I. The Family Within the Walls

The rain fell as if mourning my execution. Soon, the axe would come down upon my forearm. People joked that this was something every child raised outside the walls would experience at least once. The adults would puff themselves up, saying, “That’s when your real life outside the walls begins.” They called it a rite of passage, a badge of adulthood, a true initiation—whatever suited their fancy. For the execution of a pickpocket, they certainly had grand names for it.

“You seem the quiet type.”

The moment her lips parted, the carriage jolted. The coachman dismissed it as nothing—just a stone on the road, he said. The noblewoman, reclining comfortably, laughed. It was the kind of laugh that suggested she’d let such a minor disturbance slide.

“So.”

The noblewoman tugged at the leash of conversation, shaking it lightly. It was as if she couldn’t stand the silence settling over the carriage.

“Shall we start with your name?”

A pickpocket’s name was hardly of any use. Was she more soft-hearted than she appeared? Most of the upper class would’ve already forgotten the act of severing an arm—or even the memory of having done so.

“It’s Iyara.”

The noblewoman’s expression was difficult to read. It could’ve been sorrow, or perhaps a smile free of contempt. She set down the teacup she’d been holding onto her lap.

“How unique. It’s not a name commonly used in the Dome.”

She asked, as if prodding out of sheer boredom.

“Who gave it to you?”

I studied her pale skin, her well-fed body, the expression laced with curiosity. The things I’d stolen didn’t seem to be on her mind. Nor did she seem inclined to chop off my arm.

Yet, I couldn’t treat her as some noblewoman here to bestow charity. I had survived outside the walls for ten years. If the stolen goods were merely an excuse to capture me, then she must have wanted something else.

“My lady. Are you after information, perhaps?”

“Information?”

A shift flickered across the noblewoman’s face. Pity vanished, replaced by intrigue. It was the look of someone who had lived comfortably, never having considered such a thing before.

“So you deal in information as well, it seems.”

“If that is what my lady desires.”

Today was a day rotten with bad luck. Maggots had laid eggs in the stew, the underclothes I’d just hung to dry were soaked by the rain, and now, the pickpocketing I’d scraped by had landed me in this mess. Of all people, I had to be caught by the upper noblewoman of the Bayereka family. Why a Bayereka would be lurking in the back alleys, I had no idea—but if all I lost was an arm, I’d count myself lucky. If things went south, she might just go for my legs too.

The noblewoman’s interest seemed to wane by the second. She raised her teacup to her lips again, studying me with sharp eyes. She might have been the troublesome sort—not the type to resort to brute force, but one who enjoyed psychological torment. The kind who took pleasure in watching faces pale with fear.

“My lady.”

In that case, begging might work better than negotiation.

“If you must cut, take my right arm.”

The noblewoman’s brows twisted unpleasantly. Every word I spoke seemed to throw her off. Her silence only amplified the sound of the pouring rain. My fate felt like those raindrops striking the carriage—destined to fall where unwanted, shattering into nothing. But there was a difference. The rain felt nothing. I, on the other hand, would surrender to the gaping maw of fear.

“Why the right arm? Most people beg for their rights to be spared.”

Fortunately, the noblewoman’s face regained its calm, like the gentle warmth of a spring day. She was a woman skilled at tucking away her emotions.

“What difference does it make, left arm or right? They’re both just arms. But without a right arm, I’d be seen as less reliable in the back alleys—less useful to exploit. And if I have to beg, missing a right arm makes me look more pitiful.”

After all, the outer walls were crawling with one-armed and one-eyed folks to the point of banality. Someone whose life was ruined after crossing the wrong noble? That was as common as dirt underfoot.

I’d always had a feeling that this day would come eventually. Whether it was yesterday, today, or someday—it had trailed me like an inescapable fate. Still, if I lost an arm, at least no one would force me to steal anymore. They’d probably shove me into a corner and say, “A one-armed beggar is more useful.”

“Iyara.”

If I even make it out of this noblewoman’s grasp alive.

“I…”

The noblewoman moved the teacup from her lap to the floor by her feet. She straightened her back and folded her hands neatly. A posture ready for serious conversation.

“I won’t be cutting off your arm.”

So you’ll torture me instead? The words rose to the tip of my tongue, but thankfully, I swallowed them. I still had enough sense to know my place. This noblewoman was… unusual. Maybe she was just looking for a new kind of amusement. The real problem was that I couldn’t figure out what kind.

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

A rude question. But the noblewoman seemed almost welcoming, as if she’d been waiting for it.

“Will you answer my questions?”

As if that was all she desired. How dare I refuse? What else could a gutter rat like me do but wag its tail? I just scratched at my neck, unwashed for days.

“Yes.”

The noblewoman smiled benevolently and crossed one leg over the other.

“Do you have parents?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Why wouldn’t I have what everyone else has? Because they died before I even got a real taste of this bitter world. But I was standing before someone who could crush my life in her palm. I answered in a mutter.

“Don’t know who my father was. Don’t remember my mother well, either… except that she used to bake things like cookies.”

I’d grown up in the back alleys outside the walls since I was four. My memories of family were hazy—not plentiful enough to linger on or cherish. Just fragments: me sitting at a dusty table, humming to myself. A woman with pale hands kneading dough, the sweet scent of cookies making my mouth water. “Just wait a little longer,” she’d say, stroking my hair. “Sit still.”

Luphen used to say it all the time. You lot were rejected even by the orphanages. No proper guardians, so of course you learned to steal by age five.

“Was your mother’s name, by any chance, Shina?”

“I don’t know.”

“I see.”

The noblewoman was like a doll in a display case—prim and poised, watching passersby through glass eyes. Her speech was unfailingly gentle, but to be like her, I’d have to be reborn. My face was smudged with grime, my hair tied up in a scarf for half a month. My shirt was frayed, the sleeves chewed through by rats.

We were different from birth. She was born within the inner sanctum of the House Bayereka. I was born into the lonely life outside the walls. Where you start decides everything.

“Iyara.”

“Yes.”

“Can you read?”

“A little.”

The noblewoman’s expression brightened, if only slightly. She reached into the leather bag beside her and pulled out a book—one so small it could fit in my palm.

“Would you like to read it?”

I glanced between her pristine hands and my own, stained with grime. The book’s cover would probably turn black just from my touch. I shook my head.

“I’ll dirty it.”

“That’s alright.”

“Why?”

“Hm?”

Luphen, the man I was supposed to call father, would slap me across the face if I didn’t bring back enough coins. He never hesitated to threaten me with a knife, either. He was the kind of adult I was used to.

I hated people who made me feel ashamed. Usually, they carried a deeper darkness inside. Sweet-tongued but cold-eyed, pressing down on me with their murky desires. I preferred the ones who just hit me outright.

“Why is it okay if I dirty it?”

Just cut off my arm already. This place was unbearable. It felt like peeking into a life I could never have, like I was a worm burrowing deeper into the filth. A worm doomed to crawl under this carriage forever.

The noblewoman wasn’t cruel, but the fact that I was here, like this—that was cruel.

“Iyara.”

“Yes.”

“Your eyes are quite beautiful.”

Was she really appraising me, of all things—this wreck of a person? Luphen had sometimes threatened to gouge my eyes out and sell them at auction, but beautiful? I couldn’t bring myself to look up. With nowhere else to focus, I turned my gaze to the window.

I expected her to scold me, but the noblewoman simply picked up her teacup without another word.

Once, someone told me that when the sky weeps, it rains. Today, the sky must have had too much sorrow to bear. Crying with snot and tears, as if mourning the future ahead of me.

Does she plan to take me in as a maid? The thought of bowing my head to serve someone else was unbearable. Especially a naive noblewoman like her. The back alleys had their own kind of freedom—as long as I met my quota for the day, the rest was mine. But here? A maid in a place where my arm could be chopped off and I could be thrown out at any moment? I’d rather sprint across thin ice.

The carriage, silent as it cut through the rain, came to a stop. The coachman knocked politely—tap, tap—a sound nearly drowned out by the downpour. The noblewoman turned to me with a faint smile.

“We’ve arrived.”

Then—woooooong—a deep, resonant horn blast shook the air. It rolled over the walls, trembling the ground beneath us. Massive gates split open on either side.

I had thought it was just a wall.

But this—this was a fortress, towering so high it mocked the heavens. Even craning my neck back, I couldn’t see where it ended. The gates, grim and gray, yawned wide as if to swallow the carriage whole. And before they could close again, the carriage shot through like an arrow.