A bath should be a comforting experience on an otherwise frigid night. The dried mud melted off of his body and dispersed. Its soluble components turned the lukewarm water brown, while the more persistent bits accumulated as a thin layer on the bottom of the tub. Soap, which smelled of expired olives, formed a layer of white bubbles on the surface.

Few things embarrassed Dimitry, but if there was one, it’d be getting a bath from a teenage girl. Claudia, who fit that description, scrubbed his back with a washcloth. Her proficiency proved this wasn’t her first time.

“Aren’t you going to say something?”

There was a lot Dimitry wanted to say. ‘Go the fuck away’ came to mind, but perhaps something more polite would be wiser; now was a bad time to make enemies.

“So, have you been doing this a long time?” Dimitry asked, hoping to dissipate the awkwardness in the room. Or, more likely, to drown out his thoughts.

“Washing people’s backs?”

“That. That and other related things.”

“You’re talking about having sex for money then?” Claudia stopped scrubbing. “Is there something wrong with it?”

“I don’t think it’s wrong but—”

“Or do you just dislike me?” Claudia pressed the washcloth against his back with more force than usual.

“That’s not it. I think you’re charming and lovely and I’m lucky to be under your care,” Dimitry lied. “My problem is that you’re a bit young to do it.”

“Truth is, I don’t like it either. I have no other choice.” She rinsed Dimitry’s shoulders.

His voice lowered. “Were you forced into it?”

“No, nothing like that.” Claudia giggled. “When my parents passed away, I had to look after my brother, and this is all I knew how to do. Besides, Delphine can be naggy at times, but she cares about us.”

“Maybe she’s just using you.”

“Maybe. She seems to have a lot of money after all. Though I guess that makes sense for a baron’s daughter.”

Dimitry vaguely recalled the term from his fleeting repository of high school knowledge. It probably referred to some high-ranking noble position. “That’s… important.”

Claudia’s voice transitioned into an excited whisper. “And, well, it’s just what I’ve heard, but she used to be a prostitute too! How crazy is that?”

The moist washcloth retreated.

“Anyway, it looks like we’re done here. That is, unless you wanted something else?” Her finger slid down his back in a snaking pattern.

Dread elicited aggressive coughing from Dimitry. “Actually… there is something. Can you bring me some clean fabric and a razor?”

“Not what I expected, but okay. I’ll get the clothes and food Delphine asked me to as well.” Claudia opened the door, looked back to wink, then scurried into the hall, washbowl in hand.

Dimitry sympathized with Claudia. She was a sweet girl whose affection for him came from hopes that a ‘bigshot surgeon’ could help her escape this profession. Work here couldn’t have been easy—especially when investing in an underweight street dweller was a sound retirement plan.

He squelched the urge to help. Self-preservation took priority, and Dimitry couldn’t leave the brothel. Not yet.

Despite forced moans and stressed furniture squeaks echoing through thin walls, Delphine’s hospitality offered countless benefits. A roof over Dimitry’s head, regular meals, and access to warm water were massive upgrades from homelessness. He had to make use of it all to create a platform for the future.

The door slamming shut when she entered, Claudia rushed closer with a woven basket in her hands and clothes draped over her shoulder. She announced each item as she sorted them onto a nightstand. “I brought you some dried meat, a towel, shoes, socks, braies, hose, a tunic, some cloth, a razor, and this mirror.”

“Thank you. I can handle it from here.”

Claudia didn’t budge.

Dimitry stared at her.

She stared back. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

“Mind getting out while I change?”

“Drats.” Claudia playfully stomped into the hallway. “I’ll be outside, so tell me when you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“For me to show you to your room.” She left the door ajar.

Wishing for more privacy, Dimitry tended to the enlarged wound on his foot by wrapping it in fresh cloth. The bandages weren’t perfect, but until he could properly disinfect the mangled puncture underneath, they would have to do. He shaved the rest of his unevenly groomed face, ate, and dressed. Although the clothes were uncomfortable, anything was better than the torn pilgrim robes lined with rags.

To look like a human again—it felt great.

----------------------------------------

Bright red streetlight shone through rustic window shutters, outlining the dark silhouettes of a simple nightstand and a straw mattress atop an oak frame. They stood in Dimitry’s third-floor room. Thrashing and chatter from the lower floors loudened the night, but anything was better than an alley full of skittering rodents, their squeaks piercing the night. His quarters were comfier than he hoped.

Yet tranquility eluded him.

No matter how much Dimitry twisted and turned or flipped the feather-stuffed pillow to its cold side, sleep never came. The deaths of Samuel and Arnest replayed in his mind. He tried to calm the racing thoughts with meditation, breathing exercises, and after those failed, counting sheep, but nothing worked.

Dimitry stared at the ceiling with burning eyes instead. They yearned for a moment’s rest, but every time they closed, he saw last night’s events. Every luxury, every comfort he enjoyed resulted from his friends’ sacrifice.

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And his patients—at least a dozen were silently dying in dilapidated cottages across Ravenfall, desperately awaiting a surgeon who promised to treat them only days ago. Most couldn’t afford visits to a local barber, and many of the ones that could were suffering from simple conditions only he understood.

All while Dimitry lay here.

Doing nothing.

A guilt-ridden conscience compelled him to return to the streets, but with city guards and the Church continuing their hunt for a holy cleric with distinct eyes, the notion was foolish. Delphine was keeping him safe. Leaving the brothel frivolously would not only undo her efforts, but acting on dangerous whims could also earn her wrath. She didn’t seem the kind to tolerate disobedience.

Dimitry had to maintain a good relationship with his implied ‘owner’. Delphine provided him a chance to gain weight, learn about the world, and generate wealth. Once he earned a small fortune, he would flee Ravenfall and start a proper surgical practice where rumors about neither disappearing bums nor religious dissenters could bring him harm.

It was there that medicine would change forever. Never again would he have to abandon anyone.

But for now, Dimitry would endure. He considered avenues of preparation for escape until the vermilion streetlight filtering through the room’s shuttered windows transitioned into bitter sunlight.

The sound of plucked strings and stomping echoed through the hall. They grew louder until a foot burst open the door.

Stood in the hallway was Dominic’s twin. The giant strummed an instrument that resembled the offspring of a guitar and a violin with a neck too short. His hairless head reflected sparse sunlight as he strolled forward to kick Dimitry’s bed. “Get the fuck up, princess! Time for work!”

If there were two things Dimitry hated, it was pompous assholes and shitty music; this man was an amalgam of both. Couldn’t they send the mustached brother instead?

“Let’s go, sweetheart. Before the customers arrive.”

Dimitry rolled out of bed. “What will I be doing?”

“Curious, aren’t we?” The wide grin on the man’s face revealed a gap where front teeth should be. “Let’s just say you’ll be amputating people who can’t shout out in pain. You’re a surgeon after all.”

Was Dimitry to perform amputations on unwilling patients? The sheer cruelty stole his willingness to budge. “And if I refuse?”

“I’ll break your fucking legs and drag you downstairs myself.” With those detestable words, the moron barged from the room while strumming his warped guitar. His poor understanding of music theory and a reliance on parallel fifths and octaves birthed hollow melodies devoid of harmony.

Seething resentment, Dimitry followed. He yearned to teach the prick a lesson in musicality. A Chopin etude or a Beethoven sonata would drop him on his ass and leave him groveling in inadequacy. Unfortunately, harpsichords were unlikely to exist in medieval society, much less forte pianos. Dimitry wondered if he could reproduce keyboard instruments someday, but manufacturing metal string was—

“Good, ain’t it?”

Dimitry awoke from his musings. “What’s good?”

“My citole playing. Good, right?” The man’s broad back disappeared from view when he turned to face Dimitry.

“It’s certainly music.”

The moron’s vicious smile morphed into a fiendish stare. “But is it good?” Fury accumulated within the man’s eyes as if ready to burst at a moment’s notice. “Is. It. Good?”

Although unkind words foamed to escape Dimitry’s mouth, there was no point in provoking a fight. He would not only lose, but the lingering animosity would hinder his plans. Diplomacy was the best choice. “Yeah, it’s good.”

The man’s wide grin resurfaced. “I’m just fucking with you. Don’t gotta be so serious.” He stabbed his finger into Dimitry’s chest again, and again, and again, each time more forceful than the last.

Dimitry loathed himself for the crimes of his teenage years, and yet, the desire to drown a man swelled within.

They passed through the brothel—littered with remnant garments and stale alcohol from last night’s vigor—before exiting onto frigid streets. Behind the building, the man pulled up a trapdoor. A stench of expired eggs, rotten flesh, and blood oozed from the damp cellar.

Dimitry shuddered. Whatever was down there, he wasn’t excited to find out. He descended carefully to avoid slipping on muddy stairs. They led to a room the size of a classroom, except the ambiance didn’t exude a scholarly charm.

The man retrieved a bright brick from beneath his tunic and placed it on a workbench. Overflowing light revealed walls splattered with congealed blood, a massive wheelbarrow, a worktable, and a glowing pink blanket that concealed a large mound.

“Get chopping, surgeon.” The moron unveiled a stack of corpses. “Or do you prefer butcher?”

Relieved to see cadavers instead of live ‘patients’, a relieved sigh escaped Dimitry’s lips. “What exactly do you want from me?”

“You’re a little daft, aren’t you?” He opened a bag on the worktable, retrieving various implements. “Delphine needs these bodies chopped to pieces.”

Dimitry lost his patience. “Am I making a salad, a carving, a human centipe—”

“Shut up! I get your point.” His arms crossed over his chest. “Delphine needs the appendages and heads removed from every torso. Throw ‘em in the wheelbarrow and cover them with the preservia cloth when you’re done.”

“That’s still broad. Can I get more specific instructions?”

“I’m not the professional here. You figure it out.” The man stomped up the stairs, then slammed the trapdoor shut behind him.

Only the luminescent brick remained to illuminate the room.

Dimitry finally understood why Agatha asked if he had experience with amputations. Just as Delphine’s demeanor implied, neither wanted a caring surgeon. They wanted a butcher.

Although defiling the non-consenting dead elicited disgust, Dimitry preferred it to chopping limbs like some torturer in a low budget horror flick. He would endure. One day, many would benefit from his horrendous deeds.

Dimitry lifted a saw from the table and held it to the light, which struggled to reflect off of rusted teeth. The equipment could have used some improvement. It didn’t seem to get much use. Maybe the men Delphine ‘hired’ before Dimitry used different tool sets?

He glanced at his workload in the cellar’s corner.

A pile of corpses stacking higher than his shoulders, Samuel lay on top, mouth agape. To his side, Arnest.

The sight of his friends, dead and to be chopped by his hand, drained all strength from Dimitry’s legs. He leaned against a filthy wall. Why should he live when they didn’t? No, it wasn’t his fault. Everyone agreed on the job, and that man, the one from the dark hall—he granted Dimitry neither health nor wealth before throwing him into a purgatory where illicit deeds were his only means of survival. What damn choice did he have?!

Dimitry would endure.

He had to.

Samuel’s body weighed heavily on his shoulders, then flopped onto the worktable. Piece by piece, corpse by corpse, friend by friend, Dimitry dissected everyone into neat limbs. The necks were the most difficult. How much time passed before he finished?

Wiping away stale saliva, cerebrospinal fluid, and other undesirables caking his hands, Dimitry leaned back into a chair and stared at his boots, stepped in a thin puddle of blood. The liquidity hinted that most of today’s victims died less than twelve hours ago. Any longer and the blood would have congealed within each cadaver.

Did Delphine regularly murder people for their organs?

A knock came from the trapdoor atop the stairs. It opened to reveal a concerned Dominic.

He pinched his nose while climbing down the stairs. “Can never get used to that smell.” His curved mustache flanked his nostrils. “You alright?”

Dimitry threw a soiled towel onto the worktable. “Not the most fun I’ve had, if I’m honest.”

“It’s not that bad. When you get out of here, you’ll get all the girls you want. Claudia is quite fond of you.” Dominic removed the glowing pink blanket and inspected the body parts.

Gaze plastered to the magical object, Dimitry’s curiosity got the best of him. “By the way, what’s the blanket’s pink glow all about?”

“A barber-surgeon and you never used preservia enchantments before?” He raised an eyebrow. “It keeps things fresh.”

“We didn’t have much magic where I come from.” Dimitry glanced at the brick, whose incandescence resembled those of streetlights. “How about the brick?”

“It has an illumina enchantment.”

Dimitry connected the dots. Spells imparted their effects onto objects through enchantments, resulting in a glow. That gray-glowing statue that robbed invisall’s effects, the purple-glowing bolt that killed Samuel, countless glowing walls and tools around Ravenfall with unknown properties. Learning their precise functioning could help formulate a plan.

“You’re bizarre,” Dominic said, “but who am I to judge? The cuts look good. Much better than the last guy.”

“Last guy?”

“Ah, don’t mind that. I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Dominic spread the cover over the wheelbarrow. “Anyway, you should go get some rest for tomorrow’s job.”

“More corpses, I’m guessing.”

“It’s related but less gruesome. Not to mention, you won’t be alone this time.”

Dimitry took a deep breath. “Is it your brother?”

“No, not Gerbald. You’ll meet her soon enough, though she’s not much for conversation.” Dominic pointed at the trapdoor with a meaty finger. “You coming?”

“Yeah, I think I’ve had enough of this place for today.”