Dempsey, Lower District – March 29, Noon
The stench of the Lower District hit harder than any slap.
Boiled grease, metallic tang from leaking pipework, and the human musk of too many bodies packed between concrete walls. Steam hissed from broken grates, veiling the alleys in a ghostlike fog as Gregoria pushed forward, shoulder-first, through the throng of early risers and sleepless workers.
No one looked directly at her.
And she was thankful for that.
Nobody knew of her. Her father was a man who lived a peaceful, quiet life, away from attention.
All the more reason she found his sudden desire to lead the kingdom suspicious.
Her cloak still reeked of smoke. Her boots—once polished—were coated in ash, and the dirt on her cheeks wasn't just grime. It was yesterday's failure, clinging like guilt.
A propaganda screen buzzed to life above a noodle stall, crackling in and out of resolution. A pale official's face filled the frame, eyes narrowed, voice artificial:
"The Stability Protocol ensures safety. Rebel sympathizers will be found. Report any suspicious activity to your nearest Peace Warden."
Gregoria turned her face away.
Suspicious.
That was how her father acted after he came back from the World Council.
How Woolworth-Carrington acted.
How the world became after The Walking Calamity was freed.
But she felt like she was a suspect or a witness. Not because of what she believed—but because of her blood. Because of what she knew.
She knew her father very well and that person pretending to be king couldn't have be the same person.
She pressed a hand to her stomach as it growled, sharp and low.
The food she'd brought from the mountain — two hardened crusts and a pocket of dried roots — had vanished by midnight.
Now, only pain remained.
She walked past a newly opened bakery's side door, drawn by scent — fresh loaves, still steaming. For a second, she almost stopped. Almost.
Then the door opened. A shopboy in a red scarf stepped out, caught sight of her, and froze.
The look in his eyes was familiar. Not fear. Not pity.
Condemnation.
Her clothes were disheveled but he could tell it was of a higher quality than anything he'd even worn.
"You one of them?" he spat. "Rebel brat? Or just another castle rat playin' poor?"
She didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
He flung the door shut before she could even turn away.
You could have said something, she thought bitterly. Anything.
But her pride was heavier than her hunger.
For now.
Hours passed.
Each alley the same: neon flickers, steam, and cold shoulders.
Her feet ached. Her hands trembled.
The ache in her stomach spread to her ribs like fingers squeezing from the inside.
She tried to focus on movement. On survival. But her thoughts drifted.
To her mother's funeral — rushed, impersonal, like a transaction. Her body reduced to protocol and cinder. She and her friends had scavenged that night. Not for grief. For bread.
She was the niece of the tyrant, King Gareth Carrington.
She didn't need to hunt for anything. She just wanted to belong.
They'd stolen crusts from a merchant's cart. Shared one between four of them. She'd laughed that night, even with swollen eyes.
But laughter turn to grief once more as all her friends were arrested, even as kids.
They were released after two weeks and they never spoke to her again.
Now…
A sudden outburst up ahead interrupted her thoughts. A scuffle.
Curious, she edged around the corner of an alley — then froze.
Three boys — no older than ten — were cornered by a burly man in a leather apron, one of Dempsey's many food haulers. He waved a splintered broom like a sword.
"Thieves! Filthy rats! Give it back!"
One of the boys held a loaf in shaking hands. The other two shielded him.
Gregoria moved before thinking.
Her voice came sharp.
"Leave them."
The man turned, surprised.
She didn't wait for permission.
She stepped between them, spreading her arms, cloak billowing behind her like a torn flag.
"They're hungry. You've got a cart full of bread. Let it go."
The man narrowed his eyes.
"Who the hell do you think you are," he swung his broom in her direction. "The era of rations is over. You pay for food now bit–"
She didn't flinch.
"I think if you lift that stick again, you'll be picking your teeth off the bricks."
Something in her voice cut through him — not volume, but precision. Rage tempered in grief.
The man hesitated, spat at her feet, and grumbled his way back toward the main street.
Gregoria waited until he was gone.
Then turned.
The boy still held the loaf, cradled like treasure. His eyes were hollow with disbelief.
"We didn't mean—" he began.
She held up a hand. "Eat it. All of you. Go somewhere warm."
They nodded and ran.
Only when they were gone did she let herself sag against the wall.
Her hands shook.
Not from anger this time.
But from emptiness.
She glaced towards the skies blocked by fog and the orange leaves from the towering trees above her.
By noon she was fading.
Her knees threatened to give with every step. Her ears rang.
She stopped beside a crumbling tea stall near a rusted rail line bridge. No one noticed her — not the vendor hunched over steam pots, not the two uniformed men at the side table.
But she noticed them.
Their coats marked them as Studio Liaison Officers — a meaningless title unless you knew which studio.
They sipped something dark from tin mugs and spoke low, just barely above the din.
"…Not just actors. Models too. They're casting from the streets."
"No IDs?"
"No questions. JC Production's covering everything. Sponsorship bonuses, housing packages. Fast-track credits."
Gregoria blinked.
She leaned in slightly, careful not to draw attention.
The first man snorted. "All this for a recording project? That's what they're calling it now?"
"They want faces. Emotive ones. Survivors. Doesn't matter if you're clean or wrecked."
A pause.
"Or if you hate strigois."
The second man chuckled. "Especially if you do."
The vendor slammed a ladle into a pot, and the conversation trailed off into grumbling.
Gregoria stepped back, heart thudding.
Models. Sponsorship. Fast-track.
She looked at her reflection in the stall's cracked window.
She saw a girl caked in ash, hair matted, face gaunt. Not even beautiful anymore—just sharp. A face molded by tragedy, not design.
She turned from the stall, eyes narrowed.
No.
She hated strigois. All of them. Every bloodsucker that whispered lies into the ears of politicians. That seemed to control the World Council and preyed on regular humans for their blood.
Since Carrington's death, the no-outsiders policy had been revoked. Now, there was no telling what kind of monsters were coming into Teranua these days.
The Jackolans were among the many global elites that began to do business in Teranua almost immediately after her father took the throne.
Rumors swirled about their ties to Sang. To Hordad. To the strigois who controlled global narratives and the ones who decide who lives and who dies.
Wolfgang Jackolan's name was always at the edge of those whispers — Imposing. Influential. Immoral. A man who would destroy a country for a coin.
She wouldn't be bought. She wouldn't play puppet.
Gregoria shoved her hands into her pockets and stormed down the street.
I won't kneel to parasites in suits.
I won't smile for their cameras while they drain us dry.
I'd rather die.
She didn't realize she'd fallen until the stone kissed her face.
One moment she was walking.
The next, the world tilted. The sounds grew distant. The heat of the pavement pressed against her cheek.
Her limbs wouldn't respond.
Darkness tugged at the edges of her vision.
Her stomach twisted, then collapsed in on itself like a black hole.
Her breath slowed.
So this was it.
This was how the bloodlines ended — not in battle, not in revenge — but on a Dempsey gutter, forgotten, unclaimed.
Maybe that's fair.
Then — a sound.
Soft. Crisp.
Paper.
A shadow fell over her.
A crumpled bill — with the words "for food" scibbled on it— drifted down and landed by her outstretched fingers.
Gregoria blinked, vision blurring.
She tilted her head.
A man stood above her.
Tall. Composed. Unnatural, jet-black hair, neatly styled. Tailored dark coat. Collar turned just slightly, like a stylist's dream of a tragic prince.
He said nothing.
No pity in his eyes. Just interest.
He nodded once.
And walked away.
She stared after him.
No name. No words. Just a note and a glance.
Gregoria reached for the bill, fingers trembling.
She didn't want charity.
She wanted truth.
But for now… she needed food.