The Foot seemed empty at the best of times. The city was filled with clay and mud brick houses, dotted with the occasional two- or three-story stone building for the rich or prosperous. It sprawled out from the massive lake at its centre. Streets were straight and usually narrow, and getting to any particular place required sliding through dozens of them, arranged in labyrinthian patterns. There was no logic or reason, no grand design, simply a huge place that once was the home nearly a quarter of a million people.

Only a fourth of that remained. Too many had died fighting the Raven, and with the economy wrecked from losing half the city, many of those remaining had gone to more hospitable places, far across the empty plains. I had lived here most of my life, yet sometimes the quiet got to me: on occasion I would whirl around, hearing footsteps that didn't exist or laughter without origin. Ghosts. Whether they were merely a product of an overactive mind, or some long-lost memory of the city, I didn’t know.

All of this changed at the markets. They were set next to the Foot’s lake, between its docks and the many farms nearby: the beating heart of the city. Tall brick buildings used as warehouses or shops for craftsmen were arrayed all around, some even slathered with peeling paint; but without a proper vantage it was impossible to see them, for thousands of people milled about.

Most of them looked and dressed similarly to me: tanned, brown-haired people in simple patchwork tunics with a satchel thrown over one shoulder. Yet there were many who were different. Black and blond hair was easy to see, and there was even the occasional flash of red or white. Skin colour varied greatly as well – my own browned skin was common, with a far blander white also not being unusual, however some were deathly pale while others the same shade as charcoal. The farmers, merchants, artificers and occasional alchemist who peddled their wares were cut from different cloth: their clothes were fine and unpatched, their belts leather instead of twine, and some even sported dyed clothing, the vibrant hues cutting through the faded tones of the crowd.

Besides our restaurant, this was my favourite part of the city; here was one of the few places the Foot truly felt alive, pulsing with those who loved this place too much to run away. It made me proud, seeing them all. Though a kernel of guilt still stuck to me, like a piece of meat between teeth.

I was here for three things in particular: an order of produce, our meat order, and a tinker to repair the pair of pans clanging in my bag. I knew where to go for the former, but Ma’s favourite smith tended to move around. It also wasn’t unusual for her not to be here at all; in which case I would have to trek across half the city to reach her store. Though it was a pain, Ma could always tell poor repairs when she saw them, and Miss Tran was the best value for money when it came to quality fixes. I didn’t have the chits for anything more expensive, anyway.

Getting through a crowd is a skill. Speed is a secondary objective – avoiding a mugging is a smart man’s primary goal. I bobbed and weaved through the sea of people, muscling aside anyone who had poor footing. Knocking someone to the ground was a real concern, as anyone downed would be trampled instantly by an avalanche of feet. Luckily, the crowd’s density gave most at least three or four different supports, and most were quick to pull the fallen upright.

Wading through the seething mass took a while, but eventually it thinned, spitting me out in front of Jasmine’s stall. Various vegetables, beans, and grains were arranged in boxes underneath a small canopy, mostly sheltered from the crowd by various large men shoving away those who didn’t approach from the front. Jasmine haggled with a plump woman, several people waiting for her to finish or browsing the selection.

I may have been biased, but I think it was clear to anyone with eyes that Jasmine was a beauty: she had flawless cocoa skin, regal features, and long braided hair like night, the occasional strand coloured yellow or red or white. I tried not to stare beneath her neck, but that was also a pretty good-looking area, maybe, I guess. Anyway, it was clear to anyone looking that she was very, very well-off.

From what I had gathered from our interactions, she was the eighth child of some landowner who lorded over several large strips of farmland. The majority of food grown there were sent to specific merchants with trade deals, who would usually process it for long-term storage to be sold throughout the year. Jasmine’s was one of many stalls run by their family, though for obvious reasons, hers was the most popular.

Raising a hand, I wandered around and looked at the fruits. They were expensive, so we mostly ate the beaten apples, with the rare mango on special occasions. I had no need to browse, either. The week’s order had been the same for the past month, and would remain unaltered until either the seasons or the prices changed. I was here to pay for next week’s and lug some of the ingredients home. Ma would be by at a quieter hour – less chance of being recognised – to pick up the rest.

Some of the guards glared as I loitered, having disapproved of my previous romantic overtures towards their charge. One gave a wide smile bereft of front teeth, apparently anticipating the show. Most ignored me.

As I inspected a pomegranate, trying to imagine what it tasted like, a commotion sounded from outside the stall, I glanced over, then squinted. Flashes of red showed through the swarm of seething bodies, a discontented murmur growing throughout the crowd. The rest of the customers turned to watch.

“The Old Guard is now recruiting!” a clipped voice called, somehow projecting despite the noise. “Any talented warriors wishing to cleanse the Raven’s remnants and earn their godsblood are welcome. Blooded joining will receive a higher initial rank and greater pay, with opportunities to build on their already extant foundation. Aspiring recruits should visit our office – located opposite the western berths, near the market. Look for our sign. Those wishing to contribute to the cause: spread the word!”

The voice then began the spiel again. I scowled, approaching the friendly stall guard. “Wasn’t there already some shop there?”

The big man nodded, smile turning to an uncomfortable frown. “A general thtore, I think it wath.” His missing teeth turned his ‘S’s into ‘Th’ sounds. “I heard the owner wath renting it from them, originally, and they charged him for eight years all at once. Place went under.”

“Damned Houses,” I sneered. He nodded along with me.

I waved to Jasmine and pointed towards the voice, silently asking for her to save my spot. She nodded and I pushed back into the crowd, muttering apologies as I shoved and slid my way to the front. It took a few moments to secure a decent spot, which gave me a good view of the Old Guard in all its glory.

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There were three of them, one on a small pedestal nearly overshadowed by a huge figure. Another sat against the platform, dwarfed by the giant’s height. They were dressed in lamellar armour painted a sharp crimson, accentuated with muted browns. The pair below had functional, open-faced helmet, whilst the recruiter’s only showed the jaw. It was also far more ornate, covered in sweeping engravings reminiscent of waves. It took a second to realise all three were Blooded – their facial features were simply too inhuman to be otherwise.

I blinked. The largest one by several feet, stood on the ground, was Jackson. He gripped a massive glaive, which was easily as tall as his own ten foot frame.

On his belt was a sword, though shadowed by his size it seemed closer to a knife. Its sheath was smooth and black, yet somehow shined spectacularly in the sunlight, like nothing I had ever seen. I wanted it. Jackson didn’t deserve such a beautiful thing, anyway.

I shook my head, clearing it. Stupid, stupid. Under the gaze of dozens of different people was a bad place to resume old habits.

I had difficulty identifying the remaining two’s divinity. Besides the Oxblood, I only knew the seven types by hearsay. The speaker’s face was mostly obscured, but they had a protruding lower face and thick, flapping tongue. Coupled with the nautical-themed helmet, he seemed like a Dolphinblood, the Blooded best known for their charisma. The other, sitting beside Jackson, had unnaturally wide eyes, so much so I immediately pegged him as an Owlblood. According to legend, they could perform strange and arcane miracles. It’s strange, I thought. Yoot’s blood is rare. Why are the Houses sending such a precious resource here?

The Owlblood yawned widely, staring dreamily into the distance. My gaze fell on Jackson again, obviously wary of the crowd. Sweat beaded his forehead, his nostrils flared constantly, and he shifted slowly from foot to foot. It was easy to see why: of the three, the Dolphinblood had only a sheathed short sword, and the layabout sat entirely unarmed. Jackson seemed to be all that guarded two invaluable people from a crowd with good reason to hate them. Though most of us were more wary than angry. Everyone knew that the Blooded, even unarmed, were dangerous.

However even fear could not vanquish the tension thrumming around me. The faces ringing the clearing, no matter their complexion or standing, were grim. The only sound came from the Dolphinblood, repeating his speech once again, and the faint clamour of the market, now seeming so much further away. The Foot had not forgotten how they had abandoned us.

The speaker paused, and let out a deep sigh. When he opened his mouth again, his voice was no longer clear. It wavered, muddied by some deep guilt. “I know many of you are resentful towards us. The Houses asked everything from you. And when you were left after rising to our challenge, sacrificing your family, friends, and comrades, no one came to help.

“The Raven cast a shadow over all of humanity, and the people of the Foot vanquished it. Yet your only reward was more pain.” He smiled, strange jaw somehow conveying sorrow. He drew in a breath, and continued, still mournful.

“The new Head of House Esfaria, the Young Lord Irwin, extends his deepest apologies to your city for our negligence. He has given myself and my cohort various gifts to distribute as tokens of our sincerity. Much of it is the latest bloodtech, designed to make the most mundane of tasks easier. As you may have noticed, we have also been installing bloodtech bulbs throughout the most populated of the city, to make your nights a little safer. We have also brought fine silk, various dyes, and clothing tailored for children.”

The crowd erupted into murmurs at that.

“Though it went against the advice of his advisors, Lord Irwin has bade me, Representative Fedor, to give them away, free of charge, to any who ask for them.”

There was a brief silence. Then the crowd exploded into chatter, as we whirled amongst ourselves. A middle-aged woman at my side turned to me, wide-eyed. “Did I hear that right? Free?” I nodded, stunned, as her face lit up with a crooked smile. We had all quietly assumed there was some kind of price – that it would be conditional on gaining recruits. This went entirely against our expectations.

“If you would like to receive these small tokens of Esfaria’s remorse,” he said, voice slicing through the commotion, “please visit our offices. You have been a kind audience, more generous than we deserve. Thank you.”

Representative Fedor stepped down. Jackson picked up the pedestal, gently nudging the owlish slacker. The crowd chattered among themselves as the Oxblood began gently making a path through them. I could feel the urge to join in, the excitement at these new, fresh goods. A bloodtech oven! That would help us greatly at home!

I frowned. What was I thinking? I had smeared dung over a restaurant merely for having one. Still, silk clothing? Dyes? I could dress like a king!

I squinted at the Dolphinblood’s back, then my fervour at the Blooded’s speech was interrupted as another, greater desire took its place. Jackson was wading through the crowd. Jackson’s stunning sword was wading through the crowd.

Here was an opportunity. I wouldn’t get a better one.

I dashed through the opening the Old Guard had left in their wake. When I was a dozen paces behind them, I merged back into the crowd. Muscling through the masses was difficult, so much so that Jackson, with his much greater strength and presence, would usually be faster than me. However, where usually people would naturally make way for someone so large, this time, everyone seemed too distracted. Jackson had to gently move them aside.

I was much more adept at slipping through the crowd, and also much less gentle. Those milling about were strangely absentminded – too busy talking to their neighbour to form much obstacle to my comparatively small body. Moving in this fashion, it only took a minute to catch up.

Mussing my tangled hair to conceal as much of my face as possible, I stole a glance at my target. The blade jangled, strapped to a belt wrapped around Jackson’s expansive waist. I clicked my teeth, almost reconsidering. However, if the Old Guard caught me, they would probably let me off; it would be stupid to undo all this excitement by apprehending a child in the middle of a mob. Even if they did, I was sure Jackson would try to get me off the hook.

That didn’t mean I should be stupid about it. Unbuckling the sword would be difficult – I was out of practice and would need several seconds – but then I would have to carry it home. My pack was barely big enough for a few pans. It wouldn’t fit an actual weapon, however pretty.

I glanced around, glimpsing a stall through the crowd. I barged over, eyes alighting on a roll of cloth. The owner was busy chatting excitedly with patrons, gesturing towards the rapidly disappearing Blooded. Mentally preparing myself for a cry of alarm, I snatched the cloth and merged back into the throng. Yet no shouts chased me. No one had noticed.

Strange.

Soon enough I had my eyes on Jackson again, having tracked him by the empty trail they left behind. Mind thrumming, I attempted to think of a plan that would lead to success, but the Esfarians were nearly out of the crowd, and I had never been much of a schemer anyway. I crouched in an attempt to make myself smaller, then moved.

I shoved one of the larger idlers into Jackson’s side, causing him to turn slightly. Sliding around him, I reached for his other side, and, fingers dancing, unbuckled the belt and stole the belt off his body, yanking the beautiful blade into my hand. I retreated into the crowd a few feet, and hastily wrapped it in cloth, tucking it under my arm. I looked around for anyone who had seen me.

The Owlblood’s massive eyes bored into mine. He smiled softly, his mouth the only part of his face moving. Slowly, he tilted his head, lips curving upward.

I ran.

Sprinting through the crowd, I ducked and weaved and shoved, desperately trying to shed the feeling of that horrible, piercing gaze. I tried to look backwards in order to gauge how many were pursuing me, only to glance off someone and sprawl to the ground. I curled, tensing, ready for the mob’s thousand feet to trample me.

No blows crushed my body. No shouts or yells followed me. I looked around, and saw something entirely unnatural.

As far as I could see, not one person’s feet were moving. They were still just talking, eager for the Young Lord Irwin’s many generous gifts. I felt that same enthusiasm, and the knowledge that the emotion still had root inside me, despite my fear of being caught, was terrifying.

I rose and made some distance.