Perhaps it was the newfound warmth, or simply the exhaustion carved into his bones, but Arcose drifted back into sleep without resistance.
When he awoke again, the sky was gently bleeding into dawn. Soft light spilled through the cracks in the wooden walls, and a breeze slipped in through the open window, carrying with it the scent of iron, smoke, and something unfamiliar—peace.
He drew in a deep breath, slow and steady. Life—he felt it return, inch by inch, like a tide reclaiming the shore. His eyes drifted down to his arms and legs. The bruises, deep and ugly just yesterday, had faded to dull yellows and greens. But that didn't surprise him. His wounds always healed quickly. Too quickly, sometimes.
The house was silent. Still. He rose from the bed with the practiced quiet of a street rat and moved toward the window. Cool air brushed against his face, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn't flinch from it.
Then came the thought—uninvited but familiar.
"They seem well off... for slumfolk."
His eyes roamed the small, humble room. A handmade rug, slightly frayed. A basket of potatoes and root vegetables. A copper kettle. Nothing extravagant—but more than enough to survive a few nights in the gutters.
"If I took something small… they wouldn't miss it."
His hand twitched slightly, an echo of old reflexes.
"It would hurt no one," he told himself. "A few coins, maybe some bread. Enough to keep the cold away for a while."
But then… her voice came back to him. That strange, honest sweetness. The way she had offered him soup with no expectations, no judgment.
Vivi.
The thought of betraying her trust made his chest ache in a way he didn't understand. She didn't deserve that. She had light in her—a fragile thing, like a candle flame fighting the dark. If he stole from her, if he hurt her, maybe that light would go out. And there weren't many flames left in the world.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Creeeek.
His body reacted before thought—he spun around, shoulders tense, hands up, every inch of him ready for a fight.
"Just me!" came a familiar voice. Soft. Innocent. Unafraid.
She stood in the doorway with her hands raised high, grinning sheepishly beneath a tangle of violet hair.
Arcose exhaled hard and lowered his arms. "You scared me," he muttered, half to himself.
"Thought you were asleep," he added.
"We usually get up around this time," she said, walking in with the soft steps of someone used to silence.
Then she gave him a mock frown, crossing her arms. "Now it's my turn to ask the questions. You've been quiet and broody all this time."
Arcose tilted his head, confused.
"You never told me your name," she said simply.
His lips parted, then closed. Shame crept in like a slow fog. They'd fed him, warmed him, kept him alive—and he hadn't even offered them his name. He'd almost robbed them.
"…Arcose," he said, voice barely above a whisper. It wasn't a name so much as a memory. Something his friends had called him, back when he still had friends.
"What? I didn't hear that."
He hesitated, then raised his voice. "My friends used to call me Arcose."
A silence passed between them.
Vivian smiled gently. "That's a good name."
"What's yours?" he asked, more curious than he expected.
She bowed dramatically, a playful light in her eyes. "Vivian. But everyone calls me Vivi."