The road thickens and its masses grow more agitated as we approach the capital of these lands, Yorkton. The fields leading up to the city are a sorry sight, a poor crop now abandoned to fester with flies.

I gag at the sweet stench, though the people that surround me offer no reprisal. An entrepreneur would attempt to sell soap, though I imagine the market would shrug the product off. I ask Folkston if he fears a famine.

“These people barely eat anyway. They only want to forget their lives with grog and merriment. The rest are signing up for the raid.” He explains.

“The raid? On the Daemon’s?” I try to hide my concern, hopefully it’s not against Mother.

“No, nothing so rational. They’ll be going over the edge with the York family. Seeking glory, treasure and spirit. At least that’s what the leaflets say. Load of dribble, I say.”

He hands me a slip of parchment. The York family’s crest is stamped in the middle, a blazing sun that is held by a chalice with an eye in the centre.

‘Join the raid and ensure your future is grand’ is scribed along with a location to sign up.

“Sounds like a delightful endeavour,” I wink at him. “You ever been on one?”

“Order’s balls, No! Let me ask ya a question. Say you're raiding with an army beside you and you come across a giant beast. Terrifying thing, but all the treasure in the world is sitting beneath its scaly legs. How would you get around it?”

Is he talking about a dragon? Rutting hell, can this world get any worse?

“Lay a trap to subdue it and then fire at range. Or try attacking while it's asleep.”

“Sensible options. You know what the Yorks would do? They’d send you in, screaming with whatever shabby tool or rusty weapon you stole from ya Father. And they’d drown that beast in blood. Or stuff its belly with meat and bone till it can barely move.

Those grand nobles don’t give a flying rut about the recruits. So bollocks to them and bollocks to their raid.” He snatches the leaflet and tears it apart.

I go to say something else, when I catch his daughter’s stare, she shakes her head for me to stop. He must have lost someone in a raid I realise. From his angry mumbles, I bet they were family.

“Oi! You!” A shout goes out up ahead.

I grab the hilt of my sword and look for danger. Did they find the robber’s bodies? Do they know I did it? I feel no guilt from the killings. I’ve never slept so soundly in Silva. But each shabby girl I see on the road reminds me of the one I let go. A loose end that I should have seared off.

I see a scuffle as the busy road parts for patrolling heroes. Two raggedy men are pulled away and swiftly executed without a hint of appeal from the other travellers. One of the men bearing Yorkton colours, flicks his wrist to emit a shower of liquid fire. Within seconds the bodies are charred black and my stomach is rumbling.

I whisper to the merchant. “What crime did they commit?”

“Being unlucky buggers. It’s the plague, my lad. Only way to stop it from spreading.”

“Terrible time to organise a raid then, all those people in one spot.”

“Ay, well it's probably why they’re going over the edge in the first place. Fleeing responsibility. Not that anyone would say anything to those demi-gods.”

“And they can’t just heal or cure people of the plague.”

“It’s magic lad, a mere trickle of Order’s Will. Good for most things, but fixing the damned isn't one of them. Only miracles can do that.”

We reach a small summit that opens our view to the city, the sight stops me in my tracks before the migration forces me forward again. Yorkton spreads across the land like a Hershey’s kiss. The far edges look dishevelled and rotten as makeshift homes are erected to fill any space available.

Beyond these favelas, a strangely steep edge forms in a smog of pollution, creating a wall to obscure my sight. Past this dark smoke, the buildings dramatically change to glistening towers and bridges, hanging gardens or floating platforms. Higher they climb until the epicentre, where a lighting blue pyramid slowly shifts in an eternal spin.

“I’m guessing that’s your place in the middle?” I ask Folkston.

“Ahaha of course, my harem awaits me with a feast and debauchery.”

“You must have a grand view of all the pollution up there.”

“True, really kills the tranquil nature of Yorkton. I’ve been wondering what that black smog is.”

“It’s not normal?”

“I haven’t been back in a while, but never seen anything like it. Our tavern, the Slumbering Maiden, is in the outer district so we’ll soon see why.”

“Our tavern?”

“Yes of course my travelling companion. All these plebs will fill the inns and alleys till the raid sets off. The owner is a dear friend and will sort your accommodation.”

Stolen novel; please report.

“That’s very kind of you Folkston, but I’m not sure Cane will be welcome,” I say with concern.

“There’s a secure stable to leave him, while you make your purchases in the city. I think it would be best if our large pink friend has as comfortable a bed as us.” I’m surprised by the merchant's kindness and unsure of his hospitality. Everyone in this world has an angle they intend to profit from.

“My back is so used to the hard ground that an actual bed sounds magical. I’ve spent so long away from the cities, is there any etiquette I should know of?”

We trape towards an outer gate, a simple wooden structure set up in haste to watch the oncoming masses. Several guards stand sentry and watch us with glass devices and floating runes held before them.

“Hoods, hats off. Look to Order above or be removed!” A large chicken shouts with the voice of a man from the ramparts. Its voice rings out like a recorded message on repeat. I pull down my bear hood, hoping to Mother they can’t see the mark of my curse.

A few individuals stop and attempt to fight the river of bodies pushing them forward.

Metallic bear traps shoot out from the watchers and arrest their retreat. One is silenced instantly by a snapped neck, the other cries out in panic.

“Please! It’s only the clap. I promise.” The young woman pleads as she dangles above, her legs kicking out with wild terror.

We pass through the gateway without issue, no one turns to help or witness her end.

“Law, honour and above all, hierarchy.” Says Folkston.

“I see how the law is dished out here. So don’t be an unlucky bugger to avoid that end.”

“Ay, you catch on quick.”

“Not much honour in the wilds though. Hierarchy is naturally obvious, given that the apex predators are usually big or colourful to show their worth.”

The merchant cracks out a throaty laugh and slaps my back. “The bush ain’t so different from our world then. Like gloating peacocks, but instead of feathers, it's shiny metal. Avoid the heroes ruffling themselves up, looking to make a reputation or defend what meagre renown they have. Honour will force them into a duel, pointless way to go.”

“Duelling. Is that legal?”

“Of course, the Yorks encourage it. Helps distract the population from their troubles, like bukke. Also helps the cream float. Why host tournaments of valour that’ll cost thousands of shillings? When egos will happily gut each other in the street.” He rattles off.

Folkston clearly holds much resentment towards the Yorks and how they govern this city. A traveller tends to be more open minded, which gives me hope in the man. Maybe he isn’t looking to swindle me in some way.

We line up as the main city entrance approaches, penned through wooden cues that trigger a nostalgic memory that I can’t quite get my roots into. The pitiful favela now surrounds us, it sounds and smells like a refugee camp, desperate.

People beg for money until patrolling guards scare them back into dismal tents and slanted structures. I see groups dressed in the city's colours making their way through the shanty town. Bothering every house and family with demands from a long scroll then scribing some details down.

Folkston nods at them. “Recruiters, looking to sign up an unloved child for a few pennies. The raid must have its shields.”

The desperate families will be happy to sell a hungry mouth. I’m starting to join Folkston in his political views.

The line moves along and soon we’re through and onto the muddy high streets. Shacks are replaced with wooden buildings with layers of paint that flake away in the hot sun. Most windows are cracked or bordered up with people sleeping in doorways.

A thin smoke meets us as houses are replaced by grotty stalls with mongers hawking their wares. Vagabonds break away from the road, attempting to trade junk for their dinner with desperate pleas. Soon signs swing overhead to display actual shops. Tools, weapons, armour, clothes, booze and flesh are marked with elaborate black symbols and embellished names.

Reminds me of Livingston’s emporium without the sardonic attitude.

“If you are looking to buy something, I’ll come with you. Most of the traders know me and won’t rinse you outta coin. But later, let’s get settled and store away my wares first.” He says as our little convoy continues.

The noise of industry echoes through the towering buildings that lean towards us like ancient trees. They grow taller as we travel, with the upper levels looking refurbished and new. Eventually, we enter a cloud that obscures our sight, putting Folkston on edge. He spots a passerby that he knows and exchanges some quick pleasantries before asking.

“Dill, what’s all this raucous about!” He yells to be heard and waves his hands around.

“York's idea of plague prevention. Costly business too. Instead of sorting a cure, they’re cutting off the rot.” Dill answers.

“How’d you mean?”

As he asks, a shadow is cast over our party. Through the murk, I can see shapes working a few metres overhead. Darkness continues to extend down the street as the noise is muffled and eventually dies off. Lamplighters pass us to bring some illumination into the world that has become a perpetual night.

“They’re paving over Old Town. York’s said we behave like maggots so we won’t miss the sun.” Dill says as a woman screams from down an alley.

“The entire outer district! The cost will bankrupt them. Plus the guard patrols will have to double.”

“No guards, too busy protecting Topside where the real coin flows. I better be off. My lot are too afraid to go out.”

With that, the man covers his belongings with a thick cloak and disappears down the street.

“How can they do this?” I ask.

Folkston grumbles an oath under his breath, then shouts at the convoy. His family and the few other merchants travelling with him share our concern.

“Stick tight and hold onto the wagon. Girls, stay by the men. Quick now, move!” He commands as we trudge on.

We make it to the Slumbering Maiden without a hiccup. Life in the streets waned with the sunlight, everyone fears the dark and what lurks there. I clench the handle of Riptail with a tight grasp. Folkston assumes I'm anxious when really the curse is beginning to flair. If I’m feeling the strain then so will Honey.

The tavern is grand and burning with a thousand candles, its owner a fickle business man knows how frightened patrons will seek out the light. Customers sprawl out front with burning ebonys and flagons of ale.

Folkston leads us to an adjoining stable where we barely manage to fit the wagons, horses and Cane. His sons are left to guard them, even behind the sturdy locked doors. We enter a side door into a rustic English pub, with varnished wood, cluttered decor with no bare walls or shelves in sight. Packed to the brim, the atmosphere is merry and lifts our weary group.

The crowd sings and dances with an infectious festivity, almost like they’re unaware of the city paving project or simply don’t care. As I smile, watching the party unfold before me. I notice how most of them are men in matching colours.

A thick woman suddenly clambers onto a corner table and removes her necklace. A hefty stone pebble hangs from the end with various holes cut through. She begins to swing it over her head, barely missing the various taxidermy silently judging the drunkards below.

A high-pitched whistle reverberates from the stone, stinging my ears and killing the revelry into silence.

She stops swinging the stone and holds her pint in the air. She’s also wearing similar clothes, black leathers and a cape.

Before she can speak, a man yells out. “To the raid!”

He cries out as several people smack him across the head.

“Rut the bloody raid! To a successful hunt! To the Blackroots!” The woman announces.

The tavern erupts in applause.