Wheat raised a hand to shield his eyes from the light pouring through the cellar door, glimpsing a familiar silhouette. His eyes reddened instantly, half-muttering, half-clinging to hope, he whispered, “Father,” then louder, “Father!” The syllables trembled with grief and bitterness, yet held a flicker of relief.

  Les was not his biological father. Wheat and Barley’s parents had died in a random clash outside the city, leaving the boys desperate in this cannibalistic urban jungle. Les, like sunlight piercing storm clouds, had taken them in, teaching them the “craft” of thievery—yes, craft. In this city, any means to survive with dignity was a skill worth mastering, whether murder, theft, or selling one’s body.

  Les’s eye twitched involuntarily. He had over a hundred adopted sons, forming his theft empire. He was the undisputed thief king, yet now, those two heartfelt words warmed his long-iced heart.

  He was not a gentle man. Most saw him as ruthless; many had lost fingers for breaking his rules, left to die outside the walls. Once, he’d had a family—until he stole the wrong item, leading to his wife’s public hanging and his children’s brutal deaths on the city road. He’d survived by chance, a trauma that haunted his nights, answered only by liquor and the polished wood statue of his lost family.

  Wheat’s cry awakened a dormant tenderness. His gaze softened, smile becoming natural as he nodded and followed Hutt into the dungeon.

  Hutt, oblivious to the emotional undercurrent, focused on cruelty. He kicked the iron cage, peeling off black leather gloves. “Two gold coins—that’s all it took for your dear brother to sell you. Wondering where he is?” His grin was demonic. “He’s at Alma’s finest brothel, drowning in pleasure even kings can’t afford.”

  “And you!” Hutt’s voice dripped mock pity. “Rotting in the dark like refuse.”

  Before Hutt could continue, Les cut him off. “Enough, Hutt. Step back.” He positioned himself between Hutt and the cage, softening his tone. “Wheat, tell me—do you have the deed? Where is it hidden?”

  Wheat’s pupils shrank. The man he’d trusted as his rock, now demanding answers with false kindness, felt like a betrayal. His lips turned blue, voice trembling. “Father… I swear by the Light, I never saw it! The carriage had only coins—nothing else.”

  Les’s newly warmed gaze chilled, replaced by cold logic. “Why do others claim otherwise? Do you know the chaos this has caused?” He slowed his voice, pretending compassion. “Hand it over. Hutt and I will protect you, give you a fortune, and send you to a peaceful life.”

  “I… I don’t know!” Wheat tore at his hair, sobbing. “Enough! I know nothing.”

  Les’s smile froze, reverting to his familiar, terrifying mask. He rubbed the web between his thumb and index finger, a nervous habit. “You know our way with traitors.”

  Wheat lunged for the bars, tears and snot streaming. “I don’t know! I swear!”

  Perhaps Les flinched at the sudden movement, or noticed Hutt’s mocking smirk. A surge of anger overwhelmed him; he nodded decisively.

  His men hesitated—thief clan punishments were notoriously brutal. A hollow copper sphere, half a meter wide, was wheeled in, filled with glowing coals that steamed the damp cellar. The metal soon glowed blue-purple, signaling lethal heat. Wheat’s hands were forced onto its surface.

  Protein sizzled as it burned, flesh sticking to the metal. When the thugs ripped his hands away, two palm-shaped patches of skin and muscle remained on the copper, leaving Wheat’s palms raw, bloody, and peeling.

  He passed out from pain, only to be awakened by a stream of urine. Before he could recover, a steel brush scraped across his open wounds, tearing away frayed flesh and sending fresh blood gushing. Wheat convulsed, sweat drenching him.

  Les turned away, voice gritted. “Speak—now.”

  Wheat laughed hollowly, broken. The brother he’d protected, the father figure who’d raised him, both had betrayed him for gold. What did he have left? He said nothing, laughter fading into silence.

  Hutt watched the torture with morbid interest, then sneered at Les. “Drop the sentimental act. Age softens even thieves? A million gold would drown this city in blood. From now on—I lead.