She knew the alleys and the streets. They were her home. She had grown up in the twisting and turning streets as they wove themselves around the buildings. She knew the dark places and the deepest shadows where it was safe to hide and those shadows too where it was definitely not safe to hide. She'd grown up on the streets and so had learnt to survive both the dangers of the days and the dangers of the nights. Otherwise, she would never have grown up at all. Just becoming another of those absences that are sometimes noticed and then - just as quickly -forgotten.
Sheena had no idea who her parents had been, or even how old she was when she'd first found herself out on the streets alone. All she knew was that she learnt to steal, to trick and well, just to survive by herself.
There had been others, other children, at various points, but they had come and gone, most disappearing in the long winter nights as mysteriously as they'd arrived on the streets. To many of the adults of these poorer darker city streets the orphan children were vermin, much like the rats, feral cats and packs of dogs wandering the streets. Just as much trouble and just as easy to dispose of. After all, the river was deep and there was always a hot fire somewhere where bodies could turn to ash.
Sheena was lucky to be alive, fortunate to have survived so long. But now, at the darkest heart of the night, as she made her way around a corner behind the Inn, she was about to make the biggest mistake of her short life.
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