He opened his eyes to darkness once again. More than most, he had found his home in it. There had been a time when things were different. When the monsters that lurked in that inky blackness were unimaginably frightening.

But that was the thing about imagination. In the end, it could not compare - because nothing could be more frightening than reality.

Another wave of pain assaulted him, forcing him to clench his eyes shut once more. His gut tore itself into pieces, voracious and demanding. Ravenous.

As the hunger pangs subsided, he forced himself to his feet. His emaciated limbs trembled underneath him, muscles screaming at the minor effort. He looked downwards, staring despondently at his dirty and ragged clothing.

He pushed himself forward, stepping out from underneath the lip of the rooftop above. Water spilled down from overhead, drenching him in unceasing waves. For a moment, he shivered uncontrollably in response. Even that involuntary movement was enough to leave him exhausted, feeling as if it had taken all of the strength within him.

Once, he was sure, he had been stronger. Once, the hunger hadn’t been a crippling agony. Once, he had been happy.

Once, things had been different. Or at least, he thought they must have been. If so, maybe they could be again. He hoped so.

He might have been fooling himself. After all, what orphan doesn’t wish for something greater? Especially one like himself, who knew nothing of his own past?

Once, he had dreamt of that past. He had held to it like a talisman, a desperate mantra to carry him through the nights of darkness.

He trudged down the alleyway, heedless of the muck that caked his unadorned feet. He was far past caring about such things.

His leg protested at the movement, crying out. It burned, the remnants of an injury that had begun to fester. Despite the pain, he did not look down. It would only serve to increase his despair.

Even worse was his back, screaming in unabated agony with every attempt at movement. The lashes he had recently received had yet to heal. He had begun to doubt that they ever would. And even if they did, it wouldn’t matter. Eventually, he would be caught again. But what else could he do? For a street urchin like him, stealing and begging were the only ways to gain enough food to survive - and so few were willing to provide charity. At least, not to him.

He had been brought to Yraos by a group of adventurers. He had been found in a cave of monsters, unable to speak with or even understand others. That, coupled with rumors regarding his origins, had made him an outcast. Despite that, he had learned to communicate. To understand and be understood.

Unfortunately, what he came to understand was the cruelty of life. He heard their whispers, their gossip. Housewives with nothing better to do, prattling away. Guardsmen with a penchant for violence. Merchants with their smug superiority.

They told each other that he was cursed, or that he was feral, or that he was punished by the Progenitors. Ironically, only the adventurers provided him some semblance of peace.

The pre-dawn hours were quiet. Truthfully, that was something that he enjoyed. Yraos was asleep, slumbering peacefully. There were none roaming about, none able to harass him, to send guards after him for the crime of coming too close. It was simply quiet.

He took another step, and a burning pain lanced through his leg once more. He toppled to the cobblestone street below, landing with a heavy thump.

He turned over haltingly, staring up into the darkness once more.

Once, he had been hopeful. But for him, there was no past. There was no future. There was only the cold, unfeeling present.

A drop of rain fell, landing in his open mouth. Then another. And another. And ano-

⥫⥬⥫⥬⥫⥬

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

He choked, sputtering and spitting as the water became too much to handle. An unceasing fire assaulted the skin of his back and leg, burying him under a wave of agony.

He opened his eyes to darkness. The cave that had so recently appeared to be flooded in daylight was now hidden, shrouded in shades of black and gray.

A small canteen was held before him, dripping meager amounts of water into his open mouth. He drank greedily, the liquid providing a much needed comfort.

Dharen’s eyes burned feverishly, making concentration that much more difficult. Something important had happened. He needed to move. They needed to move.

Who needed to move?

The canteen disappeared, and he felt himself being lifted. The pain flared once more, flooding his senses. The walls of the cavern above began to move once more.

⥫⥬⥫⥬⥫⥬

Pain lanced through him. The infection was growing worse, he knew. Soon, perhaps, he would begin to hallucinate. Then, he would simply die.

Was that what was happening now?

Or did it already happen?

It must have, he thought. He felt his body being lifted from the ground effortlessly, rising from the cold stone of the street below. He was rising to the heavens, a spirit whose body had withered away.

Then, suddenly, his ascent halted.

His stomach twisted into a painful knot as the smell of fresh-baked bread entered his nostrils. Right. He had been walking outside the baker’s shop, tantalized by the scent of his cooking as he prepared for the day. Maybe he wasn’t dead after all.

Warmth spread over his body, and a ceiling appeared over his head. The torturous aroma of bread had grown stronger, overpowering him with its allure. He found himself on the floor once more.

“We’re not open, yet!” a voice called out from the back.

“Please, sir!” a youthful voice said from beside him. “He’s just a child. We can’t let him die, can we?”

⥫⥬⥫⥬⥫⥬

“We can’t let him die, can we?”

Dharen woke to darkness once more, his mind hazy and muddled. He took a moment to reorient himself. The change of scenery was disorienting. Just a moment ago, he knew, he had been in a baker’s shop. He could almost taste the scent in the air, that tantalizing aroma of freshly baked bread and sweets.

His stomach twisted at the thought, groaning slightly. Strangely enough, the pain in his gut was merely nonexistent compared to just moments before. Still, the residual memory made him salivate.

He closed his eyes. He could just imagine the taste as he bit into the bread, the fulfilling sensation flooding his mouth. Involuntarily, he bit down.

Crack.

A flood of juices filled his mouth, accompanied by a taste that was decidedly not bread. Sharp shards cut into his mouth, causing blood to spill from his gums. He gagged.

Somewhere beside him, he heard a meaty slap.

“I told you we should have cut it open,” a voice said. “And we don’t even know if the Aarthriin are safe for him to eat!”

“Well, we have to do something, don’t we?”

⥫⥬⥫⥬⥫⥬

“Well, we have to do something, don’t we?”

There was a moment of hesitation.

“Two coppers. I don’t run a charity,” the other voice answered.

After a moment, he heard the distinctive clink of coins changing hands, and then the tantalizing scent grew closer.

A small portion of bread was pushed in front of his face. He knew now that he must be dreaming. Even so, he couldn’t stop himself from greedily snatching it. The agony within his gut demanded nothing less.

He took a bite.

A heavenly sensation flooded his senses, wrapping him in a warm and comforting embrace. He took another bite, more hesitantly this time. He swallowed, and his stomach went unanswered no longer.

He wasn’t dreaming.

Tears began to flow, pouring forth from a well so deep that it appeared to have no end. Sobs racked his shrunken body, rocking him back and forth.

He could live.

With shaking limbs, he forced himself to look towards his savior.

A grimy boy dressed in rags, appearing only slightly older than himself, looked back at him.

The boy smiled, offering him his hand.

Trembling from the exertion, he took it in his own.