Constantine fought.
He had never learned to live any other way. Days ran together, all the hours spent fighting with the other street rats for scraps, of stalking his marks to steal their valuables, of running from the guards. His first vivid memory was the tang of blood in his mouth, the sting of a split lip. The sun had set hours ago, and under cover of darkness, he hid underneath the bridge arching over the grand Teppes River that ran straight through the heart of the Capital. He wiped away the still-wet trickle from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You'll be hanged for that and worse, boy," the cloaked and hooded man said. He stood before young Constantine with his arms crossed over his chest. With barely even any moonlight to illuminate his surroundings, the boy c
