Alchemical symbol: Antimony [https://i.imgur.com/7omjkx8.png]

The soft night breeze carried the heady tang of blood, impossible to ignore. High on a broken wall bordering the paved square, Andra stilled herself, became a moon-cast shadow. Dirty white canvas gleamed like snow in the moonlight.

In front of the tent, the tall man with red-brown hair breathed heavily. He muttered to himself, felt his arm. This was the source of the blood-smell. He was injured. Perhaps he had fought the marked one.

Other smells: the sea, charcoal, human filth. The old one in the tent was a strident sickly sourness. The faint sweat scent of the marked one drifted from where he lurked behind a wall, only a few arm-lengths from his pursuer, waiting — for what?

The tall red-haired man examined his injured arm. Though his quarry was so near, he didn’t seem to care — or maybe he didn’t know, unlikely as that seemed. Could he not smell him? Hear his breathing?

Andra shook her head. No wonder she had trouble understanding humans. They were so very strange and stupid.

The red-haired man turned and trudged back the way he’d come, passing below Andra’s perch. He had given up the chase. Good. She didn’t want him or his distracting blood-smell interfering with her hunt.

Still the marked one didn’t move, though this would have been a good time for him to attack his hunter. Instead, his breathing slowed and he too walked away — heading south.

Andra dropped to the ground. She padded past the tent where the old one hid. Countless human smells mingled on the breeze. Old and new, far and near, layer upon layer — but as the blood-smell faded into the distance, she found the one distinct human taste she sought.

The marked one was fast, but she too was fast, and she had his trail. He wasn’t even running. She would not lose him, not now.

Beyond an arched doorway, walls surrounded her, a confusion of narrow passages connecting rooms like stone cages. Somewhere in the maze was her prey, but she didn’t need to follow his path.

Her claws bit into the stonework. She climbed. This, she thought, was the best of the hunt, this moment when the chase was sure, when there was no doubt, no thought, no questions — only hunger, only the prey.

She reached the top of the wall. Further walls hid the prey — he was near though: cinders crunched under his boots. Only a short sprint away, he moved steadily. The breeze brought his scent, the hot animal smell of him, the blood beneath the skin.

Her heart sped. She stalked closer. She flexed her claws, picturing the pounce, the rush of hot blood, the tearing of flesh. A good, quick kill, like the other marked one.

And yet — her excitement had a hollowness. The other marked one had been a good kill. She had eaten and filled her hunger, yet the pleasure slipped away. The aching emptiness remained.

The blood of one man wasn’t enough. There had been many marked ones. Many died when the Chained Serpent fell, but not all, not nearly enough. When all were dead, then the deep anger in her soul would be quiet. Then she would have peace.

Many marked ones must walk the city streets, yet finding them was not easy. She’d gone weeks without seeing any. Now two came along in as many days, but how long before the next?

Thinking these thoughts, she had slowed and he had drawn ahead. The steady scuff of his boots told of a quick stride, unhesitating purpose. He must be going to his den.

She stepped to the lintel of a doorway and stopped, struck by an idea. Wolves ran with wolves. Perhaps she should not kill this marked one. Not immediately.

Alchemical symbol: Zinc [https://i.imgur.com/db6WC9b.png]

Zult glanced behind. In the moonlight, the ruins of the Scar stood quiet, disturbed only by the skitter of unseen rats. The prig wasn’t following. No one was, yet a tight knot gnawed his neck as if someone was watching.

Nothing moved, only the breeze stirring old ashes, only rats and ghosts. The Scar had too many of both; it was no place to linger by night.

He lengthened his stride, tried to ignore the itch between his shoulders. The prig’s smug voice was stuck in his head like brain-fever: Zohan was dead. His brother was dead. Unless the prig lied. Bastard. He should have smashed his pretty face, made him talk. Should have put a knife in him. Should have—

But he hadn’t. And Zohan was dead.

He had to get home. He walked on, shoulders hunched against the cold night air, the smell of smoke and death. Home wasn’t far now. The Scar wasn’t endless; in the south, the Burning had stopped, more or less, at the Wall. Though barely a memory in places, the ancient boundary still had some protective magic — or maybe not, but the Wall felt safer than the Scar. A shanty town had sprung up round the old gate.

The moon’s broad face gleamed between torn clouds, bathing the ruins in pale light. The first shacks appeared. Canvas and timber filled gaps between stone walls. Zult wove along a path, wet mud slopping round his boots.

He stopped at the patchwork door. No light showed, no noise came from within. The canvas door of their neighbour hung slack. The shelter the other side was dark and silent. Deep shadows lurked in every corner.

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

Quiet was good. It was the peaceful quiet of sleep, that was all. No one about who shouldn’t be. No one had followed him, except maybe some ghost trailed in from the Scar. All was safe. As safe as anywhere could be.

He tapped on the door. ‘Belle.’

No answer. He’d told Belle to expect him. She must be asleep.

He knocked a little louder. ‘Belle, wake up.’

Something shifted inside, a shuffle of rising from bed and coming to the door. He waited.

‘Zohan? Is that you?’

He swallowed. ‘It’s Zult, Mama. Open the door.’

He heard muffled fumbling, pictured her bone-thin arms struggling with the weight of the iron bar. A heavy clunk: the bar had dropped to the ground.

The door opened a crack. One tired eye squinted at him.

‘Just me, Mama.’

She hauled on the door. He shoved from outside. The mass of scrap timber and metal scraped over the stone threshold until there was a gap big enough to squeeze through.

Moonlight streamed through the half-open door, lighting two walls of stone and two of canvas, four rumpled sets of blankets, Mama’s chair, the rag rug and the baby’s basket. Zohan’s bed was empty, unused. So was Belle’s.

‘Didn’t mean to wake you. Where’s Belle?’

Mama coughed weakly. ‘Out.’

‘Out? How long?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Hours. I’ve not seen a soul all day.’ She shuffled to the chair and slumped, breathless.

‘Did she take the baby?’

Mama gestured to the basket. ‘He’s sleeping.’

Zult glanced in at the baby. Little eyes blinked back at him, round and curious. ‘She oughtn’t have left him with you here alone.’

‘He’s no bother. Funny little thing. Hardly makes a noise. Not like you boys. Born brawlers, both of you.’ She grimaced. Tucked a blanket over her swollen legs. ‘Zohan’s still not back. Did you find him?’

Zult shut the door. A little moonlight crept over top of it, where it didn’t fit. He replaced the bar and checked it was secure.

According to Zohan’s gang mates, when last seen, he’d been headed to visit a debtor, an old alchemist. So Zult had gone there, to ask — and run into the prig. Dead, the prig had said. Was it true? Two days Zohan hadn’t been home. His gang mates hadn’t seen him, neither had Belle, or so she said. Belle wasn’t too reliable.

Zult rubbed his brow between the eyes. Zohan could have wandered off on his own business, not telling anyone — it wouldn’t be surprising. But as soon as Zult had set eyes on the prig, dread had frozen into certainty.

Zohan was dead.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t find him.’

‘Any work today? Get any food?’

‘No, Mama. Tomorrow I’ll go to the market.’

She rubbed her hands. ‘My joints ache so. It’s the damp. This place gets awful damp. And then I’m alone all day and hungry, no company but the girl, and you know what she’s like.’

‘Mm.’ Zult offered his forefinger to the baby. Skinny as he was, the little fellow had a strong grip.

He had coin in his pocket. Enough to buy food for day or two. And then what? Without Zohan’s pay from the Blazes — and he’d have to feed Belle, too.

‘Your brother’ll be back soon,’ Mama said. ‘He’s a good a boy. He wouldn’t leave us.’

Zult looked down at his brother’s child. A part of him still expected Zohan to bang through the door, laughing and unashamed of scaring them. But he never would. Zohan was dead.

Perhaps he should have killed the prig when he had the chance. But fighting prigs always caused trouble. Win or lose, you got a price on your head and a rope round your neck. So instead of fighting, he’d run.

And then he could have set on him in the Scar, easy, had a knife in his back before he knew it. But he hadn’t, and the chance was gone.

Of course, as a Snake he already had a price on his head. So had Zohan.

Zohan was all muscle, no brain. It would have been like him to pick a fight with a prig. He could be two days dead in an alley. Or perhaps still living, locked in a cell, waiting for the hangman.

He pushed back his sleeve, ran his hand over the coiled snake tattoo and the fine scarring left by the flesh-worker. He’d been proud of those tattoos once. Proud to be a Snake, part of something big, more than just another street gang.

Then came the Burning, the Chained Serpent fallen in ruin, their leaders dead or vanished. Overnight the Snakes had gone from the most powerful gang the city had ever known to men skulking and hiding in fear.

Mobs lynched them. Lone Snakes turned up in alleyways, torn apart. The prig patrols killed them, or sent them to the Crossways. The Crossways, that’s where Zohan might be, hanging from the gallows. One more dead Snake.

Zult gripped the rim of the basket. Zohan was a hothead, a fool who never thought about anyone but himself, but they had been brothers. They’d been family, and he’d died alone, with no one to help him.

The dark hid his face from his mother, and he was glad of it. She’d always loved Zohan more. He was always the spoiled baby boy who could do no wrong.

It was too much. Zohan’s death, Belle’s absence, the baby’s quietness, his mother’s frailty, the mould-spotted canvas walls — it bunched and hit him like a kick to the gut.

Him and Zohan — they’d never had a choice. The best life they could imagine was to join a gang, to be one of those swaggering young men with money to spend, someone people avoided in the street. And that’s what they’d been, and it had been good — for a time.

Then the Snakes ended and with the world in ruins, Zult had looked at himself and thought about the boys he’d grown up with. Most had died in fights or on the gallows, and before long it would be his turn, and what would he leave behind?

The Snakes at least had ambition, a greater purpose. The Blazes were just scavengers who beat down the weak and made them weaker. He’d wanted no part of them, still didn’t, but with Zohan gone, he might have no choice. Being angry wouldn’t bring Zohan back. Anger wouldn’t fix any of this. He had to find work, had to provide for his family, because no one else would.

He stroked the baby’s soft hair. Poor little scrap. Father dead. Mother a scab-head. If he lived to grow up, what chance did he have? At best, he’d be another Zohan, another Zult, another one beating on the weak until someone stronger came along to end him.

What sort of life was that?

A child ought to have more. He ought to have hope, and choices, and a future worth living for.

Zult swallowed. His heart felt hot and full with an emotion beyond anger, a pain too great to bear, and yet he must. For him, I’ll find a way. Whatever it costs, whatever it takes, I’ll do it. I swear, Zohan — by all the Light in heaven.