My vision narrowed to just encompass Guy, and Zariyah was feebly struggling to escape his grasp. I could feel myself preparing for a fight. Anger rose in a flood. It was too late, the dam would burst. But I was saved.

“Stop messing around like children in the yard,” commanded someone from behind me. A voice that cut through the hubbub. A voice I knew.

I turned around slowly, taking in the presence of my savior. It was the intimidating Ezlas, with a jovial smile on his face that was at odds with the fearsome garb of his profession.

In the presence of greater power, Guy visibly shrank, pushing away Zariyah as if she were made of hot coals.

“Just a bit of fun Ezlas, no need for any…” he started in explanation, the waver in his voice betraying his cowardice.

Zariyah’s desultory glare at Guy was confirmation enough for Ezlas. How many victims, I wondered, had fallen prey to Guy’s ‘little bit of fun.’ That was the problem with coming to a world, place, or time, as socially and culturally backward as this one.

I offered Ezlas a quick spoken thanks, focusing more on my formal bow, palms pressed to the back of my head. He accepted it with a small professional nod, before walking off to whatever it was that he needed to do.

Despite all of this, a part of me could not help but feel that I had been betrayed in some manner or another. A sneaking shard of negativity that wormed its way through the emotional cracks as I thought about it more.

Guy was muttering in his cup, his attention now focused on the Ezlas’ retreating form.

I took Zariyah by the hand, escorting her out of the Guild and into the still-bright afternoon sun. The heat was almost palpable, the shimmering air above the hot stones of the courtyard evidence of the fact.

The red-eyed girl shot me a dirty glance, realizing our hands were still clasped. Without thinking, I offered an apology.

I thought I asked you not to touch me like that in public, I've tolerated unwanted advances for too long, she stated clearly with her hands before crossing her arms.

I sighed inwardly, seeing where this was headed as I studied her stance and expression. Even at my young age, I understood enough about women to recognize the signs. The girl was gearing up for a verbal skirmish. Preparing myself, I decided that a preemptive approach was the best strategy for handling the situation.

Still, pathetic as it was, I was hurt. Her words, silent though they were, rung loud enough to cut through to the truth of the matter. I remembered her initial hidden smile with Guy, the way she had looked at him. The spark of simple attraction. I had been blind until I had been presented with a comparison. It was a rejection of me, just another thing I had to cope with. Another raw deal.

More than that, she had thought to use me for whatever fickle reason she had. For fun, if anything else, was my best guess.

“Thank you for today. I can make my own way back,” I said frostily. It did me no good to be led around the nose by a woman. One needed detachment.

Is that so? You would have an unmarried woman walk home unescorted, she told me, her hands indignant in their motion.

“It is a new age for personal liberty and the accountability that comes with it,” I snorted. The words felt hollow even as they left my mouth, nothing more than broken wind.

You are trying to punish me, then. So be it, her hands stated as she sniffed at me. Turning her back to me, she unfurled her new parasol and crossed the courtyard. A part of me almost expected her to throw the gift in my face.

But, she was thicker-skinned than I gave her credit for, I realized as I watched her make her escape from me.

*****

I wandered aimlessly, my feet moving with the flow of the street traffic as I delved into memories of the past. Unlike positive ones, negative memories had a way of resurfacing and consuming us. It was as if humans had a masochistic tendency to dwell on their own pain, like picking at a scab, unable to resist revisiting moments of turmoil and sorrow, again and again. And, I was no different, it seemed. Still human, the emotional core of me, at least.

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It was late afternoon and the sun was losing its battle against the creeping encroachment of the evening. The usual bustle of the city had quieted down, leaving the air feeling stale and listless. The scents of incense and spice, once almost omnipresent, had vanished, leaving behind only the pervasive stench of densely packed humanity.

The architecture here bore the marks of neglect, a stark contrast to the more affluent areas. Buildings, dilapidated and worn, showed the scars of time and misuse. I saw a once grand structure, now spoiled with graffiti scrawled across its grimy walls. An industrious vandal had even climbed up to deface the friezes' carved faces. To make matters worse, an old beggar had chosen the building's side to relieve himself. This quarter of Al-Lazar lay steeped in poverty, a sharp departure from the city's general opulence.

Despite being far from where I believed I should be, a curious, almost voyeuristic impulse drove me to explore deeper. For reasons I could not quite articulate, there was a sense of safety here, as if, in a twisted way, this place felt more genuine to me than anything else in this fantastical realm. Witnessing humanity at its lowest somehow lent this place an air of authenticity.

As I ventured further, the scene grew more dismal. The people here were destitute, devoid of hope, resembling walking corpses with lifeless eyes, lacking even the will to beg. From descriptions I had heard, they were, for the most part, Dust addicts. Their eyes were hollow and lost to an old dream.

I had expected violence in this rougher part of town, but two desperate-looking thugs saw the dried blood on my clothes, the blade at my waist, and thought better of it.

Two feral dogs snarled and tussled over what I initially mistook for rotten meat, only to discover it was a human limb.

Grim realization hit me hard. This quarter must serve as the city's dumping ground for human refuse. The invisible and unwanted of society.

Then why did I continue to stay? Why did I choose to explore further of my own volition? Was it because I wanted to believe? Surely this place, no matter how authentic in its depiction, was ultimately a facade. Reality lay elsewhere.

"Please, sir," a high-pitched voice interrupted from behind, breaking me away from these depressive thoughts.

I started to turn, pausing for a moment as an inexplicable hesitation seized me. It was as though I stood at destiny's crossroads, with the sense that my impending decision would significantly shape the unfolding narrative. The moment carried the unmistakable aura of a pivotal, perhaps scripted, event.

The owner of the voice was a small grubby child, dangerously thin. Her hair cascaded in loose tangles of dull gold without luster, framing a visage marked by the rigors of want. Clad in the merest of rags, her form seemed more a wraith than that of a child's, a specter of deprivation.

"Good mister ser, a trifle for my mother, ill and in dire need," implored the waif, her voice a whisper, but sounding as if a cacophony.

Ignore her, a voice, one of many within, warned. At worst, this is a lie, a trap, if nothing else. At best her mother is a Dust addict who deserves her fate. A harsh sentence, indeed, yet within her counsel lay a kernel of wisdom, bitter though it was.

I looked once again at the child. Truly seeing her. Her eyes, deep pools of liquid brown, held the weight of a life unkind. In the depth of their hollow gaze, I saw an honest entreaty.

“This day has been long and you entreat powers beyond your comprehension, little girl. What led you to me? I am the end of oblivion itself,” I answered in a hollow voice that was not quite mine.

'You alright? You sure talk funny, mister ser. So, you can help, right?' she persisted, extending her hand towards me.

Here, in the heart of urban misery, I found no compelling reason to aid her. Absolutely none. Despite having grown in power, the motivations that spurred me on seemed shallow, the kind that only a naive youth might harbor. Was it to impress someone? To overpower obstacles? To prove a point?

Saving her mother might seem inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Yet, considering life's inherent meaninglessness, succumbing to nihilism was not the solution. Could not be the solution.

True power was not just the ability to vanquish foes but also the grace to save. To spare and shelter those whom I chose. Ultimately, it represented the freedom to make choices. Even in a world that might be nothing more than an intricate digital illusion, the decisions I made still shaped me.

My thoughts shaded everything. What I chose to do colored my path.

With this conclusion, I felt something change, like the click of a lock falling into place or the first turning of the hand of a once broken clock.

“You have my attention. Take me to this mother of yours. My hand shall save,” I declared with bold confidence.

The beggar girl could only look at me with total surprise, her eyes widening to a ridiculous degree with newfound hope.

“First though, what is your name child? And be quick about it. I do not have all day,” I requested, lowering myself to one knee to her level.

“Theo,” she responded nervously. Uncertainty laced in her voice and her eyes grew big as teacups.

“Very well, Theo,” I said in all seriousness as I took her small, grubby hand in mine. Her eyes managed to widen even further, her mouth shaping into a perfect 'O' of surprise.