He'd seen others do it before—quietly walk by while the merchant is distracted with another customer and grab it. Only difference was the boy was very small and what he had his eyes on was a heavy, fur blanket hanging on a rack. It wasn't a particularly nice blanket, just brown fur shoddily patched together, but it looked warm.  He'd been standing nearby for nearly an hour now, working up the courage and waiting for his moment. The merchant was a hunch-backed old man. He sported a droopy hat that hung down almost to his shoulders. It forced the man to raise his head high just to get a look at his customers. The boy thought it would help obscure his attempt to take the blanket when the time came. 

A woman approached the wooden stand and greeted the merchant in a shrill voice. Seems like they knew each other. The man said something and then they both laughed. A set of clay bowls on the blanket spread out beside stand had caught the woman's attention. She stooped down, pointing and asking the man something that couldn't be heard over the bustle of the square. The man turned to look with the woman. 

Good a time as any.

The boy darted forward, dodging the few people between him and the rack. His heart raced. Every crunch of snow beneath his feet, every huff of air he took in felt like it would give him away. The merchant's back was still turned, and no one else had noticed him yet. Little hands grabbed the blanket and tore with all the might a child could muster.

To his delight, the blanket came free.

To his annoyance, it fell over his head.

To his chagrin, the rack came with it.

He fell to the snow, tangled in the blanket and pinned down by the rack. He heard the man yelling and someone else nearby laughing. Worst of all, the blanket wasn't even that warm.

With one hand, the merchant lifted the rack and blanket off the boy and lifted the boy up by the scruff of his rags with the other. He kicked his dangling feet and tried to writhe free, but quickly realized there was no hope of overpowering an adult.

"Tryin' to take me wares are we, boy?"

The boy was face to face with the old man now. His kindly face, droopy hat and hunched back had made him seem old and feeble from afar, but now he was an angry, scowling giant with insurmountable strength. The boy looked him in the eye, prepared for what was to come. He'd seen thieves get caught before, best he could hope was the man didn't cripple him.

To his surprise, the old man relaxed, setting him down but keeping a hand on him. The boy glanced at the blanket on the ground. There was a thick brown twine sewn into one end that ran a short length and ended in a knot tied to the wooden rack. He realized there was never a chance he would've gotten away. His lack of preparation had made his attempt fail before it had begun. 

"Listen here, boy," the merchant said, leaning close enough for the boy to smell his rancid breath. "Yer young, so I ain't gonna hurt ya too bad."

The man patted the boy gently on the chest. "But ya gotta learn."

An open hand flashed across the boys vision and the force sent him to the snow again. His ears rang and for a moment his vision blurred before he rolled over in the snow. He rubbed his stinging cheek and looked up at the man crouching over him. 

"That enough? Or ya need another one?" the man asked flexing his right hand.

The boy wanted to make sure he remembered this. No point in a lesson if you forget too easily. He stood and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth.

He locked eyes with the man once more. "Probably need another one."

———

The blanket had been too large of an item to target, the boy knew that now. Instead he now chose to prowl the square in search of something small—something he could hold in his hands. Something that wouldn't even be noticed when it was gone. His face was still swollen from the beatings a few days prior, but he wasn't bothered by the constant, dull thud of pain, his attention was focused elsewhere.

A coin.

A single copper coin on the edge of a wooden counter of a merchant's cart. The merchant—a heavyset woman who took on disapproving looks when customers refused her wares—had let the coin slip from her hand when making an exchange. It hadn't fallen to the ground, or she would’ve noticed. Now it lay all by itself. No one paid it any mind—no one but the boy. 

He waited until the merchant was arguing with a customer over the price of a hat. Instead of darting straight for the coin, he chose to join in the oncoming foot traffic of the path beside the cart. He dodged around one man and stepped out of the way of another. No one gave him more than a cursory glance.

Just a little street rat running through the streets, nothing to arouse suspicion.

His mouth was dry as he drew nearer to the cart. The counter was taller than him, but he knew it would be. He'd prepared for that. 

Walk by, drag your hand across the edge without stopping or looking.

He was ready this time.

If he grabbed the coin, he'd walk away keeping his pace. If he missed the coin, he'd do the same. Either way the merchant wouldn't notice. He was sure of his plan, but still his heart threatened to leap from his chest. He glanced at the merchant. Still locked in the argument. 

One step to the side and the boy was right beside the cart. He raised his shaking hand as casually as he could and ran it across the jagged wooden counter. A splinter dug into his thumb, sharp enough to make him wince, but not enough to make him falter. He never stopped walking just as he'd planned and when he was a few steps away, he looked at his palm.

A shining, copper coin bearing the face of a stern looking old man wearing a crown.

Glancing around, he half expected an army of angry merchants to be at his heels. But there was only the normal bustle of customers and hawkers. The coin was a meager reward in most people's eyes, but the boy smiled down at it.  It was a simple achievement, but for perhaps the first time in the boy's life—he was happy. Not because he'd stolen a coin, but because he'd made a plan, however simple it may have been, and had carried it out successfully. 

More than anything though, it had given the boy confidence. 

Confidence and determination are a dangerous combination in the hands of anyone, regardless of how insignificant they may seem.

———

The boy continued to practice his newfound skill—to hone his criminal craft. He chose his targets carefully, remembering the open hand of the first mark he'd pursued. A coin here, an apple there—anything small enough, and inexpensive enough as to not be missed was in danger of his thieving hands. He knew that anything larger at his current size and experience would result in more beatings, or worse yet, he could lose a hand. 

He'd seen many thieves be punished this way, especially the repeat offenders. One man, a scrawny, wiry fellow draped in dirty rags had been caught trying to steal a merchant's purse right from his hip. The guards had held him down in the streets as he wailed and begged. But the merchant hadn't been in a merciful mood. They'd cut off the thief's right hand and left him in an alley. For the next week after that, the man's severed hand hung next to a wooden sign at the entrance to the main square with a warning reading:
"Thieves will be punished!
NO EXCEPTIONS!"

The boy enjoyed having both of his hands and had no plans to lose them. But at the same time, he knew that he needed more than coins and buttons. He decided to create a set of rules for himself. A code he would follow to ensure his safety whilst he continued down the path of the thief. 

Firstly, he would always have a plan before attempting a theft. He would choose his mark, find what to steal, map out his entrance and exit in his head, and always wait for an opening. 

Second—no matter the situation, getting out of trouble was more important than the score. Fleeing or giving up during a theft was always an option. 

Third—never rob the same local merchant twice. Dozens of merchants came through the city and there were always new marks to choose from. No need to risk the locals being on the lookout for him. 

Fourth—never ask anyone to help in the thieving. He was alone—it was far safer that way.

And lastly, he would never steal from someone who treated him kindly. If someone gave him something out of the goodness of their heart, it was far easier to take their handouts than to steal from them. 

Any spoils that he acquired he would keep in the small shed he had claimed as his home. He'd left the old stable that he once stayed in with the woman when her body began to produce a deathly stench. His new home was near a well that had gone dry many years ago, in a dirt patch where a home once stood, but now only rubble remained. The final standing structure was an old shed of blackened, rotting wood. The boy had used a few hard-earned coppers to buy that blanket he had so desperately wanted which had helped him survive the winter. 

To most that looked in, they would see a dirty abandoned shed with a mangy blanket but nothing more. If they looked deeper, they would find the loose floorboard that covered a small alcove in the ground. Buried just under the alcove was a small leather pouch where the boy kept any excess coin he had managed to steal. He didn't like leaving his money in the ground, but figured it was safer there than around the rest of the beggars in the main square. 

He'd come to find that the adults were far crueler than the other children. The other children would call him names or mess with him, but if he ignored them long enough, they would eventually grow bored and leave him be. He'd seen adults steal, beat, and kill one another. If a kid got in their way, it was no different. 

The boy quickly found that desperation turned a man to a beast. Even an angry man still had some semblance of humanity, but the desperate? When a man was truly desperate there was nothing they wouldn't do. The boy had seen it with his own eyes many times. Laws, guards, public scorn—none of that was on the mind of a desperate man trying to save himself. 

So the boy kept his distance from others. He continued to grow his meager hoard of treasures and trinkets. When he had enough coppers, he would buy himself clothes, blankets, or shoes—whatever he currently needed. Some days he'd go without food, some days he'd make over a dozen coppers. The busier the market, the better his odds of scoring some coin. Following his rules, he managed to keep himself from getting caught, but there were close calls every now and then that would set his heart racing.

It wasn't an easy life. It wasn't a good life, but the boy was alive and he didn't have to rely on anyone.

Well... other than the merchant's he stole from.

———

It was summer now in Croden. Chirping cicadas caused a constant buzzing to fill the air and the heat was sweltering even after the sun had set. The last bit of light over the horizon cast a red-hued light over the cobble streets of the city. Outside a church on the outskirts of the city's slums, where most of the beggars called home, a man in white robes stood over a large cauldron steaming with a delightful smell. The man laughed as he filled another child's bowl. 

"Enjoy that, and Kaenos preserve you."

He always added a small blessing as he fed the hungry orphans. He was an older man, on the far side of middle-aged. His hair was thin, but always neatly brushed to one side. His face nearly always sported a warm smile, wrinkled face scrunching as he beamed at every child served. The robe he wore was finer than most merchant's garb and he wore a twine necklace around his neck that held an iron holy symbol depicting a blazing sun. Over time, the boy had come to find that this man was Hargro, a priest of Kaenos, the Bright Father. The boy liked Hargro. He was always nice to the boy and gave him food. The boy had heard of a few different gods, but had decided that Kaenos was surely the best of them. 

The boy stepped forward with his empty, wooden bowl. He'd waited his turn in line for a long while as the scent of stew had driven his hunger ravenous. He hadn't eaten at all today, choosing to wait for the free dinner than to spend his very limited supply of coin. 

"Hello again, little one," Hargro said softly. "Hungry tonight?"

The boy nodded. 

"Good, good. Young ones need to eat to grow big and strong. Ms. Tollis made this stew tonight so be sure to thank her if you see her, alright?"

The boy nodded again, eagerly holding up his bowl. Hargro laughed and ladled a generous portion into the bowl. 

"Enjoy that, and Kaenos preserve you."

The boy scurried away to a nearby alley to eat his stew in peace. Normally he would eat whatever small scraps he could steal or scavenge in a day. Sometimes he was even forced to spend a few coppers to get a meal. But once a week, he would receive the only food that ever made him feel full. He took the first bite of stew and its warmth filled his belly. He was astounded by how any food could possibly taste so good. Over the next few minutes, he scarfed down the whole bowl and relaxed with his back to a wall, wishing he could have a second bowl. 

And perhaps Kaenos blessed him tonight.

"Need some more?"

Hargro had made his way over to the alley carrying another steaming bowl.

"Can I?" the boy asked.

Hargro pressed one finger to his lips as he handed the boy the bowl. "I had an extra bowl and you looked particularly famished this evening."

He slid down the wall and sat across the boy before adding, "Just don't tell the others, alright? Can't be caught playing favorites."

The boy began to slurp down the second bowl as the priest watched on, tapping his finger on his leg. 

"Those are some nice shoes you have," Hargro said.

The boy stopped. He'd just bought them for a few more coppers than he would've liked, but they were indeed the nicest shoes he'd ever worn—far too nice for an orphan boy to have.

"Thanks," he replied, face still buried in his bowl. 

"You know," Hargro began. "The Bright Father has a teaching that's always been one of my favorites: 'Give, and give, and give, then you may take.'"

The boy's heart began to race, his mind could only picture that severed hand rotting on the warning sign. 

"I've always understood it to mean that we should give first and give often before we are to accept what others give us. But if this is true, then what of those who have nothing to give?"

The boy couldn't bear to meet the priest's gaze.

"I think that instead of coin or food a person can give something else. Do you know what that is?"

The boy shook his head.

"Kindness. Kindness is what everyone has within them—what everyone can share with others. I don't hand out food every week because Kaenos says I should, I do it because I want to. I want to help the young ones who have been given a rough lot in life. You may not believe me, but I was just like all of you once."

Hargro stood and tousled the boy's hair then winced and rubbed his crooked back. "I don't expect you all to turn into saints, but I hope you all can choose to give more than you take."

He smiled at the boy before turning to walk away. "And remember you can always ask an old man's advice when you don't know what to do."

———

The next day, the boy wandered the streets of Croden, thinking upon what Hargro had said to him the night before. He didn't understand why he should give kindness—or anything for that matter—to people he didn't know or care about.

And why had the priest told him all that in the first place? Did he know about the boy's daily, light-fingered antics? Or was he simply preaching his religion to a young impressionable soul? 

If taking was so bad, why was it the only way the boy could survive? The boy furrowed his brow and kicked a rock. He looked up and found that he had wandered to a place unfamiliar to him. The streets of Croden mostly looked the same wherever he went, but here there was something he'd never seen. 

The dirt road had a slight incline, and turned to cobblestone farther up. The transformation was marked by a white stone wall standing taller than most of the surrounding buildings. There was a large iron portcullis that barred passage to the other side. Beyond the gate, the boy could see rows of beautifully crafted stone houses. The sides of the road were clean and well kept, with bright green grass and bushes bearing flowers of every color. The few people the boy could see wore clothes of fine silk or satin and milled about as though they hadn't a care in the world. The road continued to climb into the distance until finally it arrived at the largest structure the boy had ever seen—a castle of white stone.

The portcullis was like a portal into an entirely new world, one that the boy hadn't even imagined before. 

"Out of the way boy!"

A voice cut through the boy's wonder and he snapped around to see a man in a green-tinged garb and strange, feathered hat yelling at him from atop a carriage. Two, tall white horses pulled the carriage, whinnying and tossing their heads as they were reigned to a halt. The driver furrowed his brow and waved a hand at the boy.

"MOVE!"

The boy looked down to see that he was standing directly in the middle of the street, blocking the path to the portcullis. He quickly tried to step to the side of the road, but tripped on his own feet and went tumbling to the dirt with a thud. Now he was panicking and slipped again as he tried to scramble to his feet.

With a loud, wooden creak the door of the carriage swung open. The door bore a blue sigil—a shield encircling a black crow with its wings spread wide.

An irritated looking man stepped out. His hair was dark black and slicked back behind his ears, hanging to his shoulders. His mustache was meticulously combed so that the two ends curled upwards to a point and a single tuft of beard jutted from his chin. He wore a clean, dark purple suit with shiny black leather boots. As he stepped onto the dirt road, he retrieved the precisely folded white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and held it over his nose.

"Why are we stopped?" the fancy man asked. "The stench here is appalling."

"Apologies, Lord Grom," the driver replied. "Got ourselves a street rat in the path."

The both looked at the boy, still lying in the road.

He finally rose to his feet to leave, but Grom stopped him. "Stop!"

Grom glanced around the rest of the street, which mostly empty at this time of day.

"Is this some kind of ploy to rob us boy?"

The boy shook his head but didn't speak.

"Do you know who I am boy?"

Another shake of his head.

"Why is it you are standing in the middle of the most important road in Croden? Where are your parents?"

"Don't got none," the boy replied.

The lord let out a disgusted scoff. "No family and a beggar from the looks of you. Our streets used to be swarming with industry Mister Talvin."

He waved a hand at the boy. "Now rats and thieves run rampant. I shall pen the king, perhaps a few hundred more men could clear out the streets."

The driver gave a nod and a "A fine idea, sir," before the lord stepped back up into the carriage.

He gave the boy one last glance and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "Gods above, boy, if I were a painter I’d frame you and call you 'Pity.'"

He motioned to Mister Talvin. "Give him a copper, at least then he'll be worth something."

The carriage door closed and the horses let out another whinny as the reigns snapped. The boy stepped to the side of the road as the carriage rattled past. Mister Talvin flicked a single copper coin into the dirt without even glancing at the boy. 

The portcullis was raised and the carriage passed through the opening. 

The boy picked up the coin and stepped back into the road, watching the carriage go. The coin was warm from the sun, but it felt cold in his palm.

Slowly the portcullis closed, barring the boy from the dreamlike world on the other side. 

His eyes were locked on that castle on the hill. It stood there taunting him, a reminder of what he could never have.

It was then that he decided that he would reach the top of that hill.

And he didn't feel like kindness would get him there.