Someone grabbed my sleeve as I moved through an alley.
The touch was light, hesitant, as if the owner was afraid of my reaction.
The voice was young, a tad high-pitched, and there was a tremble in it that spoke of fear and desperation.
I could feel the grime on the fingers that touched my sleeve, could smell the poverty that clung to them.
I already knew what type of person it might be, and I felt anger bubbling in my spirit.
The frustration of the day, the violation of the noble's touch, the constant harassment of the beggars—it all came together in a surge of rage that made my hands clench into fists. I was tired, I was angry, and I had no more patience to give.
I turned, to face the owner of the voice, to find a young boy of maybe 14 or so.
He had long dark hair and dark eyes, looked sick and weak, as if unable to hold his body on his legs. The boy's frame was skeletal, his bones pressing against his skin in sharp angles that spoke of months of malnutrition.
