Having endured the relentless demands of Theon, Mirk wrapped up his grueling tasks and set out for home. Feeling too exhausted to make a detour to visit the fae, he opted to skip it this time. As he ambled along, the youngest stable boy efficiently delivered Keldi, the horse, to him. It appeared that the mare was designated as his mode of transportation.

Mirk and the horse strolled back into the city. He ditched the tack, tearing off that fancy royal badge before selling it without much hassle. The saddle and bridle were in a great condition, but he didn't go all fancy with the price; just enough to make a quick deal.

So there he was, sitting on the horse bareback, getting the light hairs all over his clothes as the horse grudgingly stomped up the street, if Mirk didn't know any better, he'd think she was mad at him.

"Look, isn't it better without all the buckles and ropes? You get freedom, I get money. It's a win—shit!" Mirk cursed, leaning forward as Keldi slipped on the icy cobblestones. After regaining her balance with an annoyed snort, they proceeded up the late-night streets, the ground now transformed into narrow rivers of black ice.

"I might be responsible for your missing saddle, but I ain't be held accountable for your broken feet, come on, let's take the long way around then," the thief mumbled as he gracefully slid off the tall horse. He grabbed a fistful of her white mane and started guiding her around the buildings. Although reluctant, Keldi followed as he steered her around houses.

Most shops were shuttered, with the last candles being extinguished and counters cleaned. The streets, nearly deserted except for a few gentlemen seeking a tavern or discreet establishments, echoed with the sounds of their footsteps on the icy pavement.

"Come on, can you be any slower?" he huffed, trying to walk faster but the horse didn't even budge, keeping her own pace as she kept staring ahead. No matter how hard he tried to make her move quicker, the mare was adamant on a slow walk.

Frustrated, he let go of her mane and threw his hands in the air. "Useless cow!" he felt his cheeks heat at the raising frustration. "I'm gonna take you to the butcher, the stables are full of- ow!" he jumped away, massaging his shoulder that the mare had bit.

"Oh now you've done it. That's it! You little-"

"What do we have here?" a playful voice made him stop, the horse did as well, raising her head high and perking her ears up.

They were about to pass a busy tavern, with live music and giggling coming from the ajar door. A band of young aristocrats by the looks of it had stepped out for a cigar and fresh air. A band of seven men high on illegal smokes. They cut off Mirk's way, the horse next to him tensed as well.

"A dirty mongrel." One of them spat out, noting Mirk's half pointy ears that stuck out of his hair. He chuckled nervously, pressing his back against the mare to make sure he could see all of them.

"Fellas, fellas, feeling alright this fine evening?" Mirk's eyes darted between them, a glint of silver catching his gaze as one of the men twirled a pocket knife between his fingers. Frantically searching for an escape, he knew he couldn't raise a hand against them. The law stated firmly that under no circumstance could a crossbreed raise their hand against a human. If such an event occurred, the crossbreed would be hanged with no trial.

Not that Mirk was well-versed in laws, but this particular one was often whispered in The Hare's Hair during shadowed gatherings when teeth and claws were being sharpened. If there was one thing that united the underworld, it was their common disdain for humans.

"Nice horse for a rat. I bet the owner wants it back." One of the men said, taking off his top hat and sliding his fingers though his silky hair as he eyed the horse.

"Well, funny story, I am taking her back. Rest assured, gentlemen, the horse is in safe hands." he patted the mare's dappled neck, another knife was taken out.

This did not look good.

"To be honest, Mutt. We don't much give a shit about the horse." a smaller one of the men remarked, giggling to himself as he looked between his comrades.

"Its the likes of you that needs to be gone from our streets. Filthy, thieving half-blooded mongrel!" the first man said again, reaching for him. Mirk ducked, sliding under the horses belly to press himself between the horse and the wall. He then urged the mare forward, slapping her rump to get her to move and get away. She knew where her home was, she would be fine.

He slipped on the cobble stone, the horse getting overwhelmed by the drunkards swarming them as she took off, light mane flowing in the darkness as Mirk did his best to disappear, too.

He was roughly shoved against wall, making him lose his balance. Before his body touched the ground, he called forth his shift, the dragon under his skin ready to sink through. It would be easier to fly away rather than run.

"Oh no you won't" one of them growled as a foot made contact with his face, bringing black spots to his eyesight. Mirk's vision blurred as the foot connected with his face, the metallic tang of blood filling his mouth. He tasted the grit of cobblestone, and the world spun in disorienting spirals. The men, now closing in, wore sinister grins, their laughter echoing against the tavern's lively backdrop.

"Oh, look at the filthy mongrel trying to slither away," one sneered.

"Think you can escape, rat?" another taunted, flicking his knife open with a menacing click.

As Mirk struggled to rise, the weight of his fate pressed heavily on him. The outlawed crossbreed law circled his mind like vultures, threatening swift justice if he dared retaliate against these human aggressors. Panic surged within him, but he refused to succumb.

"I suggest you get lost, half-blood. This ain't a place for your kind," the ringleader sneered, disdain etched across his face.

Before Mirk could react, the circle of assailants tightened. A sharp pain radiated from his ribs as they delivered a series of punishing blows. With each hit, his resolve strengthened. He couldn't allow himself to become a victim. Anger boiled and the shadow of injustice loomed, but the fire within him burned brighter.

Drawing on his last reserves of strength, Mirk summoned his shift. Scales rippled across his skin, a protective layer against the onslaught. His fingers elongated into claws, and feral instincts awakened within him. The attackers recoiled, momentarily stunned by the unexpected transformation.

The air around him shimmered as the dragon within emerged. Wings unfurled, casting a foreboding shadow on the cobbled street. The ringleader, undeterred, brandished his knife. "A freakish mutt with a party trick," he scoffed.

Mirk's eyes glowed with an otherworldly intensity. He spread his wings, ready to take flight. However, his escape was cut short as the men, fear replaced by determination, lunged at him with renewed aggression.

This was a simple party game for them, just fun. Mirk had no problem defending himself but they were obviously high class and if one of the high class men went missing, it would mean a swarm of soldiers purging the streets of hybrids.

Pain laced though his calf as a knife was roughly blunged under his scales by the burliest man. He screeched, raising his black wings and baring his teeth in show of anger. A roar of laughter met his ears.

"An armour of dragon scales sounds nice, doesn't it? How many you want, Callum?"

Callum, the burly man with the knife, chuckled. "I'll take a full set. Might make a fortune selling them overseas, don't you think?"

The others joined in, their laughter a cruel symphony against the backdrop of the dimly lit alley. Mirk's heart pounded in his chest, the metallic taste of blood still lingering in his mouth. His transformation hadn't intimidated them; instead, it fueled their avarice.

As the men closed in, revelling in the prospect of acquiring dragon scales, Mirk knew he had to act swiftly. The streets remained eerily quiet, the shadowy corners of the city concealing their clandestine brutality. Panic clawed at him, and the cold truth settled in his gut - he was at their mercy.

A quick shift of his body, Mirk attempted to evade the impending assault. Yet, the ringleader anticipated his move, landing a swift kick that sent him sprawling against the cobblestone. The dragon scales offered some protection, but they weren't impervious to the ruthless blows.

"Get him down. We'll have quite the haul tonight," the ringleader declared, a sinister gleam in his eyes.

Mirk writhed on the ground, trapped between his dragon instincts and the impending threat. The assailants closed in, their knives glinting in the dim light. Desperation fueled him, and with a surge of energy, he unleashed a burst of dragonfire, forcing them to step back.

The alley filled with smoke, providing a momentary screen. Mirk seized the opportunity, gathering his strength. In a swift motion, he sprang to his feet and, with powerful beats of his wings, ascended into the night sky. The men below coughed and cursed, their prey escaping their clutches.

His wings beat erratically as he kept a keen eye out for any archers. Flying so high could prove to be fatal if the city guards saw him, thankfully, it was already dark.

He wheezed as he lowered himself on top of familiar roof, dragging the stones away to slither in.

He landed with a small thud, the sound of heavy symphony reaching his ears from an ongoing play down, down below.

He ran towards his cot, limping as he realized the knife was still etched under his scales. Not giving it much thought, he craned his neck, chomped his teeth around the hilt and pulled it out. It clattered on the ground with drops of dark, nearly black blood.

Mirk whimpered as he slithered under the blankets, curling up in a ball as small pathetic whines left his throat.

He hated humans, hated them all. But what he hated most, was his inability to harm them back in a setting like this. The throbbing pain in Mirk's calf and the searing ache in his ribs became overwhelming. He lay curled on his cot, shivering from the adrenaline and the remnants of fear that coursed through his veins. The dimly lit room offered a fleeting refuge, but the shadows whispered stories of the cruel world outside.

His mind replayed the events in the alley, the metallic taste of blood still fresh in his mouth. The knife wound throbbed as a cruel reminder of the encounter, a stark emblem of the discrimination he faced as a crossbreed. The dragon scales that had briefly shielded him now seemed like a meager defense against the harsh realities of the city.

The distant sounds of the play below continued, an ironic juxtaposition to the pain that gnawed at Mirk's core. He loathed the helplessness that tethered him, unable to retaliate against the humans who reveled in their cruelty. The underworld he called home offered no sanctuary; it was a mere facade of safety that crumbled when faced with the prejudice of the surface world.

It was fair, no one from his line of work would ever step in, it wasn't practical. He wouldn't do it, either.

With a heavy heart, Mirk acknowledged the fragility of his existence. He had navigated the labyrinthine alleys, executed daring thefts, and danced with the shadows to survive. Yet, the encounter with those high-class tormentors had exposed the fragile balance he clung to. The law, prejudiced and merciless, held a sword over his head, ready to strike him down should he dare defy its mandates.

So very slowly, the blood trickled down his dark scales and onto the mattress below. The pain radiated through him, but it was the wounds unseen that cut the deepest. The emotional scars of discrimination, the bitter taste of injustice - these were the wounds that lingered, persistent as the shadows that haunted his every step.

He forced his eyes shut, hiding his face under his tail to try and forget the sneers and malicious laughter.

Stories, he had to think of stories to calm his erratic heart down again.

As a child, he had realized that when faced with injustice, it was the stories in his head that often lifted his mood. He supposed if he knew how to write he would be scribbling down words of gallant expeditions and saving princesses from castles overthrown by trolls. It was the imaginary land and characters that were his only escape from the cold, dark rooms and blood stained scales.

He whimpered as the symphony down below peaked again, the loud sound not helping his oncoming headache as he tried to curl up even tighter than he was before.

He knew that technically it was impossible for a human to find him, but fear was irrational. one cannot tell their mind that there is no more danger. In the solitude of his hidden refuge, Mirk clung to the solace of his imagined tales, weaving stories of brave heroes and magical realms. The symphony of the play below acted as a distant lullaby, attempting to drown out the haunting echoes of the recent encounter. He pressed his eyes shut, escaping into the recesses of his mind where dragons soared, and injustice was merely a phantom.

The dark scales that adorned his body glistened with the remnants of the struggle, a macabre reminder of the price he paid for existing in a world that begrudged his kind. The pain in his calf and ribs, both physical and emotional, seemed insurmountable, yet he clung to the sanctuary of his thoughts, seeking refuge in the fiction he conjured.

As the night wore on, Mirk's shivers began to subside, replaced by a numbing fatigue. The symphony below gradually mellowed, its final notes fading into the quiet of the night. In the stillness, he cautiously uncoiled himself, glancing at the knife he had pulled from his own flesh. The dark blood on the blade was a testament to the harsh realities he faced.

He nudged the pillows and the blanket into one huge pile and slithered himself under all of the softness. The bleeding had mostly stopped and he just wanted to sleep. He didn't feel safe enough to shift back, so he fell into a deep slumber after a while of turning and tossing, welcoming the darkness with open arms.

He felt awful the next day, deciding not to go to the fae's manor. He had said five days, but not specifically which ones.

He had drowned in his misery the whole morning. With little sleep and an aching body, he hadn't gotten that much rest. And if there was anything Mirk yearned for, it was a good night's rest. But his stomach was empty, and his throat was dry.

If there was one thing that could lure every miserable street rat out of their warm burrow, it was an empty stomach.

He pulled on some clothes, stashing some of his savings in a pouch tied to his belt. The remaining coins he tucked into his boot. Pain shot through his leg whenever he took a hasty step, making him grit his teeth as he pulled one of his old cloaks over his shoulders. He would have to fly all the way down the river today to wash his hair and keep the wound clean.

Although it was healing, he knew he had to be extra careful. He'd seen plenty of dead homeless people who had allowed the dirt to settle in their wounds.

When he left his home, he was met with the cold, crispy air. The trek down to the river was a short one, and the quick dip in the water even shorter. His fingers were numb by the time he made it to the Hare's Hair.

"Hello! Looking as dashing as ever!" he greeted the mind reader at the door who rolled his eyes and allowed him to pass.

The tavern was quiet but Mirk was convinced it would be full of drunken singing in a couple of hours when the sun went down.

"One roasted goose and apple mead," he ordered, fishing out the right amount of coins before the reliable Condor. The burly tavern owner rarely left his home, mainly due to the two tiny horns that sprouted from his forehead, signaling faun lineage somewhere down in his ancestry. Running around with horns wasn't easy, which explained why he rarely ventured outside.

Condor grunted, waved him away, and went to pour the mead into a meizer.

Mirk went to sit down behind a table closest to the fireplace, holding his nearly frozen hands out to the open flame.

He could almost feel the ice crack underneath his skin as warmth slithered around his fingertips.

He didn't have to wait long before the scent of a roasted goose in butter sauce attacked his senses, making his mouth water. His eyes nearly turned heart-shaped as soon as a barmaid walked out with his food and mead, briefly telling him to enjoy his food before going to fetch someone else food and drink.

Mirk wasted no time as he delved into his meal, the pain in his leg temporarily fading away.

He wasn't the most graceful eater, slumping over his food and gobbling it down like a starved dog, which wasn't too far away from who he was.

Halfway through his meal, he slammed the nearly dull knife down on the table next to his mead mazer, growling deep in his chest as his eyes followed the strange arm that was threatening to snatch away his drink.

"Stop it, you know all this growling and huffing you do always turns me on."

He straightened his back, smile stretching over his face as he pulled his drink closer to himself.

"Look what the cat dragged in." he said with a boyish smile, not caring for further greetings as he stuffed his face with the goose again, less she tries to take that away from him, too.

Lyra huffed and leaned in closer, smiling seductively.

Lyra Marblemaw was of werewolf blood, but she reminded Mirk more of a cat really. Not that he'd dare to say it out loud, he valued his neck.

He'd known her for a long time, she was a couple of years older than Mirk, and lately she'd been doing her best to try and lure him into her bed. Granted, he'd had one or two drunken nights with her, but Lyra kept clawing him up. He liked sex as much as the next guy but pain freaked him out.

Besides, he found that lately he'd been afraid of women, especially middle aged boisterous ones. They were often so touchy with him when they got drunk.

Lyra on the other hand was a safer choice, she respected his boundaries, drunk or not.

"Chew after a bite, will you? I'm not gonna perform CPR you when you choke on a chicken wing again."

"Goose."

"Even worse, goose wing."

He glared at her playful before going back to his potatoes. Her dirty blonde hair was cut short, reaching only slightly past her shoulders. The short haircut showed off her numerous dangling earrings and he felt slightly satisfied to see her still wearing one of the snake ruby rings he had gotten for her birthday.

He forgot it most of the times, so the one time she reminded him he had a pair of earrings he had stolen from one of the rich humans. It seemed she was always wearing them. In that regard they were similar, anything shiny caught their eye.

"You staying for long?" he asked after thoroughly scanning his plate, making sure it was spotless before slightly pushing it away and pulling the mead closer to himself, giving her his full attention.

Her blue, almond-shaped eyes roamed the surroundings as she nonchalantly shrugged. "Not sure yet. The weather's turning cold, it's warmer in the city."

Although it was true, he could see her hesitation. As a part werewolf, she had always felt the need to belong in a pack and thus started building her own. He didn't know what her numbers were. But it did give him an idea.

"How about taking on a job for me?" he proposed.

Her eyes flicked to him, a perfectly shaped eyebrow arching as she turned her entire body in his direction. "I'm listening."

Leaning in, he spoke in a hushed tone. "I had a job with Rita and Arit." Recognition dawned in her eyes.

"And they left you high and dry?" She casually draped one leg over the other, removing her dark red hood and tossing it carelessly onto the table.

"You could say that. I want to know who their employer was."

They didn't talk often about their jobs, who their contacts were or what exactly was their business.

"You know I don't like getting my hands dirty for nothing."

He nearly looked offended at that. "You think I would ask you that and not offer to pay?"

She raised her hands in surrender. "I'm just saying, it's not often that the likes of you has funds for spying."

He didn't even have heart to actually be offended by that because it was truth. "You don't have to be so plain about it," he rolled his eyes.

"Don't get all dramatic on my ass now, first tell me about what it was y'all stole and how much you're offering to pay."

She crossed her arms, tilting her head quizzically. Mirk sighed before responding, still not entirely sure about the nature of the item himself.

"Well, it was a stone mask with spikes, some sort of old relic. Ugly and heavy little thing."

Confusion marred her face. "What, you stab yourself to keep the mask on?" Mirk nodded.

Lyra began to speak but stopped when one of the barmaids delivered her food, a simple broth. She flashed a flirty smile, thanked the server, and started digging in.

"What?" she asked, noting Mirk's bemused expression.

"You're having a job interview," he said drily as she enjoyed her meal.

"Like you have any other options on the table."

"Who says I don't?" she looked up at him. "Do you?"

"Well, no."

She snorted, coughing as some of the broth went down the wrong pipe.

"15 silver coins for it." she looked up, startled at the amount, but as always, she got right into negotiating.

"25 silver."

"I said 15."

"You also said I'm the only one you've got."

"15 is all I have, take it or leave it."

"I'm sure you can find extra 5." she said, tilting her head. But the question was clear, she was subtly wondering if there was someone else working through Mirk, which wasn't a lie, but she didn't need to know that.

"15 silver coins Lyra, that's all I have for you." Mirk put his foot down, he could have gone up with the price, it wasn't his money he was gambling away anyway. But if he went too high, Lyra would start expecting the money from him should he ever need her assistance again.

She shrugged, going back to her food.

"Deal. Although, I would have done it for even less since it's you, the almighty lone wolf Mirk, asking for my help. It's an honor!" she teased, reaching for his mead again. He snatched it away, glaring at her, earning only a huff of laughter.

"Yeah-yeah, whatever. So, all I want to know is who was the employer and where they are now. I also hope you know that this will stay only between us, yes?" he asked, freezing when she placed her hand on top of his.

"Of course, no need to doubt me, Darling. I'll get you your information. Give me a week or two, and I'll find out where the shithead twins have disappeared off to," she said with a smile, brushing off the tension.

"Very well, thank you, Lyra. I'll get you your payment in a week or two, then." She pulled her hand back, the flirtatious smile playing on her lips again.

"Good. Now enough of work. I'm gonna get drunk tonight, and so are you. You look like you need it."

Mirk didn't feel like getting drunk, but since it seemed she was about to offer him free drinks, who was he to say no?