This story is a prequel to Broken Souls about an elf named Lura that takes place in a fantasy world called Aratheon that a few writers and myself have been working on (Phoenix Cinders, Scarlet Rose, Wolf Hunt, and Lion Heart). All characters who do partake in any sexual activity are above the age of 18 years old. The main character is 29 years old. This story focuses on the female main protagonist of Broken Souls. I'll post the male protag's perspective in his prequel called The Damaged Soul separately. Now enjoy the series. This does have some touchy subjects.
Chapter: 1
Another day in Tent City...
I let out a silent sigh as I climb up the wall, moving my hands and feet to the little divots and indents that act like a ladder for me to climb. I finally reach a narrow, cracked hole in the wall wide enough for me to squeeze through.
With a hood covering my face, I weave through the crowd of elves of Low Town as I head through the sandy main street on my way to the market. Every now and again, I'll bump into someone and, purely by coincidence, my pocket becomes a little heavier after my clumsiness. I do not look at what is in my pocket, I just continue while the weight of my pocket grows.
I reach the market and use the little trick I learned to move objects from a distance. Of course, it's magic, but it's not enough to be traced by the enforcers. Just a trickle. My uncle taught it to me among other things. As Zeeno scrambles to pick up his fruit that, for some strange reason, falls from his stall, I sneak underneath and start piling my bag full of his fruit.
He calls his Stall, Zeeno's Ripe Fruits and Vegetables, ripe being an understatement. Most are squishy and don't smell right. Suddenly, Zeno's thick, chubby, enormous nose and face with shabby eyebrows and rotting teeth ducks under the stall. My eyes go wide and I drop the tazzle fruit in my hand. His long, pointy, elven ears seem to droop on him. "Hey! You lousy kid. Give me those!"
I bolt out of there with the bag of fruit, darting down alleyways and zipping through the people. "You bastard! Wait until I get my hands on you."
Even as I run away, my pocket still grows heavier as I bump into people. I bolt down an alleyway, only to cut back the opposite way. I climb up a pillar and jump on a ledge. Then I jump from building to building. I leap a distance longer than I'm comfortable with and barely grab the ledge, but I slip and hit the wooden balcony beneath it with a groan. The air feels like it's been knocked out of my lungs. I roll onto my hands and knees, pushing myself forward as I scramble back up to the roof. A little dazed, but okay.
I jump and land on a cart of hay before sliding down and sprinting to the gap. I make it through and climb down the wall. Now that I'm in Tent City, I relax a bit and walk casually through the pathways between tents. I slip through Glimmer Alley, where all the glimmer zombies beg and plead for another hit of that poison. They look like skeletons with splotchy skin clinging to their bones.
After zig-zagging through the streets and alleys between tents, I slip into our tent. Father's tinkering with some contraption he salvaged. He can get a few sand pieces for the parts, but those don't last. Can't even buy rotten fruit with that. That's the problem; everything is overpriced. My mother is grounding up some kind of moss. Most people come to her for the tonics and tinctures she makes with what little herbs she can find. Most of the time, she trades her tinctures for other goods and that's usually how we eat. But not tonight.
"You'll never guess what I got!" I open my bag and I want to cry. All my fruit is smashed.
"What's that, hun?" mother asks as she finally looks up.
"My fruit. It's... It's smashed. It's all mushy," I say as tears flood my cheeks.
"Here, let me take a look," she says and I hand her the bag.
"Oh, we can make a nice little jam with that, and since tomorrow is your special day, we can use the jam to make a little something nice to celebrate with. You'll finally be an adult tomorrow," my mother says as she takes the smashed fruit out, dumping it into a wooden bowl.
"How did you pay for the fruit, Lura?" my father asks as he looks up at me with his gaunt face. His cheeks seem to cave into his face, and that truly saddens me. My family and I have been living in this arsehole slum for my entire life, all twenty-nine cycles of it so far. I'm a day short of becoming an adult. "Zeno was generous today."
"Lura, I have told you, we do not steal. It is not our way. We're better than that," my father says as he stands up and has to lean on the table to remain on his feet.
"Look at you, father, you can barely stand because of hunger. How is it fair that we have to scrap for food while the nobles fatten themselves? They let food go to waste while elves down here die of hunger. They impose their stupid laws and prohibit the poor from using magic all to keep us down. We slave and do their work while they reap all the benefits. Why shouldn't I steal?"
"Because it would make us no better than them," he says, adjusting his broken glasses. "We may live in the slums now, but we come from the honorable Syllana bloodline. A true saint."
"Honor doesn't put food in our bellies!" I snap back.
He sighs and rubs his forehead. "No, but hard work does."
"Not when you only get paid with a few sand pieces that are worth as much as the sand it takes to make them. We can't even afford the crumbs from the wealthy nobles' scraps. I'm so sick of living this way!" I shout. Then I see the looks on their faces and realize I have gone too far. A sigh escapes my lips. "I'm sorry. I know it's not your fault. Life is so unfair."
He gives a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He hobbles over to me and wraps me in a warm hug. "I know, my child. I know. But I couldn't bear it if you got caught. The cost is too high. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if you were put in chains and sold as a slave."
"That is another thing that makes little sense. How is it justified to be sold into slavery for stealing something that only costs less than a copper?" I ask.
My father shrugs. "I do not know, my dear. I don't make the laws. But I suspect it's because of how bad things have gotten. The slums have only grown since the Council of Nine has taken over the rule of our city. Ever since our great King Volodar Morric has left the throne, things have slowly grown worse."
"Why did he do it? Why did he walk away?" I ask.
My father only shrugs. "I don't know, my child."
"Well, I just came to drop off the fruit. I gotta run," I say, and bolt out before my parents can argue.
I still hear my father shouting. "You better not be heading off to Lethvelion. Your uncle isn't a good influence!"
I walk out of the tent to run into Sister Damaris, who pays us regular visits. "Lura..."
"Sorry, sister, can't stay," I say as I push past her, rushing through the lines of tents, heading to the underpass of the bridge to the gate to the Under City. That's where I find a tunnel down to the path to the underground sewers. Of course, it stinks like dung and piss, but what would you expect from the sewers? Traveling below, I head through a maze of corridors and passageways. I find a secluded place and use a bit of magic Uncle Leth taught me, summoning a small ball of faint blue light. Lethvelion says that as long as I only use a trickle of magic, it can't be detected. It's illegal to use magic without a permit, and the only people who can afford permits are rich nobles. Of course, you could always borrow the money, but the banks would never lend money to tent trash like me. Maybe someone in Mid Town or even Low Town with a reputable line of work. Or someone who works for the Golden High Elf Trading Company. Although I hear they give scholarships to those with exceptional potential. But I suppose I'm not one of them.
I empty out my pockets, and I find a nice catch. Aside from the junk, which contained some kind of letter, a torn piece of parchment that looks like it came from a book, a vial of something dark, and some kind of token, I got a nice stash of jewelry and some coins. A little ruby, some silver coins, plenty of copper, and even a golden crown. There's a nice little pearl bracelet, but I'm drawn to a beautiful golden ring with a bright, glimmering sapphire. It feels like it calls to me. I can't tear my eyes away from the sea of glimmering blue within the sapphire. A clatter in the distance pulls me out of it. I shake my head and stuff everything inside my pocket besides my new ring. It looks perfect on my finger. Feels even better. As soon as I put it on, it feels like a surge of energy went through me. With a bit of magic I've learned here and there from Uncle Lev, I make the ring go invisible. No one will ever know it's there.
I did quite well if I say so myself. I take a better look at the vial of dark liquid. Wonder what it could be... I put it in my pocket with another invisibility spell. Got to be careful using that too often. What about this letter? I open it and read what's inside. It's a letter from a man named Ba'theas Keenreaver addressed to Iolas Paynore of the Golden High Elf Trading Company. Sounds like he's trying to bribe the man. I also unravel the parchment and it has some cryptic meaning. It reads as follows.
A hidden secret lies in a list at the back of this book.
That's odd. Obviously, this note is useless without the book. I toss it aside. I pocket the letter and make my way through a maze of tunnels I know all too well until I reach my destination, a place we call The Gallows, the underground city.
Down a corridor lies an iron door. I knock once, then twice, then once, and wait a second before knocking three more times. The narrow sliding window shoots open. "Oh, it's you, Little Sparrow, the tinkerer's daughter."
The sliding little window closes, and the door opens to the sight of a large, bald elf with pointy ears that have grown past his head. He's got a gruff, long, black beard with a mustache to match. His arms are as thick as sewage pipes. "Don't tell me you've got more junk to haggle with."
"Not junk, valuable treasure," I say with a smile.
"Junk," Balbys grumbles as he lets me through.
"Someone's junk is another one's treasure," I say.
"You can paint a sandstone gold, but it's still junk," he says.
