Bitter winds danced through the starlit midnight sky, occasionally descending far enough to douse the inhabitants of the small city with an uncomfortable, bone-chilling cold. It swirled around the sign that sat at the entrance of the city as if it were taking in the words scrawled onto the wooden post and complementing them. 

“Karehjk Da Valgi’ or as the locals preferred to call it: 

Dustland. 

Once again, death had come to greet him unannounced. 

His muffled cries of pain ricocheted off the grimy sandstone walls before they slipped past the dilapidated buildings and escaped into the vastness of the desert. 

Frigid sand slipped between the tears of the boy’s clothes as he writhed around on the sandy floor, struggling to breathe. His tears mixed with the crimson-red blood that dripped from his lips as he clutched at the searing pain in his chest in a futile attempt to soothe the agony. 

Through his blurry vision, the men seemed even larger and more intimidating than they already were. Their huge frames were distorted through his sight, their faces obscured by the shadows cast by the ragged hoods of their cloaks. 

“Stand.” 

Somewhere in between exhaustion and agony, the boy buried his discomfort; slowly beginning to struggle to his feet. Clenching his fist as he rose from the cloudy, sandy floor; the child’s freshly inducted wounds stretched open and the few broken ribs he had clicked loudly in protest of being moved.  

The two men were no less intimidating when they were vertically, but the boy knew better than to ignore the commands of a Haydutt, especially those with such a close relationship with The Boss. 

Unhurriedly taking a few steps forward, the smaller, balder of the two hooded men sucked his teeth as he took a few seconds to stare down at the child in front of him. He sighed indignantly before slowly squatting down to meet the boy’s eye level. 

His eyes looked the injured waif over, admiring the results of his partner’s handiwork. His face remained expressionless as he examined the boy’s broken and bruised body before leaning forward, lowering his voice to whisper. 

“Three days. I’ll give you three days to give us what you owe” he muttered, placing a heavy, imposing hand on the street urchin’s shoulder. There was less than a hair’s breadth between them as the boy stared deep into the man’s wide and crazed eyes that were trying to come across as non-threatening as possible. 

The boy knew the raw, unadulterated bloodlust bubbling underneath the surface. It dripped through the man’s facade and pooled underneath the child’s feet, growing long, crimson tendrils that threatened to wrap around his ankles and keep him in place.  

It was hard to believe this pressure emanated from a human being and not some kind of beast.  

The man could continue to attempt to hide his discontent through his calm voice but his body language revealed his darker, more violent intentions. 

Tensed veiny muscles that were ready and waiting to strike at a moment’s notice. 

His breathing was loud and his heartbeat was so rapid, that the boy could have sworn that he heard the man’s heart thumping in his chest. 

“That's impossible” the boy stammered, surprised that he still possessed the ability to use his voice. “Listen, Mister Vareem; I had your package, honestly I did but-” 

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The quick yet heavy weight of the man’s slap across his face stopped the boy’s desperate pleas dead in their tracks. 

“Enough. Do what I say or I will cut you down here” Vareem replied bluntly, wiping the specs of blood off of the back of his hand. “You of all people should know how important these packages are; so why are you acting so immature?” 

Though gritted teeth and a left stinging cheek, the boy couldn’t help but feel wronged by the stipulations thrust upon him. 

Tonics were, indeed, extremely powerful potions and simply gathering the necessary materials for a single vial of the miraculous liquid was an arduous process that took about a week. That was before accounting for the lengthy and unreliable brewing process that followed. 

Even the chances of stealing one were slim as Tonics were reserved only for high-ranking merchants who scarcely even glanced at the boy’s dingy hometown of Dustland, much less trade there. Ultimately, four days for three vials of the medicine was akin to being sent on a suicide mission, it was completely out of the question.

“You don’t understand, sir. I-I was ambushed, they took everything I had. I swear that I-” 

The boy’s eyes widened and his mouth hung open in shock as he felt the full force of Vareem’s fist slamming against his abdomen. He doubled over, clutching his belly with both hands; dry-heaving and desperately gasping for air. Each second seemed to crawl by at an agonising pace as he scarcely managed to suppress the urge to vomit up the little amount of food that remained in his stomach. 

“Three days, child” Vareem repeated ominously, gesturing to his accomplice that their little excursion was over. “We have clients to deliver to and profit to make; do not disgrace our name any further” 

As the adrenaline began to leave his body, the boy managed to get to his knees; watching as the men slowly walked away. He kept his eyes open long enough to watch them as they took to the dingy rooftops of the nearby houses. 

Despite their large frames, they almost became blurs as they effortlessly scaled the environment with practised and honed acrobatic skills before disappearing into the midnight sky; becoming indistinguishable from the inky-black shadows that stretched and covered every corner of the small desert city. 

It seemed as if the entire city relaxed as soon as Vareem and his companion disappeared; the air pressure instantly lightened, allowing the boy to breathe more easily. He quickly took a few deep, greedy gulps of crisp, cold air; relishing how good it felt to not be constantly holding his breath or gasping for oxygen. 

Despite his thoroughly broken body and fading consciousness, the boy miraculously found his second wind as he began to slowly crawl into a particularly dark crevice of the alleyway, making his way over discarded rags and other abandoned rubbish. 

As he settled into his home for the night, the boy felt relief wash over him as he let the darkness hide him from the wandering and potentially violent eyes. 

Leaning against the grimy, uncomfortable wall, he felt his entire body decompress as a deep sigh escaped his lips; residing somewhere in between surprise and joy. 

Although the boy had no idea how; he had not only survived to see another day but more importantly, his plan had worked. The near-life-ending risks and terrifying consequences had thankfully paid off. 

Smiling, he reached into the crevices of his ragged, hempen cloak; feeling around for something. His grin widened slightly when his fingers traced over the familiarly smooth texture of a tiny glass bottle and the coarse, uneven cork that sat on top of it. 

He steadily pulled it into the dim light of the alleyway and swirled the contents, mesmerised by the soft glow radiating from the golden liquid. 

A Tonic.

One of Vareem’s Tonics, to be more exact. 

Without wasting a single moment more, the boy tore the cork off the vial with animalistic ferocity before downing the entire bottle in a single gulp. 

Pungent yellow steam spouted from the tip of the bottle before it was brought to his lips but he swallowed the contents regardless. 

The boy was already well aware that Tonics were not known for their taste, but even still this one was particularly disgusting. But the sharp aftertaste could easily be excused as he felt the restorative effects of the concoction, even as it was travelling down his throat. 

As soon as he swallowed the last drop, the boy’s eyelids instantly grew heavier; lulling him into a deep, gentle sleep. In disbelief, he watched as the wounds on his hands and arms began to rapidly sew themselves shut whilst the constant aching of his body ceased altogether.

It truly was like the rumours said, Tonics were magic in a bottle. 

Eventually, the excitement and stress of his day caught up with him and the boy couldn’t stay conscious any longer. He lost his battle against the oncoming slumber, allowing himself to slip into a warm, pleasant slumber. His chest rose and fell rhythmically as his body magically repaired itself in almost no time. 

The boy slept soundly with a smile on his face; knowing that once woke up, his life would never again be the same. 

And to that extent, he was not wrong.