t ditch him.

  The Edge Market came into view after rounding a corner, a chaos of tattered awnings and makeshift stalls sprawling along the base of the wall. The noise hit first: vendors’ shouts, the clang of metal on metal, a distant roar that could be a beast or a cart. Blue torches flickered on crooked posts, their light battling the smoke rising from braziers where meat of questionable origin sizzled. Humans and demi-humans wove through the stalls, some with weapons at their belts, others with cloth bags dripping blood or oil. The wall, with its cracks and claw marks, was a backdrop reminding everyone why this place existed: a last bastion against what lurked outside.

  Cain paused at the market’s edge, his mind cataloging details: the smell of burnt grease, the glint of swords at a stall, a hunter with scales on his face buying knobby roots. His stomach growled, betraying him, and Lira nudged him lightly. “Control yourself,” she said, though there was no mockery in her voice. “If you drool, we’ll get noticed.”

  “I’m not drooling,” he muttered, but he straightened, forcing his legs not to shake. “What’s the target?”

  She nodded toward a stall a few meters away, larger than the others, with a faded blue tarp and a smoking brazier. A burly man, his arms crisscrossed with scars like a map, sliced strips of grayish meat and tossed them onto the coals. Beside him, a stack of flatbreads and bulbous fruits sat on a splintered wooden table. Two demi-human guards—one with twisted horns, the other with a scaly tail—stood nearby, but their eyes were on the wall, not the stall.

  “That one,” Lira said, lowering her voice. “Tarko. Sells decent food, but he’s paranoid. Always has guards. If we want something, we need to be quick.”

  Cain studied the man, then the guards. High risk, he thought. But worth the reward. “How do we do this?”

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  Lira grinned, this time showing sharp teeth. “You distract. I grab. Don’t worry, I’m good at this.” Before Cain could ask, she slipped away, her stride casual but calculated, like a predator stalking through grass.

  Cain took a deep breath, letting hunger guide him. He approached the stall, limping more than necessary, his posture hunched to seem less threatening. Tarko spotted him coming, his hands pausing over the meat. “What do you want, scrawny?” he growled, his voice like gravel. “No coins, keep walking.”

  “I don’t have coins,” Cain said, keeping his voice low but clear, “but I know something you’ll want.” He paused, letting Tarko’s scowl deepen. “Those fruits of yours… some are rotten inside. I can tell you how to spot them without cutting.”

  The vendor narrowed his eyes but didn’t shoo him off. “Why should I care?”

  “Because you’re losing customers,” Cain replied, improvising but with logic. “Sell garbage, people stop coming. I give you a trick for free, you give me a bread. Fair, right?”

  Tarko laughed, a harsh sound that drew the horned guard’s glance. “You’ve got guts, scrawny. Talk, and we’ll see.”

  Cain pointed to a bulbous fruit, its brown surface unmarred. “Smell the stem,” he said, recalling a basic botany principle. “Sweet means rotten. Good ones are bitter.” He wasn’t sure it applied here, but it sounded convincing, and that was enough.

  Tarko grunted, lifting the fruit and sniffing the stem. His expression shifted—surprise, maybe—and Cain knew he’d bought time. But it wasn’t him who seized the moment. It was Lira.

  She appeared like a blur, not from the front but from a side angle, where the stall’s tarp cast a shadow. It happened in seconds, but Cain saw it clearly, as if time slowed for his scientific mind. Lira took a deliberate step, stumbling against a nearby barrel with a dull thud that spun Tarko and the scaly-tailed guard. “Damn clumsy!” the vendor barked, but she was already moving.

  Her hands became a whirlwind, a flash of speed that defied logic. While Tarko eyed the barrel and the guard turned, Lira’s fingers danced across the table, precise as surgical needles. A flatbread vanished under her cloak, followed by a fruit that rolled from the pile into her hand in a fluid, almost invisible motion. It wasn’t just speed; it was art. Her arms moved in short arcs, joints pivoting with inhuman grace, as if every muscle was built for this. The ability she’d mentioned last night—“I’m fast”—was no exaggeration. It was a weapon honed by years on the streets.

  In three seconds, it was over. Lira straightened, muttering a gritted apology—“Sorry, didn’t see the barrel”—and drifted away, her pace slow again, as if nothing had happened. Tarko cursed, checking the barrel, and the guards resumed their lazy watch, none the wiser. Cain suppressed a smile. Expert, he thought, impressed despite himself.

  He stepped away from the stall, leaving Tarko with his fruit and confusion, and found Lira in a nearby alley, under the shadow of a broken cart. She tossed him the bread, her expression torn between amusement and defiance. “Not bad, huh?” she said, pulling the fruit from her cloak and taking a bite. Juice dripped down her chin, but she didn’t seem to care.

  Cain caught the bread, sniffing it—dry, but fresh compared to the Pit’s mold. “Not bad doesn’t cover it,” he said, tearing off a piece and chewing. The taste was plain, but each bite was a spark of life. “That was… fast isn’t the word. It was like time stopped for you.”

  Lira swallowed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Told you I was good. Years of practice, little one. You don’t survive in Iron Crest by being slow.” She paused, sizing him up. “Your distraction helped, though. You’re not as useless as you look.”

  He raised an eyebrow, swallowing another bite. “Thanks, I guess. Do you always steal like that, or only when you’re hungry?”

  “When I feel like it,” she said, shrugging. “My clan taught me to move, but the streets taught me to take. Same thing, just better rewards.” Her tone was light, but there was an edge beneath, an echo of last night’s confession.

  Cain nodded, chewing more slowly. “So, how fast are you? Could you dodge a sword? A monster?”

  She laughed, a brief but genuine sound. “Want to test me? Yeah, I could dodge a sword. Monsters… depends on the size. But I don’t like fighting. Stealing’s easier.” She finished the fruit, tossing the pit into the mud. “And you? Going to mess with your flesh trick now that you’ve got something in your stomach?”

  Cain eyed the bread, calculating. Enough calories and carbs for a small attempt. “Maybe,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “But not here. Too many eyes.”

  Lira followed his glance to the market, where the crowd kept moving, oblivious to their theft. “Good point. We eat, we move, we find somewhere quiet. Ravens won’t forget your face that easily.”

  Cain finished the bread, feeling a clarity he hadn’t had in days. The food was a start, and Lira’s stunt had given him more than that: a glimpse of what a honed ability could do. Flesh Shaper was raw, clumsy, but it could get there. With time. With food. With Lira, maybe.

  “Let’s go,” he said, standing. “I’m not sticking around for them to find me.”

  She followed, her step light but alert. “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said today,” she replied, and together they slipped into the market’s shadows, the echo of the bustle fading behind them.