Those with wealth had drifted northeast, closer to the castle and away from the busy streets and markets. When King Vaelor had ordered all trade to come in through the western gate, and not the south, it had been the final nail in the district's coffin. The homeless, hungry, and destitute flooded the rows of abandoned buildings, clawing them away from their legal owners with their very presence, and sometimes, their murders.

Harruq and Qurrah played that game well. They had grown up on the streets of Veldaren and fought for every scrap of food they had eaten. They had punched and kicked for every soft, dry bed. Then, one day, they finally killed.

“A fine home is any home that's yours,” Harruq said as he forced back a couple planks sealing a window. “Ain't that right, Qurrah?”

“Whatever you say.”

The window unblocked, the two climbed in. They lived in what had once been a large shed. The door was still boarded shut, but the window, well…

For two such as they, windows worked as well as doors.

They sat diagonally of each other so they had room to stretch their legs. Harruq unhooked his belt and placed his swords in a corner, brushing their hilts with his fingertips.

“I want to learn how to use them,” he said. “Think anyone will teach me?”

Qurrah laughed. “You'll find plenty that will teach you how to die to one,” he said. “I'm not sure about the other way around.”

Harruq shrugged. His mind kept replaying the fight with the orc. Untrained and unprepared, he had still won. What could he accomplish with training? How many might fear him if he had skill to match his strength and steel to match his anger?

“I know of a way,” Qurrah said, pulling at one of many loose strands of his robes. “A way for you to practice. You saw what I did with that dead body.”

Harruq nodded, disturbed by the hungry look in Qurrah’s eyes.

“I did,” he said, “and it scared the abyss out of me.”