The rain had not stopped for three days.
It came in thin, cold sheets, smearing the blood into the mud, turning the dead into grotesque, sodden heaps. A low mist crawled across the Hollow Grounds, muffling sound, blurring the broken remains of men and steel into a formless mass. Even the crows had left.
Brann moved carefully among the corpses, his boots squelching in the wet earth. He kept his head low, his rough cloak clinging to him like a second skin. In his calloused hands, he gripped a bent dagger — not for defense, but to pry rings off fingers too swollen with death.
"Poor bastards," he muttered, his breath curling in the cold air. "Poor, poor bastards."
There were no victories here. No banners fluttering proudly over the fields. Only the stink of rot and the whisper of wind across empty helmets.
Brann paused over a pile of bodies, his sharp eyes scanning for anything valuable. A belt buckle gleamed dully in the mist. He knelt, prying it free, pocketing it without ceremony. Then his gaze caught something else — a body, half-sunken in the mud, not yet bloated or blackened.
Fresh.
He moved closer, dagger ready. His heart thudded in his chest — not from fear of the living, but of...other things. Things the old wives whispered about when the fires burned low. Things that moved among the dead.
The man before him — a youth, no more than twenty summers — wore the tattered remains of a soldier's tabard. His dark hair was matted with blood. His armor was ruined, a great rent slashing across his chest. A mortal wound, surely.
Brann leaned in, reaching for the man's belt — and froze.
The youth's fingers twitched. A faint, wet gasp escaped his cracked lips.
Alive.
Brann staggered back, almost dropping his dagger. Instinct screamed at him to run, to leave the Hollow Grounds and not look back. No good ever came from meddling with half-dead things.
But he stood there, rooted. Watching.
The youth's eyes fluttered open — unfocused, glassy, filled with a terrible, groping confusion. His mouth moved, but no words came.
Brann cursed under his breath.
"Gods damn it all," he said. "What in hells am I supposed to do with you?"
The young man whimpered, a raw, animal sound that clawed at some forgotten piece of Brann's soul. Pity — rare and dangerous — flickered in his chest.
Muttering curses, Brann sheathed his dagger and knelt beside the youth. He hooked his arms under the man's shoulders and, with a grunt, began to drag him out of the pit of corpses. The bodies shifted and sighed around them, as if reluctant to give up one of their own.
The rain fell harder. Thunder growled in the distance.
Brann didn't look back.
The slums of Gallows Hill crouched at the edge of the old city like a wounded animal.
They were a patchwork of leaning shacks, broken cobblestone streets, and smoke-stained alleys, hidden behind crumbling walls no lord bothered to repair. Here, the forgotten and the forsaken eked out their lives — beggars, deserters, thieves, and worse — bound together by the unspoken law:
We take care of our own.
Brann's shoulders ached from the weight as he carried the half-conscious youth through the crooked streets. The boy was little more than dead weight, wrapped in a bloodstained cloak torn from some corpse. Rain slicked the uneven stones underfoot, and more than once Brann nearly stumbled.
The faces that watched him from doorways and darkened corners said nothing. Eyes gleamed in the mist — sharp, suspicious, but not unkind. They recognized one of their own carrying a burden. That was enough.
Brann shouldered open the battered door to his hovel — a squat room of rotting wood and stone tucked between a tanner's workshop and an abandoned well. The single window was boarded up. A small hearth smoldered fitfully, its thin smoke coiling through the cracks.
He laid the youth down on a pile of rags and straw, wincing at the stink of blood and filth.
For a long moment, Brann just stood there, breathing hard. Watching the shallow rise and fall of the stranger's chest.
He should have left him.
Should have slit his throat and spared them both the trouble.
Instead, he moved mechanically, stripping off the ruined armor, cutting away the blood-soaked tunic. Underneath, the wound across the chest was deep but — by some miracle or curse — not fatal. The rain had washed it clean, kept the rot at bay.
Brann heated water over the hearth, found a scrap of clean linen, and began the slow, painful work of binding the wound.
The youth flinched and groaned as the cloth pressed against his torn flesh.
"Hush now," Brann muttered, half to himself. "Ain't no point screaming. Screaming don't help."
When he finished, he sat back on his heels, wiping the sweat from his brow. His stomach rumbled, but he had no food to spare — only a crust of hard bread and a half-skin of bitter ale.
He tore the bread in two.
The youth's eyelids fluttered again. This time, when they opened, the confusion had sharpened into something more desperate. A question without words.
Brann tossed a chunk of bread toward him.
"Eat if you can," he said gruffly. "You'll need it."
The youth fumbled clumsily, like a child learning to use his hands. He stared at the bread as if it were some strange relic of a forgotten life.
Brann watched him a while longer, then spoke.
"Don't reckon you remember much, eh?"
The youth shook his head — a small, slow motion — then winced at the effort.
Brann grunted.
"Figures. Name, family, anything?"
Silence.
"Right," Brann sighed. He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms. The rain rattled against the roof like bones in a box.
He studied the youth with narrowed eyes — the bruises, the hollow cheeks, the broken look.
"Suppose you'll need a name, then," he said. "Can't just call you 'Boy' forever."
He thought for a moment, scratching his stubbled chin.
"Caelan," he decided. "That'll do. Simple. You look like a Caelan."
The youth — Caelan — blinked at him, dazed.
"You hear me?" Brann said, louder. "Your name's Caelan now. Remember that much, at least."
Slowly, Caelan nodded.
Outside, the slums stirred and creaked under the weight of the storm. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked. A woman laughed — a hard, broken sound — and the wind carried it away.
Inside the hovel, Brann closed his eyes and listened to the breathing of the boy he had saved.
He didn't know why he had done it.
Maybe he didn't want to be alone anymore.
Maybe, deep down, he hoped that by saving someone else, he could save himself.
Days passed in a blur of gray rain and broken dreams.
Caelan slept most of the time, his body too weak to do more. When he woke, the world pressed in on him — the cracked ceiling, the sour stink of the slums, the distant sounds of weeping, arguing, living.
Brann came and went like a ghost, always bringing something — a stolen apple, a half-burned candle, an old blanket. He never asked for thanks. He never spoke much unless he had to.
But he stayed. And in the Hollow Grounds, staying meant something.
On the fourth day, Caelan sat up without Brann's help.
The effort left him dizzy, but a grim sort of pride burned in his chest.
He watched the rain drip through the broken window slats. Watched the muddy alleys come alive with shapes moving through the mist. A boy carrying sacks too large for his frame. A woman sharpening a rusted knife against a whetstone. Old men huddled in corners, swapping whispered words and coins.
The slums were not dead.
They were alive in ways he could not yet understand.
Later, when Brann returned, Caelan found the courage to speak.
"Why... stay here?" he rasped. His voice was raw, unfamiliar to his own ears.
Brann shrugged as he dropped a handful of foraged mushrooms into a battered pot over the hearth.
"Not like we got a choice," he said. "Ain't much place for folk like us up in their shiny towers."
He nodded toward the broken window, where the distant outline of the royal citadel loomed over the slums — tall, cold, indifferent.
Caelan frowned, still piecing together meaning from the puzzle of words.
That night, as the rain lightened to a miserable drizzle, Caelan managed to walk outside, leaning heavily against the doorframe. His legs trembled, but he held himself upright.
From there, he saw them — strange figures weaving through the alleys with hurried steps, their cloaks too fine, their boots too clean for these parts.
They moved like shadows, clutching perfumed cloths to their noses, their faces twisted in disgust.
"Nobles," Brann said, appearing beside him. His voice was low, almost amused. "Fancy-pants lot. You can always tell by how they walk — like they're afraid the dirt'll stick to their souls."
Caelan blinked, confused.
"What... doing?"
Brann snorted.
"Buying secrets," he said. "Information, boy. That's worth more than gold 'round here."
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"See, them lords and ladies up there, they're always clawing at each other's throats. 'Course they don't want to dirty their own hands. So they come to us. We hear things. Who's got a bastard child hidden away. Which merchant's been selling iron to the enemy. Where a knight spends his nights when he ain't home."
Brann spat into the mud.
"They think they're better'n us. But when they need the real filth, they come crawling."
Caelan watched as one noble — a young man with soft hands and a jewel-studded dagger — slipped a heavy pouch to an old crone who grinned with toothless glee. She whispered something into his ear. The noble paled, glanced around, and vanished into the mist.
The old woman laughed to herself and tucked the pouch into her ragged skirts.
Brann clapped a hand on Caelan's shoulder, nearly toppling him.
"Lesson one," he said, voice rough but not unkind. "Information is the only coin that never loses its shine. You survive down here, you remember that."
Caelan nodded slowly, his mind working to absorb this new, brutal truth.
In the slums of Gallows Hill, even the lowest had power — the kind that made kings tremble.
The days grew heavier with heat as spring bled into summer.
The rain stopped, but the stench grew worse — the heavy stink of rot, waste, and desperation baked into the narrow streets.
Brann wasted no time once Caelan could stand without leaning on the doorframe.
He led him through the maze of alleys, teaching him the unspoken ways of Gallows Hill.
"Keep your eyes open, your mouth shut," Brann said, his voice low.
"Don't stare too long at any man's purse, or any woman's scars. And never — never — touch what's left in the gutters after dark."
Caelan followed as best he could, his steps slow, his mind sharper by the hour. Every smell, every whisper, every glance became something to remember. His hunger for understanding burned hotter than his fear.
They passed a gang of boys squatting near a broken fountain, carving dice from old bones. One boy — thin as wire, eyes like flint — glanced up as they passed.
Brann tugged Caelan's sleeve lightly, steering him away.
"Street-rats," he muttered. "Too young for fists, too quick for blades. They'll steal the soles off your boots if you let 'em."
They wound through markets that weren't markets — just a scattering of blankets on the mud, displaying stolen wares: knives with notched blades, rotting apples, scraps of silk pilfered from the higher streets.
Old women hawked "medicines" brewed from gods-knew-what, and men whispered offers of sharper things for sharper needs.
At a battered stall draped with moldy cloth, Brann stopped and slapped two coppers onto the crate. An old man behind it, blind in one eye, grunted and handed over two hunks of dried meat tougher than leather.
As they chewed, Brann pointed subtly with his chin.
"You see that?"
Caelan followed his gaze. A woman — heavy-set, hands red with labor — was talking to a merchant with strange urgency. She kept glancing around, one hand tucked into her apron.
Brann spoke without moving his lips.
"That's Marta. Washerwoman. Knows which knights visit which whorehouses. Word is, she sells it to anyone paying proper."
He tore off another bite of meat.
"Not a fighter. Not a killer. Just a woman with eyes and ears. And she's worth ten men swinging swords when the time's right."
Caelan nodded, the lesson sinking deeper than words.
Survival wasn't about strength.
It was about knowing things — about watching carefully, speaking less, and being ready when the moment came.
Later, back in the hovel, Brann handed him a battered, rusted dagger.
"Not much to look at," Brann said, tossing it into Caelan's lap. "But it'll open a purse or a throat if it has to."
Caelan turned it in his hands, feeling its weight, its quiet promise.
"You won't win fights," Brann said, crouching by the hearth. "Best thing you can do? Avoid 'em. Hide. Run. Only fools die brave down here."
He grinned, a broken thing.
"And if you have to fight, make sure you ain't the one fighting fair."
The fire snapped and hissed in the hearth.
Outside, the slums murmured and shifted in the dark, a restless living thing.
Caelan stared at the dagger a long time before setting it carefully beside his pallet.
He was not ready for killing.
Not yet.
But the day would come.
In Gallows Hill, it always did.
The next morning, Gallows Hill was stirring early.
Vendors barked their wares, smoke curled from crooked chimneys, and children chased each other barefoot through the mud. The city proper — far beyond the crumbling wall — was waking too, with the low drone of bells and the clatter of distant horseshoes on stone.
Brann sent Caelan out alone for the first time.
"Simple job," Brann said, handing him a small purse with a few battered coins. "Bread, if you can find it. Maybe some salt. Don't talk more than you have to. Keep your head down."
Caelan nodded eagerly, tucking the purse into his threadbare cloak. His chest buzzed with a strange mixture of pride and fear.
The market was more crowded today.
The air stank of sweat and fish and bad wine.
He moved carefully, weaving between bodies, doing exactly as Brann had taught — eyes down, hands close, no dawdling.
It went well enough — at first.
He had just managed to trade for a hard loaf of bread and a handful of dried beans when he heard it: a voice, sharp and mocking.
"Oi, who's this little lord come to slum it?"
Caelan turned — too quickly — and found himself face to face with a gang of older boys.
Three of them.
Dirty, lean, with the desperate look of those who had long ago learned kindness was a weakness.
The leader — a broad-shouldered youth with a crooked nose — stepped closer, grinning.
"New meat," he said, flashing brown teeth. "Bet he's got coin on him."
Caelan tightened his grip on the bread, backing away.
The boys circled him, laughter low and mean.
He could have run — should have — but pride and fear rooted him to the spot. Instead, he tried to bluff, raising his chin the way he'd seen Brann do.
"Leave me," he said hoarsely. "I ain't got nothing."
The crooked-nosed boy snorted.
"That so?"
Faster than Caelan could react, a hand darted forward, grabbing his cloak. The bread tumbled into the mud.
Another shove — sharp, practiced — and Caelan stumbled back, slamming against the wall of a leaning shack.
Pain exploded behind his eyes. The world blurred.
The boys closed in, rough hands patting him down, searching for the purse.
And then — a sound like a whipcrack.
One of the boys yelped, stumbling back clutching his arm.
Brann stood at the mouth of the alley, dagger in hand, his face dark with anger.
"Touch him again," Brann said, voice low and flat, "and you'll be pissin' blood for a week."
The gang hesitated. Calculated.
Then, muttering curses, they slunk away into the crowd like rats.
Brann didn't sheathe his dagger until they were gone.
He turned on Caelan then, his face a thundercloud.
"You bloody fool," he hissed, grabbing Caelan by the arm and hauling him upright. "What did I tell you?"
Caelan opened his mouth, but no words came.
"Keep your head down," Brann snarled. "Keep your mouth shut. And what do you do? You go puffing up like some cockerel with a broken wing!"
He shook him — not hard, but enough to drive the point home.
"This ain't a fair world, Caelan. You act like you're bigger than you are, you get cut down."
Brann's voice dropped, rough with something that might have been worry, or maybe anger at himself.
"You wanna live?" he said. "Then you better learn your size."
He shoved the bread — muddy but salvageable — back into Caelan's hands.
"Next time, you run," Brann growled. "You hear me?"
Caelan nodded, shame burning in his throat.
Brann watched him a long moment, then let out a breath and turned away.
"Come on," he muttered. "You're lucky this time."
They disappeared back into the maze of Gallows Hill, two shadows among many.
And Caelan, cradling the ruined bread, swore silently to himself:
Next time, he would be smarter.
Next time, he would not need saving.