Prince Atem lounged against the railing of his balcony, staring off across the city. His crimson eyes were slightly vague, as though he wasn't really seeing the buildings and streets below him, but something else, something intangible.

"A bronze coin for your thoughts?"

Atem turned from the balcony. Shimon, Pharaoh's old adviser and tutor to the young prince, was standing in the doorway. He carried several papyrus scrolls, a pot filled with pigment, and a narrow brush. With a grunt, Shimon deposited the entire stack on the prince's desk, carefully placing the ink and brush away from the precious scrolls.

"Surely you can afford to pay more than that, Shimon," the prince teased. "My father has often said you're worth your weight in gold."

"My only wish is to serve Pharaoh," Shimon said serenely, though Atem could see the twinkle in his eyes. "Now, my prince, let us resume your studies."

Atem did not move from the balcony. "That's a lot of gold."

Shimon stepped forward and, grasping his charge by the elbow, led him to the desk. "If you weren't a prince, I'd put you over my knee and teach you some manners."

Atem smiled slightly. "How fortunate then that I happen to be a prince."

Shimon smiled too. "How fortunate." He picked a blank papyrus scroll and unrolled it. Folding his charge's unwilling fingers around the brush, he pointed to a blank space on the page. "Now then, let's see if you've improved on your spelling from last time."

Atem sighed and stared across his room towards the window. "Shimon, why do you torture me like this?" he asked. "When I am Pharaoh, I'll have priests and scribes to do my writing for me."

Shimon glared. "Your father has charged me with educating his son to the best of my ability. Now, write for me the names of the three previous Pharaohs."

With a martyred sigh, Atem dipped the brush into the pot of pigment and began to scrawl across the papyrus scroll. He muttered to himself as he sounded out the difficult names, and finally shoved the completed paper across the desk towards Shimon.

Shimon picked it up and squinted at it. He brought the papyrus closer to his nose, then held it at arm's length, as though trying to make sense of the blotches and inky smudges that crisscrossed the page seemingly at random. Finally, he laid the papyrus down.

"Perhaps the idea of getting you a scribe is a good one," he said. "I will take it up with Pharaoh."

Any hopes Atem might have had for getting away from further torment vanished as Shimon continued. "Instead of working on your spelling, we will begin on the history of the past three Pharaohs," he said. "Perhaps seeing their names written enough times will be enough to prod your memory."

Atem sighed and bent his tri-colored head over a new papyrus scroll. With Shimon watching over his shoulder, he struggled through the history, wondering idly if his teacher would be angry if he just threw himself off the balcony now and saved himself the trouble.

Seth stood idly in a dingy alley and watched as one of the many street urchins that overran the capital attempted to pick a merchant's pocket. Seth had already spotted the flaw in the child's technique: he was trying to pluck the purse from the merchant's belt, fiddling with the thongs that tied it in place, rather than simply slitting the fabric and settling for a share of the contents. Any moment now, the boy would be caught.

In the two weeks since coming to the capital, Seth's appearance had not improved. He had tried to stay clean, but it simply wasn't possible on the dusty streets and on bare rooftops. His thin face was gaunt now from hunger and hardship, and his eyes were sunken, his entire body made up of edges and angles. Beneath his tunic, his ribs were faintly visible, and his bare feet were calloused and also caked with dust. At this point, Seth resembled little more than a skeleton, blue eyes glowing strangely in the sun-tanned face.

The merchant whose purse the other boy was currently trying to pick had finally noticed the boy's efforts. In a flash, he seized the urchin's wrist. A few people turned to look, but as Seth thought bitterly, no one cared enough to intervene. The merchant reached into his belt for a whip, threw the boy to the ground, and raised the weapon to strike.

Seth was suddenly moving, though he had made no conscious decision to do so. He reached inside himself for that strange power he had felt only once before in his encounter with Odji. It responded, wild and uncontrollable, springing forth with almost savage glee. The whip, coming down for another blow, twisted in midair and wound itself around the merchant's throat. He gasped, his fingers flying up, desperately trying to free himself. He could not force even one finger under the leather. Instantly, people from all around ran to his side and tried to help him. But it was no use. His face was quickly turning blue.

Seth shrank back into the shadows, frightened by the enormity of what he had done. He tried to call the power back, but it was running wild. The boy on the ground took off, limping through the streets away from the struggling merchant. Seth didn't spare him another thought. He was too busy trying to rein in the magic that was even now drawing the lash of the whip still tighter around the merchant's throat.

It felt like dragging a heavy wagon through mud. The magic drew back slowly. Too slowly. The merchant was choking, gasping, dying. Seth pulled harder. Reluctantly, the whip loosened its grip, and the man was able to inhale a short, frantic breath. Then, with a final shudder, the whip fell loosely to the ground.

Seth ran. He turned and sprinted down the alley, searching for a way that would lead up to the roof. If anyone had seen him, he would die for sure. What he had just done was far beyond a scratch. It was magic, and it had almost killed a man. He could hear the merchant behind him gasping out his story to the frightened crowds.

"I saw a boy. He was standing in the mouth of that alley!" Seth ran harder, finally gaining the roof. He raced across them, heading for his hidden sanctuary. He had made his home as high as he could reach, on the roof of a bronzesmith's house. The heat from the fire warmed him during the cool desert nights, and from there he could easily access any part of the city.

There was a young man waiting there when he reached it.

"That was quite the display of power just now," the young man said idly, looking up from rummaging through Seth's bedding as Seth approached. Seth stopped, staring at the intruder warily. There was food there and a few stray coins, and Seth was loathe to lose those without a fight. But something about the man's appearance screamed danger, and Seth knew that even the precious food was not worth his life.

The stranger was tall and thin with dark skin and silver eyes. Those eyes unnerved Seth; they looked as though dark shapes were moving in them, even when the young man himself was perfectly still. The man's face was half-hidden by a shock of bone-white hair, but Seth could see a distinctive scar that marred the right side. A dagger was sheathed at his waist.

"Don't worry," the man said casually, standing up. "I'm not here to hurt you. What's your name?"

Seth did not answer. He was scanning the rooftop around them, searching for a way to turn the situation to his advantage.

"You don't seem deaf," the man said sweetly. "Are you stupid?"

Seth's eyes jerked back to him. "No!"

"Good," the young man said. "A weight off my mind." He grinned, his teeth seeming unnaturally sharp. "Then let's try again, shall we? What's your name?"

"Seth," the boy answered reluctantly. "What's yours?" he added, throwing the words out like a challenge.

The stranger's grin only widened. "You may call me Bakura."

"Why are you here?" Seth said for something to say while he got his bearings. The name Bakura seemed familiar. Seth was almost certain he had heard it whispered in one of the more notorious back-alleys of the capital. But then again, so much was whispered into wine cups and listening ears that it was easy to get it confused.

"I saw what you did to that merchant. I decided to drop in and pay my respects."

Seth suddenly remembered where he had heard the name. Bakura, also known as the Thief King. Seth felt a slow burn growing in his chest. Thieves like the ones Bakura led had destroyed his village and slaughtered his people. But he had also heard how dangerous Bakura was, and forced himself to keep his tone even.

"I doubt very much that someone of your standing would simply drop in to pay your respects," he said.

Bakura smirked. "Smart boy. Actually, I wanted to see if you were interested in joining me."

Seth's temper flared. "I'd never join a thief and a murderer!"

The Thief King laughed. "So certain!" Something hard and ugly crept into his eyes. "The world's not black and white, boy. There's not good or evil, right or wrong. There's only what you have and what you want to gain."

"And what do I gain if I say yes?" Seth asked. He tried not to let the fear show on his face, but it was becoming difficult to ignore. Suddenly, he felt his feet leaving the ground. The air around him grew cold. Dark shapes twisted around his body, holding him fast. He struggled futilely.

Bakura approached at a casual pace. "You have strength, but you lack control. Any real Shadowmancer could tear you apart." He studied Seth. "I could teach you, give you true power. Better than strangling merchants in the public square."

He made a dismissive gesture, and the bonds holding Seth disappeared. Seth fell to the roof and was forced to roll to lessen the impact. He came to his feet immediately, gaze never leaving Bakura.

"Unless of course you're content where you are." There was an odd undercurrent in that mocking tone, one that Seth could not immediately identify.

Part of him burned at the Thief's presumption. Part of him wanted to say yes. The offer was strangely tempting. A chance to harness the magic… "Can I have some time to consider it?" he said carefully. He desperately wanted some time to think. The magic was there, just beyond his reach, and here perhaps was a way to grasp it. But what would he have to become?

Bakura shrugged carelessly. "Of course. But don't wait too long. Pharaoh doesn't tolerate the existence of Shadowmancers who don't work for him." His silver eyes narrowed. "And there are worse things than intolerance." Then, in a movement so smooth and quick that Seth could barely follow it, he dropped from the roof and out of sight.

Only when Seth was sure he was gone did he let out the breath he had been holding. The shaking took a moment to subside. Seth took a deep breath, then walked across to his bundle of possessions and began to sort through them. Surprisingly, all were still in place. There was no sign that anyone had been there at all.

The first thing he needed to do, Seth realized, was to find another place to sleep.