❛ IF THEY CANNOT SURVIVE, LET THEM DIE ❜
Children born into the shadows of war are never quite right. It is a truth that Vasily Aleksandrov has always known. He has never known peace, though he longed for it.
The Old Gods did not give privy to thos...
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THE DEAD HAD AN UNFORUNATE habit of finding their way back into the city. They had discovered the body in the early hours, its pockets picked of what little possessions remained and left to bloat and discolour in the opening of the sewage drain. There were no forms of identification, and short of the torn remnants of a Secondary Army emblem, those who came upon the body had fled from the scene, gagging from the wretched scent of putrefaction.
Nikitia had been there when the body was first discovered. Looted by a band of emaciated children, who, for their troubles, left with enough silver to fill their bellies with bread that evening. The only thing they had not taken was the scorched remnant of a pocket watch. Nikitia wagers it had once been a fine show of craftsmanship, or even an heirloom for the poor unfortunate bastard that had been murdered. The watch face was damaged; the numbers faded and coloured burnish yellow from the water that had seeped through.
Nikitia runs the pad of his thumb over the impression of a name that had been carved into the back of the watch. He watched from the sidelines of the gathered crowd as the Mirtovorty men loaded the body onto the wagon used for disposing corpses. As they wheeled it away, grunting from the effort and airing their grievances at having been tasked with something so unpleasant. Nikitia pockets the watch of the man whose name may have been Sri and leaves.
The heat of the summer had reached its peak in Tuaylovka. The air was sweltering and, as he entered the merchant district, the streets filled with peddlers and merchants from Al-Mirtha and Vierzieu; children loitered in the corners and alleyways, their fingers quick to reach into the pockets of those oblivious. It reminds Nikitia of his own childhood, of the hunger that often tangled his belly to knots.
In those days he slept in alcoves and under bridges, scourging for dropped coins during the day. He begged alms from rich women and slid his fingers into the pockets of well-dressed men. Other days he would come to the market and scourge the ground for fruit that had rolled off carts and stands. He had never been finicky, not with food; be it bruised or darkened with spots, he ate it.
He was always hungry.
Though those days were long behind him and he looked no different from the wealthy patrons roaming the streets of the marketplace in search of rare finds and exotic spices, Nikitia's eyes could not help but linger on the jewels that adorned the necks and wrist of the women who pass; his fingers ache to steal them, just as he stole the watch from the corpse.
