༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

I drag myself up the hill to my vantage point, muscles aching from the long night that continues to stretch on. My eyes—grainy with exhaustion—track my muddy boots as they slip on the bulging roots of the great tree, nearly sending me tumbling back down the steep incline.

Reaching the top, I stretch out my arm to rest my palm against the thick trunk of the tree, steadying myself. My tree, as the other street rats are fond of telling me.

Clinging to what is no more.

I turn and slump to the ground, pressing the back of my head to the wood, knowing the voices speak the truth but refusing to heed them.

I shift my head and my breath stills as it always does to witness Warroll sprawled before me. It's a limited view of the town from the cold alleys and sagging buildings. Warroll seems like a different town where I can't hear the echoing laughter of drunks or the shouts of the soldiers. Perhaps that's why I was drawn to it two years ago, staggering into the dirty streets with nothing but the clothes on my back and a cold sort of hollowness in my gut. It was before I truly understood what Warroll really was.

I study the town now, pretending I don't know about the cesspool of filth that winds through the narrow streets, between the slats of wood that make up the majority of Westside. But it's not the west my eyes trail over, it's the west, across the flowing canal.

Eastside is where every street rat dreams to end up, even if that's just as one of the servants in the brick and iron manors. I look to Eastside and don't feel hope, but a spark of anger low in my stomach. They're the ones that profit off the misery of the world; the bureaucrats and delegates of the Empire whose coin is bathed in blood.

It's brighter in Eastside, orange light from the numerous lanterns trickling over the damp cobblestone roads and illuminating the way for finely dressed bastards.

My lip curls and I turn away from my view of Warroll before I convince myself to cross the canal and start lobbing stones at their crystal windows. Instead, I busy my hands by uncovering the whetstone hidden at the base of the tree. I slip my blade from my belt and am graced with the soothing noise of the steel whispering again the stone.

The roots of the tree are ancient and great, winding through the earth, thriving with life even amongst all this death. My brother described his favourite place to sit and scheme as such. A great tree amongst the centre of conflict and blood.

But he described his tree as something different. It had veins of blue as it drank magic and exuded warmth, found and nurtured by witches. The breeze in the leaves would whisper a song with its dancing chimes and it cleared the clutter from his head.

Sometimes I hear such a song and I imagine him beside me, telling me about it, murmuring of the home he abandoned in order to help me.

Then I remember where I am and that the past is in the past.

I incline my head, dark eyes seeking out the stooped building near the canal.

Jile isn't going to be alone. The only weapon I have is an old blade that's seen better days. I've encountered ambushes before. Escaping them has always cost me something. This time will surely be no different.

The bounty's for my head, not the other kids. This is my crucible to face.

I spit on the stone and continue sharpening the blade, my jaw working as I watch the warehouse, waiting for any movement, anything to tell me how many I'll be facing. These soldiers are thorough, they're probably already inside; hiding, waiting, patient.

I shove the blade into my belt, deposit the whetstone back beneath a rock amongst the roots, then get to my feet, limbs restless, a pulse beginning behind my eyes. I've felt it all before. The gradual quickening of my heart, the way my throat starts to constrict, my toes curling in my boots, begging me to run. It's the feeling I get when I know there's a possibility for death to drag me down. Antsy, eager to run or just get it done.

There's never a way to prepare for the whispers of death, so I cling to the burning in my gut, the burning to see one more thing put down before I die.

I begin the trek down the slope towards the warehouse, eager to see what else there is beyond this life and its complexities.

Nothing. Nothing waits for you.

Don't do this. Turn back.

There's nothing to turn back to, not with Dax gone.

The warehouse is quiet as I walk through it, my chin held high, my fingers tingling. The warehouse is a refuge for the street rats, a place away from the cold, lorded over by Jile. Yet today it's devoid of life and I already know the reason.

I walk forward, past the little light from the flaming torches at the warehouse doors, each of my steps rife with the bitterness I can taste on my tongue. But I taste something else too, something in the air, lingering, a faint stench with it, something that wasn't there this morning.

The figure ahead of me shoves any thoughts away beyond the pain in my chest.

He paces the room, rags of blankets and belongings scattered about the floor, evidence of those that were here not too long ago. Jile's savage chewing on his toothpick can be heard throughout the warehouse. The thud of my boots on the dirt floor joins the noise.

Jile looks at me, his gaze sharp, lip lifted in a snarl. "How'd the robbery go?"

I pull the blade from my belt. His gaze follows the movement. I don't reply.

"That well, huh?"

"There was a Hell of a fight. Funny you missed it," I say, trying to keep the rage buried within my chest.

Jile shrugs, his dismissive attitude only adding fuel to the fire. "Places to be and all that."

"How much did they pay you?" The question echoes in the air and Jile takes his time to consider it.

He picks at his teeth with the piece of wood, his eyes flitting to the shadows of the warehouse. "Honestly? More than those kids were worth."

Fury chokes me, causes red to tinge my vision. I take a step forward. He takes one back. "Was it worth crossing me?"

"You see, I figured you'd make it out of that little ambush. The famous Az isn't one to get cornered so easily." He points the toothpick at me, his eyes narrowed. "You're a slippery snake, Az, but the deal required that you be captured." He glances to the shadows again and I stiffen, already knowing what's coming before more Sharlik soldiers spill into the warehouse, their heavy armour replaced with supple leather, keeping their steps light and their movements a whisper. "Loose ends were never my style."

"No," I seethe, keeping my gaze on the soldiers that surround me, too many to take on alone. "Your style is betrayal." I raise my blade, directing it at him, marking my target.

If I only take down one person in this warehouse, then let it be Jile. For Dax. For all the kids that the monster broke.

For me.

I rush forward, heart jumping into my throat. Jile's eyes widen as I bound towards him, my sight set solely on him. The soldiers advance, brandishing their weapons. Jile scurries back. My blade is poised and I can almost feel the warm kiss of his blood against my skin, delicious, calming, cathartic.

A fist slams into my stomach and the air bursts from me. I crumble, clutching my midsection, gasping as I try to draw breath but can't. The next strike is for my face. It crashes into my cheek, cracks the bone, and my face smashes into the ground. Blood fills my mouth, so thick I cough and splutter, choking on it.

I claw my way to my hands and knees, the world swaying, soldiers looming over me, leering with their blades and cruel gazes. But they don't attack.

They want me alive.

I look ahead, but Jile is gone. My gloved fingers dig into the packed dirt, jaw clenching so tight I fear it may crack teeth.

No matter what happens next, I'll find a way to tear his heart from his chest while he watches.

A soldier reaches for me and I snarl, scampering back, searching for a weapon, a way out. But I'm cornered. There's no icy river to hide me from the monsters this time.

Something drops from the ceiling, clattering to the ground amongst the soldiers. All of us stare at the metal cylinder, the soldier's all sharing a look of confusion. I recognise it and my gut lurches. I only knew one other person who used such devices but my brother has been dead for two years, the memory of his blood splattering across the snow something I'll never be able to forget.

Gone and dead. Like you should be.

I throw my arms over my face as the white flash drills a shrill whine into my ears. The soldiers shout, stumbling away from me. I risk a glance, my eyes watering, but the soldiers can't see, momentarily blinded.

They don't notice the figure that descends right amongst them, landing in a crouch. His face is partially masked, only revealing deep russet eyes, matching his dark brown skin. I gape at the hooded figure as his gaze meets mine and the chaos around us seems to fall away.

The fabric over his mouth and nose flutters with each even breath and the many blades strapped to him seem to glimmer with the promise of death. A pale scar cuts through his right brow and disappears into his hood. I'm sure it's not the only one. Something withers in my chest to know this stranger isn't my brother, even though I know there's no chance of him coming back, not after what the monsters did to him.

But the man before me is more dangerous than the soldiers, that much is obvious.

He grabs me by my tunic and I can only manage a gasp as he throws me over his shoulder, my vision swirling with the rush of blood to my head.

Struggling to see anything but the whirling ground, he manages to barge his way through the soldiers and run for the door to the warehouse just as they begin to gain their bearings. I strain to lift my head as the man stops at the door, swipes up the lit torch that resides there, and tosses it to the soldiers in a graceful arc.

I gape as the torch collides with the ground and fire blazes, seeming to catch on nothing. It roars to life and consumes the soldiers, climbing up their bodies. Their screams fill the warehouse, wretched and ear-splitting as they're burned alive. It's truly a breathtaking sight to behold and I can't seem to tear my gaze away, entranced by their melting skin and the stench of sizzling flesh that reaches me.

A trap within a trap. It'd be almost poetic if I hadn't been stuck in the middle of it.

I don't have time to ponder anything more before the man begins running again.