Ashes of the Abyss

Ah, my patient reader, if there's one thing I can tell you with certainty, it's that in the life of a poor man, victories are rare. They are small, insignificant, and often don't last more than a few hours. Yet, it's precisely for this reason that we cling to them with all our might. These are the victories that keep us standing. These are the ones that make us get up in the morning.

That day, as I returned to the sewers with my three fish – yes, three fresh fish – I felt like the king of Lyris. Sure, my clothes were covered in slime and I had a few bruises on my knees, but the wind seemed less cold, the sky less gray. It was one of those rare times when it seemed the world had decided to let me breathe. And believe me, when you live among rats, every breath is a gift.

When I reached our corner – yes, because calling it a "refuge" would be an exaggeration – the usual chaos welcomed me. Milo, as always, was busy telling stories, and Sara was cleaning the old pot with a rag that had seen better days. Around us, a small group of desperate souls, each busy doing something to avoid thinking about hunger.

"What have you got there, Rin?" Sara asked, lifting her gaze from the pot with a tired expression.

I didn't answer immediately. I approached and, with the widest smile I'd ever worn, pulled the three fish out of my bag. I displayed them as if they were trophies.

"Fresh fish," I said, emphasizing every word as if I had just announced a miracle.

For a moment, time seemed to stop. Milo stopped talking mid-sentence, and Sara looked at me with an expression between suspicion and surprise.

"Fresh fish?" Milo repeated, bulging his eyes. "What do you mean by 'fresh'? Do you mean still whole? Not half-rotten? Not... not an abandoned head?"

"Yes, Milo, fresh fish. Three. Taken from the port."

My words fell like a boulder in the silence that followed. Sara dropped the rag and crossed her arms, fixing me with a cutting expression.

"Have you completely lost your mind?" she said, raising her voice. "At the port, Rin? You want to get yourself killed for three miserable fish?"

"They didn't catch me," I responded with a shrug, trying to look more confident than I felt.

"They didn't catch you this time," Sara retorted, pointing a finger at me. "But one day... one day you'll return without those stupid fish and with an arrow in your back."

Grillo, the skinny boy we called so because of his shrill voice, approached, looking at the fish with wide eyes. "Are they really fresh?" he asked, with a mix of disbelief and hope.

"Yes, Grillo. Fresh," I said, a bit exasperated.

"Did you really take them from the port?" he asked again.

"Yes. And no, I wasn't caught. And no, I don't care if you think I'm crazy," I said, looking at Sara and Milo. "Now do you want to cook this stuff or do I have to eat them raw?"

Sara sighed, shaking her head. "You're the biggest idiot I know," she said, but she took the fish carefully and started cleaning them. "If they kill you one day, don't expect me to cry."

Milo chuckled. "Oh, but I will cry. Not for him, though. For the fish. All that wasted fish..."

His joke drew a smile from Sara, even though she did her best to hide it. I just crossed my arms, satisfied.

When the soup was ready, we all sat around the pot, each with their chipped bowl or, for those who didn't have one, an old reused can. Sara's fish soup… It wasn't a royal feast. It was boiling water with some limp vegetables, herbs that didn't taste like much, and those three fish I had brought. But down there, in the sewers, it seemed like a meal worthy of the gods.

"You know," Milo said while eating with an irritatingly slow pace, "this stuff reminds me of the soup they served us during the war against the demons."

"That's not true," Sara said, without even looking at him.

"But yes, it is! During the siege of Kalthar, we ate fish soup every day! Of course, sometimes the fish wasn't exactly... um... fresh, but..."

"You were never in Kalthar," Sara cut him short, throwing him a fierce look. "And stop making up stories while I'm eating."

Milo leaned back (if you could call it a backrest) and spread his arms. "There's no gratitude here! I tell stories, and you... you treat me like anyone else!"

"We're all anyone, Milo," Sara said with a light laugh.

Meanwhile, Grillo tried to sing one of his usual songs, but after a few notes someone silenced him by throwing a hard piece of bread.

"You're not singing tonight, Grillo," Sara said with a crooked smile. "I want to eat in peace, and your voice doesn't help."

Grillo raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. No one appreciates art here."

I just observed. I enjoyed the scene, that rare evening of laughter and jokes.

You know, dear reader, living in the sewers changes you. It teaches you not to think too much about the past and not to expect too much from the future. Misery, poverty, and hunger are not things worth remembering. They are like shadows: always present, but useless to analyze.

Yet, that day… that day stayed with me. Not for the fish, nor for the soup, although both were spectacular. No, that day stayed with me because, for once, in the sewers, there was something like hope.

And this, dear reader, is why I chose to start my story here. Not with danger or pain, but with a moment of peace. These are moments that sometimes I think I didn't even live, memories distorted to lead me to do what I did.