The next morning, Prosper Brala ran for his life and he did it with an annoying smirk on his sweat smeared face. His shirt clung to the dark skin of his broad chest from the sweat and the drizzle of rain that escaped from the smoke colored clouds that rested above Hemlix. The crack of thunder followed him, nipping at his heels as he narrowly slipped past the sharp turns of the abandoned alleyways of the Marsh Slums.
He knew the veins of the city as if they were his own. The city's heart -- its core -- burned, the smoke rising from the rifts of the Corvan soil and it whispered into the boy's willing ears. A faint hum reverberated through Prosper's bones, stemming from the long gasps of the city's tired lungs. Hemlix was a part of him as much as he was part of it, but he'd be damned if he allowed it to swallow his dead body whole.
The Floaters weren't too far behind. He heard their shouts within the cramped walls of the alley and the tune of their broken whistles eerie as it slithered through the small confines, searching for the boy and the stolen book safely tucked under his arm. The cracked spin was held together by old tape and knots of a purple ribbon, and even that was frayed at the ends.
He could hardly contain his excitement as his eyes yearned for the words that lined its browning pages. He'd heard about it in hushed whispers of the travelers at the docks of Ptolmer and in the stories told by drunkards in Gravedigger's Inn, the words slipping off their wet tongues as he craned his head to listen in. He had a sharp ear and he'd recount the tales in his head at night until his eyes grew heavy and gave way to a deep slumber.
And now it was in his hands, the treasure he had been after all these years. It was his. The Dream Weaver's Guide.
"There he is! That brat," a man called from the mouth of the alley, waving for his companion to follow. There was only two of them. Prosper would be able to outrun them.
He turned right. A stampede of heavy trodden steps were close behind. A quick glance behind showed him the furious, ugly faces of the Floaters. Their lips curled into snarls, teeth hanging down like sharp, piercing daggers.
The alleys narrowed to his shoulders. The puddles of rainwater grew deeper and soaked his socks through the thinning leather of his cracked boots. He pushed back the black fringe that fell into his eyes. He dodged the faint, brittle rays of the sun as it searched for him through the spaces between the clouds. His skin was red and bruised from the harsh edges of the brick that lined the alleys as it closed around him, and soon it would entrap him in its arms and he'd be prisoner to whomever reached him first. The walls or Floaters, he couldn't decide which would be worse.
Unfortunately for him, he came to an end. A wall stood before him, towering and he could almost hear a mocking laugh come from a hole from a missing brick. The men's voices swarmed to him and he shook his head, unable to believe his luck.
"We've got you now, boy," said a voice as rough as gravel.
Prosper kept his eyes locked ahead, placing the book carefully into the bag slung over his torso. His fingers tightened around the book, skin and leather seemingly blending together by more than just by the sheer force of will, before he reluctantly pulled his hand away. His skin burned from the absence of the book.
He slowly turned to face his pursuers and closed his eyes as the stench of Floater breath reached his nose. The man's lips were at his ear, the slime of his saliva dripping onto the fabric of Prosper's shirt. The coolness of a blade pressed at the curve beneath his jaw.
"Give us the book or I'll kill you for it."
Prosper managed a laugh. "You can certainly try."
"I wouldn't joke around if I was you," said the other man, or boy. His voice was much higher and pricked at Prosper's ears. "You better think carefully about your next move."
