So here’s the thing about poultry theft:
It seems easy. Birds are dumb. rchants get distracted. You spot a coop too close to the edge of the stall and—bam. Two fat hens tucked under your arms before anyone’s the wiser.
That was the plan.
But as I round the corner, one chicken squirming and the other squawking like it’s being exorcised, I run face-first into a breastplate.
City guard.
Shit.
I blink up at him, give him my sweetest wide-eyed look. “Oh! Sir! You startled —”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at the birds clutched under my elbows like they owe him money.
I take one delicate step back—
And wham—
Butt of a spear slams into the back of my knees. My legs buckle. Chickens flap. I yelp.
Down I go.
One flailing wing clips my cheek. The other hen escapes with a shriek of betrayal. My knee hits stone. I barely have ti to spit feathers before a rough boot kicks in the ribs.
I try to claw away, but soone grabs by the hair—hard—and yanks. My whole body jerks. Tears spring to my eyes. I still have one chicken in a death grip, but even it gives up and flutters off in a panic.
“Alright, alright!” I shout, but they don’t care.
They drag . Down the street. By the hair, by the arm, by whatever’s convenient. People stare. Soone laughs. Soone else spits. My tunic’s riding up. My dignity’s sowhere back near the fish stall.
They don’t stop until we reach the squat black mouth of the city dungeon. Door creaks open. Cold stone stink hits like a curse.
Two of them grab my ankles. The world tilts.
Then I’m falling.
Down a black shaft that slls like old screams.
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