It was night, and the stench of the sewers clung to everything, especially the sacks of grain. A long line of people trudged through the murky water: children, elders, women, and men alike, each bent beneath the weight of a coarse sack slung over their backs. Their bodies were skeletal, malnourished, arms trembling as they clutched the weight on their back. The foul water reached their ankles, swirling with filth, but none of them flinched. It was just another layer, another day of misery.

Now and then, a sack would slip into the canal and drift away in the current. Those without a load would quickly stoop to retrieve it, hollow eyes darting, desperate not to be cast out of the line. Every sack meant a meager payment, another day of life, one day's worth of food. That was enough.

"Move faster!" shouted a man beside the line. He held a whip in one hand and watched the group like a butcher watches pigs. "We don't have all night!"

Leier walked in the middle of the line with two Shadow Guards, including Xena. Each of them carried a sack, their backs hunched, blending in with the others. They wore no weapons and made sure to look tired and beaten. It had been easy to join the group. A man had come into the slums offering a day's worth of food to anyone who helped carry grain. Leier and her team accepted right away.

They followed the line through the maze of tunnels. The path twisted and turned, and though it was hard to see, Leier paid close attention to every detail. She memorized the route, every turn, every crack in the wall. It reminded her of her first mission, sneaking into the rebel city of Mirante under Duchess Codicia. She had nearly died back then.

"Climb up!" another voice echoed across the sewer's thick and large pipes.

Soon, they saw a second guard standing near an old iron ladder. A soft light came from above, shining like a distant promise.

"Don't fall," the man growled, banging the butt of his spear against the ladder. "If you do, I will cut off your arms and leave you to rot in here to be eaten by rats."

Fear rippled down the line like a cold wind. The workers tightened their grips on the sacks, knuckles turning white. One by one, they began to climb the ladder, their fragile bodies shaking under the effort. The rusted metal groaned beneath them. But no one complained. They had done this before. They knew the threats were not just empty words.

When it was Leier's turn, she stepped up behind a boy who couldn't have been older than seven. From where she climbed, she could see his small body trembling, his thin legs struggling to stay balanced on the slippery rungs. His breathing was weak and uneven, almost like a sob held deep back.

Then it happened. Just as he tried to lift himself up another step, his foot slipped. His arms clutched the sack tighter, more afraid of spilling the grain than falling. He knew what would happen if he lost it, he would be left here, forgotten, maybe beaten or worse, eaten by rats. It was scary.

Panic filled his eyes. He started to fall.

But before he could drop, a steady hand grabbed him from behind, holding him firmly against the ladder.

"Keep going," Leier whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, but soft enough that no one else would.

The boy glanced down, wide-eyed, and saw her face, that single piercing blue eye staring back at him with calm strength. He gave a small nod and pressed on, step by shaky step, guided by the silent support behind him.

It didn't take long for them to reach a big warehouse. The smell of the sewers was everywhere, mixing with the smell of old grain. Sacks were stacked in every corner of the room. This was where the waste food from the Inner District was stored, food that rich nobles had thrown away, but that was like gold for the people in the slums.

Since the war began, food shipments to the capital had slowed to a crawl. The Second Prince's forces had taken control of most of the farmlands, choking supply lines and leaving only scraps for those in the capital. For the slums, even those scraps were as precious as gold.

Leier's sharp gaze scanned the room, taking in every shadow, every corner. Then, with a subtle nod to Xena and the other Shadow Guard, she gave the signal. They were in. The hard part would come next, taking control of the gang's leader without tipping off the noble backing them.

They were just about to split and move into position when Leier felt a small tug on her robe.

She looked down.

It was the boy from earlier, soaked, filthy and still trembling. His dark hair was plastered to his head, and the smell clinging to him was nauseating, but his wide black eyes looked up at her with quiet…gratitude.

"T-Thank you, Big Sister," he said, voice shaking. His legs looked ready to collapse, but he stood firm, refusing to fall. His head bowed slightly, but not too far, he seemed afraid that if he bent too much, he wouldn't be able to rise again.

Leier stared at him, unsure of what she felt. Her heart tightened in a way she didn't fully understand. Was it pity? No, maybe something else, northerners didn't feel pity. It was a crime against the hard willed that fought against the never ending cold.

Without a word, she placed a hand on his head and gently ruffled his hair, ignoring the filth. The boy swayed under her touch but didn't fall.

"What's your name?" she asked softly, her voice so calm it startled even the Shadow Guards nearby. They exchanged quick glances, eyes widening in surprise. They had never heard her speak like that. One nearly smirked.

"Munic," the boy answered, finally daring to meet her eyes. There was something alive in his gaze, a flicker of strength that most in the slums had long since lost. Maybe it was innocence. Maybe hope.

"Munic," Leier repeated, tasting the name like it meant something. She nodded once, then said, "That's a strange name."

At that, Munic's face fell, his eyes lowering as if she had scolded him. His fingers tightened around the straps of the sack, which he was still holding.

But then she continued.

"Strange… but strong. Right, Munic?"

The spark in his eyes ignited. He stood a little straighter, and even the shaking in his legs seemed to pause. A smile tugged at his lips, and for a moment, he looked like any other child, happy, proud, alive.

He wanted to shout, to laugh and tell his story. His mother had given him that name and always told him it was beautiful. Others mocked it, said it was ugly or strange, but he never believed them. It was a gift from someone who loved him. The one who gave her last grain of rice to see him live through another night.

Suddenly, a shout rang out from below.

"Didn't I say what would happen if any of you fell?!"

A loud crack echoed through the sewer, followed by a scream of pain. Someone must've failed to climb. Someone had probably just lost a hand. Munic turned to look.

"Big Sister, we—" Munic turned to warn her, but she was gone.

There was only empty space beside him, as if she had never been there at all.