HIS EVENING STAR

Chapter I

Nameless One

A cacophony of shattering glass pierced the night, jolting me from my fitful slumber. My body tensed, a sharp gasp escaping my lips as I instinctively clutched my threadbare cloak tighter.

"Move along now! Scram, scram!" A gruff voice bellowed.

Blinking away the haze of sleep, I cautiously peered around the edge of the wooden crates concealing me. The scene before me unfolded like a grim pantomime.

"Stupid urchins! Get out of my stuff!"

A group of emaciated boys, their eyes glinting with mischief, darted away, small trinkets clutched in their grimy hands. Their gleeful snickers echoed off the alley walls as they vanished into the shadows.

The old man, his face a map of wrinkles and frustration, spat on the ground. "Keep runnin' little idjits!" he rasped, smacking his lips in disgust.

I flinched at the harshness in his voice, retreating further behind my meager shelter. Lying back down on the cold, unforgiving ground, I pressed myself against the wall, seeking what little warmth it might offer. The moon still hung high, a silent sentinel in the inky sky. Morning was a distant promise.

As I lay there, the soft pitter-patter of tiny feet caught my attention. A family of mice scurried along the crates, their whiskers twitching in the dim light. A wry smile tugged at my lips. At least I'm not the only one having trouble sleeping tonight, I mused.

-

The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted through the air, a cruel temptation to my empty stomach. My eyes followed a well-dressed woman and her young son as they strolled past a bakery. The boy took a few bites of his bread before declaring he was full, carelessly tossing the remainder into a nearby trash bin.

I waited until they were out of sight before approaching the bin. Ignoring the disapproving stares of passersby, I retrieved the discarded bread, brushing off the worst of the grime before taking a tentative bite. The dry, day-old crust was like ambrosia to my parched mouth.

Savoring each morsel, I carefully divided the bread, tucking half into my cloak pocket for later. It was my first taste of food in three days, and I was determined to make it last.

As I nibbled, my eyes roamed the bustling street. The sheer variety of people amazed me: scholars with ink-stained fingers, workers with calloused hands, children darting between adults' legs. It was a far cry from the regimented life within the Royal House walls.

The thought of the Royal House sent a shiver down my spine. I had never known life beyond its confining walls until now. The realization that no one would come to my aid had struck me hard on that first day of freedom. I was utterly alone, with nothing but the clothes on my back and the cloak that shrouded me from prying eyes.

Whispers began to ripple through the crowd.

"Darling, isn't that..."

"Why, doesn't she look like that poster we just saw?"

"Look, honey!"

"My, I think..."

"Should we alert someone?"

The hushed words grew louder, more insistent. I quickened my pace, heart pounding. I was accustomed to criticism and fault-finding within the Royal House, but out here, in the wider world, the rules were different. I was a fugitive now, and every glance felt like an accusation.

As I approached a crowded intersection, the press of bodies made me feel smaller, more vulnerable. I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact, until I found myself pushed towards a post-board surrounded by a throng of onlookers.