I am Maribel Holloway, age 15, and I am a worthless street rat.

I walk along the market street of Cairndorn, surrounded by bustling crowds. The noise of bartering voices and the clatter of cartwheels on cobblestone fills the air. People carry sacks and baskets, others push carts laden with food or goods, weaving between the ornate storefronts and street vendors that line the wide thoroughfare.

Cairndorn is said to be the jewel of Arcadia, a city of unmatched wealth, power, and beauty. Its gleaming marble facades, meticulously crafted archways, and magically cleaned streets exude an air of prosperity. Merchants boast wares from across the world, their carts overflowing with vibrant produce, shimmering fabrics, and exotic trinkets. From a distance, it feels like a utopia of abundance.

But I know better.

This city is a mirage. Beneath the polished surface lies a kingdom of unbearable inequality, where the elite hoard unimaginable wealth while the masses fight for scraps. Look closely at the market, and the truth becomes clear.

Among the crowd, nobles stand out like peacocks in a flock of sparrows. They parade through the streets in extravagant carriages or on foot, their finely tailored clothes glittering with gold embroidery and enchanted jewels that catch the sun. Slaves and servants trail behind them, burdened with purchases and catering to their every whim. They move through the market with a stench of entitlement, and look at commoners like me with disdain.

The commoners are the majority of those who fill these streets. They shuffle from stall to stall in threadbare, hand-stitched clothes that mark them as the working poor. Their faces are weary, their postures hunched from the weight of survival. They cannot afford the luxuries displayed in the marble shops; instead, they haggle over wilted vegetables and bargain goods offered by street vendors.

I see the mothers clutching small bundles of bread, rationing what little they can afford for their children waiting in cramped, crumbling homes back in the commons. Fathers scour the market for work or for anything to fill their families' empty stomachs. I see the desperation in their eyes, the same desperation I've felt countless times.

These are my people.

We are the worthless street rats of Cairndorn, scorned by the nobles who hold this kingdom in their gilded hands. They look at us and see filth, a nuisance that sullies their pristine city. To them, we are invisible until we inconvenience them.

I know this because I've lived it. The hunger, the shame, the crushing weight of a world designed to keep people like me at the bottom.

Still, I walk these streets, my injured leg aching with every step, determined to make it to the next meal, the next quest, the next small victory. Because no matter how worthless they think I am, I'm still here. They may call me a street rat, but I am also a survivor.

Ahead of me, a fat nobleman in gilded robes waddles along, his gaudy jewelry clinking with every lumbering step. Beside him walks his equally overfed wife, her fingers stacked with rings worth more than a common family could eat in a lifetime. Following close behind are two slaves, a rabbit and a feline beastkin, each staggering under massive totes on their backs.

The slaves walk with their heads bowed, their eyes fixed on the ground. They shuffle forward with calculated care, trying to strike the impossible balance: staying close enough to their masters to avoid reprimand for falling behind, but not so close as to be accused of getting in the way. It's a cruel trick because the truth is, it doesn't matter. The nobles will beat them regardless, just to assert their dominance and remind them of their place. Afterward, they'll justify the abuse with some fabricated offense.

I stop and watch as the pair of waddling pigs make their way into the high-end tailor's shop Imperial Threads. My hands ball into fists at my sides. I hate them. I hate all of them.

What's worse, I hate how badly I want what they have.

If I had their wealth, their power, their status, surely I would be better than them. I wouldn't beat people for imaginary slights or treat anyone as less than human. I know I wouldn't.

I follow them to the shop and linger outside, pretending to admire the window display. I can already imagine the scene inside. That fat sow is about to buy a dress so extravagant it could feed one hundred people for a year and enough fabric to clothe them as well. Meanwhile, her slaves wear nothing but old, torn, ill-fitting rags.

I glance down at myself. My own ripped, threadbare clothes are long overdue for replacement. My pants have a bloody hole in the right calf where that razor boar caught me this morning. Second leg injury in an arc. I sigh and roll my shoulder, still sore from the beating I took from those damn overgrown pigs. Everything I own is worn, damaged, or barely holding together. My armor has cracks in the leather. My daggers' blades are dulling fast. I look like a joke.

I shuffle away from the shop, favoring my injured leg. Five copper coins. That's all I have to my name. Five measly coppers and the endless ache of my injury.

At least last time, Mr. Shadow had been there to help. Three weeks ago, he saved me with a potion after I was torn up by a horned rabbit. Without him, I couldn't have afforded healing. The thought of what I might have had to do to survive otherwise sends a shiver through me. I tremble, consumed by fear and disgust at the memories I fight to keep buried. He saved me from becoming prey to the world's worst monsters, the ones that don't kill your body but destroy your soul.

I've survived that monster before. But the scars remain, indelible and raw.

A cold chill washes over me as I instinctively clutch my stomach, trying to quell the painful tightness and nausea that thought conjures. No. I push those thoughts aside, forcing the memories back into the shadows where they belong. Leave the trauma in the past. Keep moving forward. Survive.

To distract myself, I turn toward the neighboring fancy restaurant, The Golden Chalice. The tantalizing aroma of grilled meats wafts from its windows, momentarily pulling me away from my despair. Peering inside, I see nobles seated at lavishly decorated tables draped in white cloths, adorned with fresh flowers and golden cutlery. They laugh and eat with abandon, dining on food I could never dream of affording.

With a scornful glance, I turn away, slipping into the narrow alley between The Golden Chalice and Imperial Threads. Bitterness rises in me like bile.

These nobles who produce nothing sit in their gilded halls, feasting, while the commoners and slaves who labor to create everything are left to starve. What gives them the right to such comfort?

The answer is simple: magic.

The nobility's ability to wield it sets them apart from the rest of us. Every noble child is given an education, one that always includes training in the magical arts. By age twelve, most are sent to the Arcadian Academy of Magic, where they hone their skills and cement both their power and their place in society.

Meanwhile, for most commoners, magic remains a distant dream. The schools and books needed to learn magic are so outrageously expensive that they are out of reach for nearly everyone. The few who do learn magic, like me, inherit the knowledge from their family, remnants of better days when their ancestors were more fortunate.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Magic isn't tied to noble blood, commoners are just as likely to have talent. That's why nobles restrict magical education and hoard knowledge. They fear what would happen if commoners gained the power to stand against them. It's fear, not superiority, that keeps us oppressed.

I come from a long line of adventurers. My father, my mother, and their parents before them made their living completing quests and hunting monsters for the kingdom. My grandparents' generation even found great wealth in their service to this land. But everything changed when Queen Arin died.

King Edric and his court of nobles ushered in sweeping economic reforms. They adopted slave labor as the primary workforce and drove up the cost of attending the magic academy. Over time, the entire system shifted. The price of healing potions, equipment, and repairs soared, making the risks of adventuring outweigh the rewards. Slowly, the profession that had sustained my family crumbled. We fell into poverty, and that poverty eventually claimed my parents' lives.

They died when I was twelve, unable to afford the healing they needed after their final quest.

In the years before their deaths, my parents trained me to become an adventurer like them. They taught me everything they could about magic, hoping I might follow in their footsteps and carve out a better life. They clung to the hope that our suffering was only temporary, that fortune would one day turn in our favor.

They were wrong.

Through their lessons, I discovered I have a rare affinity for dimensional magic. While my mana reserves are average at best, this gift allows me to wield a type of power most mages struggle to use safely.

The first dimensional spell I mastered is Flash Travel. It lets me teleport short distances in an instant, opening micro-portals to bypass all space and matter in between. But the spell has its limits. The mana cost rises with the mass traveling through, which forces me to wear lightweight gear. It also increases with the portal's size, so I shape each one to match my body's narrowest angle. Even then, I can only cast it four times before I'm completely drained.

I come to a stop against the wall just outside the kitchen of The Golden Chalice. Activating my Prey Detection ability, glowing red silhouettes of every living thing in the building flare into view, visible even through walls. Nobles lounge in the dining hall, indulging in their meals. In the storage room, mice gnaw at a bag of grain. And in the kitchen, the cook scratches his backside while tending the grill.

Imagine the faces of those pompous pricks if they knew about the "secret seasoning" on their meat.

Inside, I watch as servers move in and out, but the kitchen is never empty. Frustration gnaws at me as I silently will them to leave. Come on, step out. You're thirsty. Go grab a drink, I think, as if sheer determination could push them. But I've done this before. I know patience is key.

Finally, the moment arrives. From the dining hall comes the unmistakable sound of an angry noble raising his voice. Through my detection, I see one server rush out to fetch the cooks while the other stands frozen, enduring the berating. Predictable. These entitled pigs always complain, as if the world exists solely to cater to their whims.

The cook and his assistants leave the kitchen to deal with the commotion, leaving the space empty at last.

This is it.

I open a portal beneath my feet, just big enough for me to fall through, reappearing on the other side of the wall inside the kitchen. I exit a second portal positioned just above my height, landing gracefully on the floor. Without wasting a moment, I dart to a shelf and grab three loaves of bread. Prize in hand, I return to the wall, creating another portal to slip back into the alley unnoticed. In the blink of an eye, I'm back outside, the stolen bread hugged tightly to my chest.

Success!

I take a moment to catch my breath, the adrenaline coursing through me. I've done this countless times before, but the thrill never fully fades. Bread won't solve all my problems, but for now, it'll keep me going. That's all that matters.

I pull a cloth bag from my pocket and stow the loaves inside as I start walking back toward the main street. I exit the alley into the light and bustle of the market. I quickly put distance between The Golden Chalice and myself. My hurried strides worsen the pain in my leg but carry me away from the market and toward the commons.

I don't hurry out of guilt. No, there's none of that. I hate this city. I hate its nobles. I hate this kingdom. They deserve far worse than stolen bread for what they've done to me, for what they've taken from me.

My parents would be disappointed. They would never have resorted to stealing.

When the noise of the market finally fades behind me, I slow my stride, scanning the streets of the commons for a place to rest. The dirt paths are lined with worn-down apartments, their facades crumbling under the weight of neglect. Not far ahead, I notice a skinny little boy, no older than five, sitting on the ground outside one of the buildings. His tiny frame trembles as he cries softly.

Nothing new. Suffering is the norm here.

I limp over and take a seat beside him. "What's wrong, kiddo?" I ask, forcing a smile.

The boy looks up at me, tears streaming down his face. "I'm hungry," he whispers.

"Well, you're in luck," I say, pulling out one of the loaves from my bag and tear it in half. "You can have some of mine."

"Really? For me?" His wide eyes light up as I hand him the bread.

"All yours, kid."

To my surprise, he doesn't eat it. Instead, he leaps to his feet, clutching the bread like a priceless treasure, and bolts toward the apartment, yelling, "Mom! Dad! Come quick, I've got food!"

I watch him go, a faint smile tugging at my lips.

What a good kid.

I take a bite of my own half-loaf, but it tastes bitter now. My chest tightens, and tears blur my vision. It hadn't even crossed my mind that he might have a family, that he wouldn't selfishly eat it all himself. Funny how having nothing can make people so generous.

I'm happy for him. Truly, I am. But why am I crying? Why does my stomach churn as if I've swallowed stones?

I miss my parents so much.

Lost in thought, I don't notice the shadow that falls over me until it stops in front of me. I glance up at a short, hooded figure standing silently, their face hidden. Before I can speak, they crouch and place a vial at my feet.

"Hey, wait! Who are you?" I call out as they stride away without a word, heading toward the market.

I pick up the vial, its glass glinting faintly in the fading sunlight. I recognize it immediately, a healing potion, high-grade and similar to the one Shadow gave me three weeks ago. Curious, I activate my appraisal skill to confirm its authenticity. It's real, but... this person couldn't be Shadow. They're far too short.

As I ponder that curiosity, I take the topper off the potion and drink it. Instantly, I'm bathed in a faint green light, and my injuries mend completely. Good as new.

I go back to eating my bread, which seems to have regained some of its taste. As I chew, my thoughts linger on the hooded figure. Who were they? And why would they help someone like me?

I've long since grown used to the idea that I'm nothing more than a worthless street rat—homeless, unwanted, and invisible to the world. My days are a constant fight to survive, scraping by with whatever I can find or steal. Kindness is a luxury I stopped expecting long ago.

And yet, here I am, holding the proof of a helping hand extended to me, unasked and without conditions. This moment, this act of kindness, feels foreign, almost unreal.

My parents taught me their final lesson when they died. I'm on my own and no one will save me. Even people you help, people you might call friends, will abandon you when it matters most. My parents' comrades, their so-called friends, would not spare a single coin to buy the potions that could have saved their lives.

And yet… in the last three weeks, I have twice been given the same potion that could have saved them, free of charge and with no strings attached.

"What a strange day," I mutter, standing and testing my freshly mended leg. There is not a hint of pain left.

The sun hangs low in the sky as I start my journey home, or rather, to the place where I sleep. Home is too generous a word. I weave through the dirty streets and narrow alleyways of the commons, crossing a rickety wooden bridge over the drainage canal. My destination lies on the inner side of the city's outer wall.

I descend a slight embankment where the canal flows toward the wall, its path barred by a thick iron fence that lets wastewater escape but prevents anyone from slipping in or out. Just inside the stone archway over the canal, on the city side of the fence, a short, cracked wooden door is set into the wall. Its presence had been hidden by an enchantment that had only recently expired when I stumbled upon it.

I pull open the old door and crouch to step inside. Beyond it lies a hidden passage within the wall, an old smuggler's hideout long abandoned. Whatever merchandise was once stored here is long gone, leaving behind only a few empty crates and cracked pots.

I've done my best to make the place livable, though my efforts are modest. A few tattered blankets serve as a sleeping pad. A wooden box holds what little food I have. Water sits in chipped pots, and a metal basin doubles as both bath and laundry tub. It's far from comfortable, but it's the best I can manage.

I set my cloth bag, with its remaining loaves of bread, into the storage box. Exhausted, I lie down on my makeshift bed.

The room is dark and silent, but my mind is far from still. My body aches from this morning's boar hunt, but it's the weight in my chest that saps my strength. The weight of failure.

I hate this life. I hate what I've become. I've spent countless nights thinking about ending it all. And yet… I refuse. I refuse to let the people who took everything from me claim my life as well. One day, I will take back what they stole.

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