Date: The Night of the 2nd Day of the Month of Blossoms, Year 1107 of the Imperial Calendar.
Location: Blackwater Bridge, The Boundary of the Lower District.
There are lines on a map that generals draw, and then there are lines on the ground that survival draws.
The Blackwater Bridge was one of the latter. It was a squat, ugly structure of rotting wood and slick moss that spanned the narrowest, filthiest choke-point of the city river. On one side lay the paved streets of the Merchant District, where the waste flowed away. On the other side lay the Lower District—the Slums—where the waste flowed to.
Aanya stood at the apex of the bridge.
The wind here didn't howl; it wheezed. It carried a thick, oily scent that coated the back of the throat—a mixture of tannery chemicals, burning peat, open sewage, and unwashed bodies. It was the smell of a city digesting itself.
She took a step. Her foot slipped on a patch of black mold. She grabbed the railing, getting a handful of slime.
"Just... a little further," she whispered.
Her voice was gone. Her throat was raw from the vomiting and the cold air.
She crossed the threshold.
The atmosphere changed instantly. The lanterns here were few and far between, sputtering in cages of rusted iron. The shadows were longer, deeper, and seemed to possess a weight of their own. The buildings leaned over the street like drunks trying to whisper secrets to one another, blocking out the sliver of the moon.
Aanya didn't walk; she lurched. She was a marionette with cut strings. Her vision was tunneling, the edges of her sight turning gray. The loss of blood from her hand and feet, combined with the shock of the last few hours, was shutting her body down.
Veer... where are you?
She didn't know where he lived. She only knew he belonged to the dark. And this was the darkest place she had ever seen.
She stumbled past a doorway where a dog was gnawing on a bone that looked suspiciously human. She passed a heap of rags that might have been a sleeping man or a corpse. No one looked up. In the Slums, curiosity got you killed.
Aanya made it three blocks into the maze of twisting alleys before her legs finally declared mutiny.
She tripped over a loose cobblestone. This time, she didn't catch herself.
She hit the ground hard. The air left her lungs in a sharp whoosh. She rolled, coming to rest against the damp, crumbling brick of a dead-end alleyway.
She tried to push herself up. Her arms trembled and collapsed.
"Get up," she mouthed.
But the mud was soft. The wall was solid. And the sleep—the terrible, heavy sleep of freezing to death—was calling her name.
Aanya curled into a ball. She pulled her knees to her chest, trying to preserve the last spark of heat in her core. She grabbed the hood of the rough burlap sack and pulled it deep over her head.
She had to hide the face.
If the people here saw the monster, they would kill her with stones. If she stayed hidden, maybe she would just pass for a bundle of trash.
She closed her eyes. The pain in her cheek had dulled to a throbbing numbness.
I will just rest for a moment, she told herself. Just for a moment. Then I will find him.
The alley went silent, save for the rhythmic dripping of a drainpipe nearby.
Then, the silence broke.
Splash. Splash. Splash.
Heavy footsteps. Not the frantic running of a victim, but the slow, heavy swagger of predators who knew they owned the night.
Aanya stopped breathing. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter under the hood.
"I'm tellin' you, Silas, the tavern closed early," a rough, slurred voice echoed off the brick walls. "Whatever festival rubbish the King is doing, it's dried up the ale."
"Stop yer whinin', Gorm," a second voice grunted. Deeper. Meaner. "We got a bottle left."
"Not enough," a third voice chimed in. This one was high and wheedling, like a rat. "I need somethin' to warm the blood."
The footsteps stopped.
Aanya lay perfectly still. She prayed to the Goddess of Shadows. Make me invisible. Make me stone.
"Oi," the rat-voice said. "What's that?"
Aanya felt the gaze of three men land on her. It felt physical, like bugs crawling on her skin.
"Looks like a sack of potatoes," Gorm laughed. "Maybe someone dropped their groceries."
"Potatoes don't shiver," the deep voice—Silas—said.
Aanya couldn't stop the trembling. Her body betrayed her. The burlap shook with every rattle of her breath.
She heard the squelch of boots in the mud coming closer.
"Well, well," Silas said. The voice was right above her now. "It ain't potatoes. It's a bird."
He kicked her gently in the ribs with the toe of his boot. Not to hurt, but to check for life.
Aanya let out a small, involuntary gasp.
"Hear that?" Gorm snickered. "That's a girl's voice. A little bird fell out of the nest."
"Is she dead?" Rat-voice asked.
"Not yet," Silas said.
He crouched down. Aanya could smell him—stale beer, old sweat, and violence.
"Hey there, darling," Silas cooned, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. "You lost? It's a bad night to be sleepin' in the mud. You'll catch a cold."
Aanya gripped the hood of the sack from the inside. She held it tight against her chin. Don't see me, she begged. Don't see the monster.
But to these men, she wasn't a monster. Not yet.
To them, she was just a defenseless shape in the dark. A woman alone in the Slums. A plaything sent by fate to liven up a boring, ale-less night.
"She's shy," Gorm laughed, stepping closer to block the exit of the alley.
"Maybe she's pretty," Rat-voice giggled. "Maybe she's a festival gift."
Silas reached out. His hand, heavy and rough, grabbed the shoulder of the burlap sack.
"Don't be rude, love," Silas slurred, his breath hot against the side of her covered head. "Look at us when we're talkin' to you."
Aanya tried to shrink into the wall, but the brick was unforgiving. She was trapped.
Silas leaned in, his grip tightening on her shoulder.
"Well," he whispered, a cruel grin spreading in his voice. "Look what the rain washed in..."
He yanked the burlap.