A Scum's Redemption

We're back at the pits.

The ground is cracked, sun-beaten, flaking like old paint. The air smells like rusted metal and dust—familiar, heavy.

Reyda stands out in front of me.

Back straight. Arms crossed. Chin tilted just slightly up.

She's looking out across the slums—not with disgust. Not with resignation.

With hope.

Like she's staring down a battlefield and already knows where she's going to plant her flag.

Kaelen's not far behind her.

Still small. Still clutching that stupid stitched-up doll.

He's watching her like she's carved out of sun.

Like the world made sense just because she was standing in it.

Blood hit the clay before the first shout even finished.

Two teens—maybe seventeen, maybe younger—tore into each other at the center of the pit. Bare fists. Filthy nails. One had a broken bottle. The other had rocks wrapped in cloth. They didn't fight to win. They fought to hurt. To end.

Flesh split. Teeth cracked. Someone's ear tore halfway loose.

No one stopped it.

No one screamed.

Just a half-circle of workers watching in silence. Some wide-eyed. Some bored. Some with eyes that had seen it too many times already.

I crouched near the back edge of the ridge, half-shadowed behind a collapsed beam. He didn't flinch. Didn't lean forward.

He didn't need to know why it started.

Nobody did.

In the slums, fights didn't start over logical reasons.

They started because the water ran out. Because someone looked wrong. Because a man's brother died five years ago and he still didn't know what to do with his hands.

The clay pits weren't a place. They were a pressure cooker.

And every once in a while, something cracked.

When the two boys were finally dragged apart—bleeding, snarling, breathless—it wasn't over.

It never really ended.

But that's when she stepped up.

She climbed onto a cracked stone slab at the edge of the pit—where everyone could see her. And when she spoke, her voice cut through the heat like lightning. At first only a few people gave her attention. 

"You think this is normal?" she shouted. "You think tearing each other apart is just what life is now?"

"They want you like this. Angry. Desperate. Afraid."

"They want you fighting each other so you never look up. So you never see who's really holding the leash."

I crouched behind a stack of clay jugs, arms wrapped around my knees. Kaelen was beside me, wide-eyed, breathing fast, dirt smudged across his cheek.

Reyda's voice carried—not loud, but sharp, like it was being carved straight into the stone.

A priest might've had her dragged out for saying less. But she said it anyway.

Like she wanted them to hear her.

"I'm so damn tired of surviving."

"I want to live."

"And I want you to live, too. Not like this. Not crawling. Not killing each other for a scrap of bread or a fistful of pride."

"We weren't made for this pit. For this rot. For this war they pretend isn't happening."

"We were made to dream. To build. To stand."

One of the older boys turns.

"You believe that garbage?"

I didn't answer.

Didn't know how to.

Not yet.

She turned, swept her arm across the pit—all the sunburned, broken, half-starved people too afraid to meet her eyes.

She turned her head, just slightly.

Eyes swept the pit—then landed on me.

Not long. Just enough.

Like she knew I was there. Like she wanted me to hear this.

By now, every soul strong enough to look had their eyes on her.

Now, only the broken looked away.

"They tell us light is something you're born with. That if you don't glow, you don't matter."

"I say that's bullshit."

"You don't need a brand to be bright."

"You just need to refuse to stay in the dark."

"So go ahead. Fight each other. Rip your brothers to pieces. Let them win."

"Or—get the hell up."

"And build something they're afraid of."

She stood there, breathing hard.

Sunlight caught the sweat along her collarbone.

Her hands trembled—not with fear, but with fury.

And I felt it.

All of it.

She gave the field one last look. Most people weren't paying attention anymore.

But I was.

She stepped down from her little stage.

Looked at me. Then at Kaelen.

Then smiled.

"Bit over the top?"

I hated her a little in that moment.

Hated how sure she sounded.

How she said "we" like she believed I could be part of something.

Like she didn't see the truth—what I really was

Like she didn't know what I'd already done to survive.

But her words lodged somewhere.

And years later—they were still there.

The memory fades.

Not like smoke.

Like a flame pulled back into the wick.

That speech wasn't for the crowd.

It was for me.

She saw me there, hiding like I always did. And she stood taller anyway.

Maybe she knew I'd forget.

And that's why she kept shouting.

So I'd hear her again when I was ready.

The firelight's still low. The boy—Kai—has fallen asleep again, his head resting on my rolled-up coat. Gil sits a few feet away, sharpening something too dull to matter, watching the trees like they're about to move.

A twitch. A breath.

Kai's lips move. Just once.

"Be… brave…"

The words are faint. Like they came from somewhere else.

I freeze.

But he just exhales, curls in tighter.

And sleeps on.

I can feel her voice.

Still echoing.

Still cutting.

She said we weren't made to crawl.

So I won't.

Not anymore

Bury me.

I've heard what seeds do in the dark.

The fire still crackles. But something's changed.

Not the flames—me.

Her voice left a mark. Not one that bled. One that burned.

The world looks sharper now. Clearer. The kind of clarity that doesn't wait for permission.

I step toward the fire.

For once, I'm not moving to escape something.

I'm walking toward something.

Toward him.

Determined to get answers.

Gil sits cross-legged near the flames, running his sword across a battered whetstone. No urgency. No wasted motion. His eyes flick up as I approach, unreadable.

He​​ sits by the fire like none of this matters. Like the world never burned.

It's infuriating—and somehow comforting.

I clear my throat.

"I didn't get a chance to say it earlier," I start. "Thanks. For saving us."

His eyes narrow slightly, then flick toward the fire again. "Don't mention it."

"I'm Aren, by the way."

"Didn't ask," he says, deadpan.

My eye twitches. "You always this friendly?"

Gil shrugs. "Only when I'm babysitting."

I cross my arms. "Nice. Real funny."

We sit in a silence that stretches just long enough to feel like a test.

I break it. "Why were those men after us?"

Gil doesn't look up. "Because of him."

He nods toward the sleeping bundle at my side.

My muscles tighten. "What do you mean?"

"He's a Giftborn. Isn't he."

I freeze. Instinct pulls me one inch closer to the boy.

Gil raises a palm.

"If I wanted to turn you in, I wouldn't have dragged you out of a damn death pit."

I study him. Hard to tell if he's joking. Or warning me.

"What's his Gift?" he asks casually.

"Why should I tell you?"

Gil smirks. "Relax. I just want to make sure I'm not sleeping next to a walking nuke."

I exhale. Slowly.

"I don't know exactly. Something with... memories. Dreams. Totally harmless in my opinion."

Gil hums. "Huh."

A pause.

"You're strong," I say. "Really strong. How?"

"Lots of questions, kid."

"I'm not a kid, old man."

He chuckles—and for a second, I think he might actually be lighthearted.

Then his face hardens.

"I was a commander in the Radiant Order."

I shoot up. Hand to my blade.

"You're with them?!"

Gil doesn't move. Doesn't even blink. Just lets it hang there.

"I was. I left."

"You could be a spy. You could be leading us into—"

"I've seen what they do to children, to families."

His voice cuts like a lash. Cold. Final.

"I won't let them get their way."

His eyes darken—not glowing, not threatening.

Just haunted.

And then—

Something shifts.

Gil's head jerks. He holds up a finger.

Silence.

Then a gesture: treeline.

Then: Kai.

Then: me.

I kneel instinctively, lifting the boy.

He curls against me without waking.

Gil is already slipping into cover behind a slab of rock.

I follow.

Then—

Sound.

Something hits the earth.

Not steps.

Impacts. Heavy. Sick. Repetitive.

The earth softens beneath each one.

A branch snaps—too thick for anything normal.

Then silence.

Then breathing.

Ragged.

Wet.

Pulled through lungs that don't work right.

The air changes. Grows thick. Sour. Like meat left in the sun too long.

That when it appears.