NOVEL NEXT Chapter 11: City of Hungry Wolves
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The city is nothing like Ail imagined.
They step off the train into a world that is louder, faster, and colder than anything they have ever known. The air is thick with the scent of smoke and ambition, the streets slick with last night's rain. Towers of steel and glass rise above them, cutting into the sky like knives, while neon signs flicker uncertainly in the mist. The city feels alive, a restless beast with too many mouths to feed.
Ail tightens their grip on their small bag—the bag that carries their stolen future.
They weave through the bustling streets, nearly knocked over by a man too busy reading a newspaper to watch where he's going. The paper flutters in his hands, and for a moment, a familiar face stares back at Ail from the ink-smudged page.
Aoife-Clíodhna.
Her face is everywhere—plastered on posters, framed in storefront windows, glowing from theatre marquees. In every image, she is poised, untouched by time or struggle. The Goddess of Stars. The untouchable queen.
Ail's breath catches. This is her world. And Ail is nothing but dust beneath its golden glow.
For now.
They shake off the thought and press forward, stepping deeper into the city's maze. They need a plan.
Their stolen money won't last long. Food, shelter—these things cost. And Ail has never been alone before. Not truly.
The circus, for all its fading glory, had always been a home. There was always a place to sleep, something to eat, and people who—begrudgingly or not—knew them. Here? Here, they are nameless, faceless—just another dreamer in a sea of forgotten hopefuls.
Ail watches the crowds. The people move with purpose, each one chasing something, clinging to the city's promise of greatness. They pass performers in tattered clothes, balancing on crates for spare coins. They see young girls in sequined dresses, standing too still under the golden lights of theatre doorways, their smiles brittle and hollow.
Everyone wants something here.
The city does not care.
Ail keeps walking, past the theatres, past the grand hotels with their gilded lobbies, past the endless posters of Aoife-Clíodhna's perfect, painted face.
Their stomach twists.
The money in their bag suddenly feels too little. The city is too big.
But they push on.
They will find a way in.
They have to.