"In the Slums of Caerum, silence is a luxury only the dead can afford. For the living, silence is a warning. It means you are alone and to be alone is to be prey." - A Slum Proverb
***
13th January, 209 A.D.
Caerum
I return to the house. Alone.
The silence hits me the moment I step across the threshold. It is heavy, suffocating. I pace back and forth across the wooden floorboards, restless, like a wolf in a cage.
Everywhere I look, I see him. The empty armchair where he smoked his pipe. The wooden sword leaning against the wall. I can almost feel Silas observing me, waiting to correct my posture or scold me for slouching.
But he isn't here. And he never will be again.
I stop pacing. The walls feel like they are closing in. I realise I can't stay here. This house, once my sanctuary, has become a tomb. Every creak of the floorboards sounds like his footsteps, mocking me with what I have lost.
I grab a bag and fill it with things Killar left behind in his haste. I pack quickly clothes, dried meat and the few books Silas had.
Then I open the cupboard. The two vials sit there, innocent and terrible.
I take them. My hands tremble as I uncork the first one. I know what comes next.
I apply the drops to my eyes.
The pain is instant. It is worse than I remember, perhaps because this time, there is no hand to hold me steady, no voice telling me it will be okay. It feels like a hot iron is pressing into my soul, burning its mark into me. I scream, curling up on the floor, clawing at the wood until splinters dig under my nails.
When the fire finally fades to a dull, throbbing itch, I force myself to stand. I wash my face and walk to the broken mirror. My eyes are pitch black. At least I don't need to apply any more to my hair, it's still black from earlier.
I barely recognise myself.
I remember Taliah's words from years ago: The Lion's Inn, hide there.
I grab the bag, the dagger in my boot pressing reassuringly against my ankle. I step outside.
I stand in the alley for a long, drawn out moment. I stare at the crooked house, where I spent the last two years. Tears streak down my face, falling onto the snow.
I need to be strong. I need to stop looking back.
I force myself to turn away. I leave the alley and ghosts of the past behind.
I move through the slums. I am older now, more experienced than the terrified child who ran here two years ago. I keep my head down, my walk purposeful.
Just another rat walking through the slum to theirs job.
It doesn't take long to find the Lion's Inn. It is a leaning timber building that smells of wet dog and sawdust. The innkeeper, a woman with an unpleasant face, barely looks at me.
"Two ashes per night," she grunts, "or half a spark for the week."
Twenty ashes make one spark. I decide to pay with ten copper coins for the week. I pay without trouble. Killar took the majority of money, but he missed the pouch Silas hid in chimney. I have dozens of sparks. Enough to survive for a while.
I go up to my room. It's tiny and somewhat clean, though the bed smells of mould. I lie down, staring at the cracked ceiling, trying to force my mind to shut down.
Not even the outside hum of crowded streets and cheerful guests drinking ale alleviates the creepy silence that follows me even here.
***
Morning comes, but I haven't slept. My dreams were haunted by red stains on white marble and milky dead eyes staring at me.
I sit up, confused for a heartbeat, unable to recognise the peeling wallpaper.
Ah. The Inn.
I dress quickly, not really appreciating my new bedroom. I head downstairs, buy a bowl of watery porridge for one ash and sit in the corner. It tastes like sawdust, but it fills the stomach. When the bowl lies empty on the table, I realise something terrifying.
I have nothing to do.
Before, Taliah organised my life, then my life followed meticulous and a hard routine made by Silas. Wake up. Train. Read. Cook. Train. Sleep. It wasn't pleasant but it gave me purpose.
Now, I am free to do anything. Yet, there is nothing I'm interested in doing. I don't want to go back into my tiny room and stare at the ceiling. So, I walk.
I wander the streets aimlessly. The slums are a living, breathing creature of misery. Narrow alleys wind like broken veins between buildings that lean against each other for support. Their timber rotting and black with damp. The mud here is eternal, a freezing slurry that sucks at my boots with every step.
I dodge handcarts piled with worthless garbage. I step over beggars huddled in doorways, wrapping themselves in blankets against the biting cold. Their eyes hollow, tracking me without really seeing me.
Was it always like this?
Silas spun tales of the Golden Age, of the city where the Emperor resided. The heart of civilisation. Looking at the filth and misery now, I wonder if those were just fairy tales. Could it really have fallen this far?
Eventually my feet lead me to a part of slums Silas told me to avoid. The air is thicker, smelling of blood and the sour reek of cheap alcohol.
I stop in front of a building with a weather beaten sign swinging on rusty chains: Blood Tavern.
I recall Killar mentioning this place a few times. Could he be here?
Loud noises and heat bleeds out from the cracks in the door. I hesitate. This is a place for criminals, for the desperate.
I am desperate, I remind myself, this is the place for me.
I steel myself and push the door open.