His was a death for sand and stone and not much else.

I drop the blood smeared knife next to the mangled corpse. The crowd cheers. I used to hate their screams, but that has faded. Now they’re just the background noise of death. It fills the arena, deafens the keen hears, travels up the spiraling motion of the tower. A tower that protrudes into the skyline, its rigid form rising even above the walls that enclose the city. The beams of the midday sun light up the red sprinkles in the sand, making the dried blood look like specks of rust.

My hand extends, fingers morphing into claws. Gently I place three on the temple of the stiff body beneath me. The man’s dead eyes have become murky and unfocused. I run my fingers down his face, close his eyes, pressing just enough to draw blood. Three lines, wounds that will never heal, remain.

Metal chains rattle, almost inaudible between the crowds’ cheers, and the bars lift form the arena entrance. The hallway on the other side is dark, the sounds from outside muted. Behind me, the lifeless body of yet another shifter gets dragged away. Along the walls solitary guards are posted, their helms reflecting the dancing of candles, standing there for no other purpose than tradition. The way leads up a set of stairs, its walls curving slightly. It opens into a wide chambre, the floors covered in finely woven carpets. The darkness gives way to a comfortable dim light, it smells of cedar wood. Drying blood is falling of my hands in chips.

In the middle of the room sit a man and woman, across from each other, their voices filled with the sweetness of concealed hate. The man is in his late forties, small and stocky, amber eyes that dart abound the room like a hawk, restless. The woman is in her early seventies, tall and lanky, her movement just a bit to trained to be elegant.

I step behind the man, head lowered. “Master”, I say.

He glances in my direction: “You did well but next time stretch it a bit. I promised at least 15 minutes of fighting”. His attention shifts to the woman once more: “Your company was much appreciated but I must shift my focus to other matters. I hope we will find an opportunity to continue our conversation soon. Until then please reconsider my offer.”

“Thank you for your time as well, Niilan”. She looks me up and down: “You always surprise me child. I thought this one would kill you for sure. How much?”

“Not for sale”, Niilan sais.

She shrugs: “One day…” And with that she leaves.

Outside the arena the square is filled with life. Children running around, loud, screaming, merchants selling goods to the crowd of humans not able to afford entry or who have gathered to watch the champions enter and exit. Carriages line the road, covered in gold emblems from top to bottom, dazzling in the sun. I open a carriages door, Niilan enters, I follow. From the street, people stare, cheer or curse at me. Niilans grin, frozen onto his face, becomes more and more genuine as the crowd begins to gather. Reveling in the attention. “Back to the mansion”, he says, “and take your time”. I whisper the same in our language, too inaudible for Niilan to catch. The horse, a massive rust colored beast, two markings on its neck, twitches its ears and the carriage begins to move.

The mansion is old. Stone walls and dark wood, as if the evolving city had missed this pocket of land. A place frozen in time. A servant, young and skittish, two round markings on her neck as well, opens the doors. Behind me, long out of my field of vision, the horses form begins to morph and shrink.

The foyer is big. It’s the beginning of an extensive maze of chambers and halls in a city that ran out of space long ago. Dark oak panels cover the walls, detailed carvings all along them. Niilan, head turned, is giving orders. My fingers trace over the reliefs, the wood polished by the hundreds of hands that had ran along the same scenes. I grip a little ledge and push. The door to the servants’ corridors swings open. The inside is different, no polished wood nor golden light. The walls are rough stone, hallway pitch-black. Narrow. A maze only familiar to those already doomed. In one hallway just like all the others, a stairway leads down. Here the walls are carved, fast and without care. At the bottom, behind a door, candles light the space once more. On other days these rooms would be filled with the chatting, laughing, swearing and the banging of training sword against training sword. But now even the whispers go silent as I enter. A woman, older than most of us down here, short spiky hair, follows my every move out of the corner of her eye. She’s bad at concealing her spite.

In the back of the sleeping chambre is a small closet. As I undress and begin to wash off all the blood and sand still stuck to my body the water swaps sluggishly against the edge of the barrel. When I’m finally done, it has turned a pale red. I comb my hair with my hands, untangling the braids, letting each wisp fall thru my fingers. It takes long to open all of them, and I only untangle half before I hear knocking on the door. I hastily put on my training clothes. On the other side stands a man. Young to the age where, was he one of the master’s he’d only now start to be seen as one. He has warm brown skin and an eye that seems to draw you in and make you feel safe and protected. A scar splits where his other eye once must have been, running from his temple down to the collarbone.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Enya”, I say.

“Thank the protector you’re finally back. We have a problem… well you specifically have one. Come”

He turns and starts walking. I follow

“What happened?”

“Niilan bought a new fighter and the boy’s not taking it too well”

I hear steppes as the spiky haired woman as she trains behind us: “Fuck it if he’s taking it well or not. You left out the important part: That kids a wildling! And you better make sure that monster doesn’t get us all killed!”

I make my eyes smile: “Thanks for telling me, Alinta. I will deal with it”. I lean forward and add in a quiet tone: “and you leave the kid in peace”. I can’t see her face as she falls behind, cannot see the strange mixture of terror and anger that has taken hold of it.

The hallway we follow extends longer than it should have, winding on even after the few doors and all have been connected. Bare walls, built by folly, for a dream much bigger than reality. Now it’s filled with screams. One after another, growing louder and louder. They pierce the air, high-pitched notes getting thrown back form the walls again and again until the sound is so distorted you couldn’t have guessed what it was at the start. They’re screams full of pain and fear. I open the door.

The room’s dimly lit. In one corner, almost obscured by shadows, a small form cowers, hands and feet tied together, neck chained to the wall with a silver shackle. On the boy’s upper back are three round wounds, swollen and full of barely dried blood. His eyes dart around the room with no sense behind their movement, pupils that grow then shrink, as if they’re pulsating. Hair, reddish and dirty, has fallen into his face. He screams.

The spine of his slim fragile body begins to twist. His arms shorten, his skin tears apart where feathers begin to sprout, his face becomes long, the eyes round and small, the mouth is a mix between a humans and a bird’s beak. His screams blend with the screech of a crow. Then the sliver shackle begins to shine, a cold white light engulfs the room, pulsates, becomes bright before slowly dimming once more. The screeching had gotten louder before turning back to screaming. When the light fades, all that is left is a boy cowering. He sobs, thrashes forward. The sobs die in his throat as the shackle yanks him back. His form flairs, expands, shrinks, mouse ears and fur can be seen for a split second before the room is drenched in cold light again.

He’s like you, don’t you think? No. The others in the room, two men alongside Enya, have backed away, almost snarling, their eyes filled with fear, darting form the boy to me and back again.

«Enya. Can you please take everyone outside? That boy needs some quiet», I say. It’s been a while since I had to concentrate to not let my uneasiness show. Enya nods. The men’s eyes glair at us one last time, then the door shuts. White light flashes. The boy screams. Gently I kneel before him.

The boy winces and pulls away, back pressed against the wall, eyes staring at me. I extend my hand, mirroring his posture from before and change my finger into claws.

«We’re all just like you»

The boys’ eyes are glued on to my fingertips. With a snap I turn them back.

The white flashes have stopped. The screams too. Now the only thing left is his small frame, pressed against the wall, eyes filled with fury and desperation and no way of letting it out.

“Whats your name?”

“Kara”

«Do the markings still hurt? »

He nods, more out of defiance than anything else.

«I will get some water and alcohol to clean them. And blankets. Please wait»

When I come back, he’s slumped down, a rolled-up ball on the dirty uneven stone floor. I close the door gently. He shoots up, panic in his eyes. I don’t react, just sit next to him, roll out a blanket and drape it over his shoulders. He looks so fragile all of a sudden.

«I need to clean the marks or else they’ll get infected. Is that okay?» I ask it the way I’ve seen the mothers at the market comforting their children. Stop fooling him. He stares at me, for a moment it seems like he’s lulled in, but then he shakes his head franticly, pressing against the wall even stronger.

«No! » His voice is horsed from all the screaming.

«Okay, then try to sleep. I will come back later and bring some food»