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The heavy door of the butchery creaked shut behind me, the sound swallowed by the familiar, rhythmic scrape of metal on stone. My face was still burning from Emily's parting kiss and the chaotic emotions swirling within me, but the cool, shadowed interior of the shop, thick with the metallic tang of blood and the earthy scent of sawdust, was a sobering slap of reality. I tried to compose myself, to project an aura of courage I was far from feeling, especially for Emily, who still waited outside.
Peering through the spaced metal rails of the display counter, I saw my father. He stood with his back partially to me, broad shoulders working rhythmically as he sharpened a long, wicked-looking knife against a whetstone. Sparks flew, glinting in the dim light. He wasn't alone. A portly, balding man stood opposite him, gesticulating with flour-dusted hands. Even from this distance, I recognized him: Fiodor, Damascus's father. He wore a clean, pressed shirt and trousers, but a fine layer of flour still clung to the creases, betraying his profession and suggesting he'd changed quickly before coming here. He was clearly agitated, his voice a low rumble.
"…the whole neighbourhood's restless, Marcellus, restless!" Fiodor was saying, his jowls quivering. "They're protesting that new factory north of the district. A sweets factory, can you believe it? Poisoning our children with their artificial sugars and sweeteners, that's what they're doing!"
My father grunted, not pausing in his work. "It's always something with these new ventures."
I hesitated at the entrance, feeling like an intruder. My own problems suddenly seemed insignificant against the backdrop of adult concerns, and I certainly didn't have the courage to interrupt their discussion.
"They want to make hardworking Genovans dependent on their blasted machinery," Father added, the knife hissing against the stone. "And then what? You need a replacement part, and suddenly it's an expensive import, takes weeks to arrive. Remember that butchery machine they forced on me? Council 'incentives,' they called it. 'Cleaner and quicker,' they said." He let out a harsh laugh. "I spend more time trying to repair the damn thing than I do actually working on the animals."
Fiodor chuckled in agreement. "Exactly! It's a racket, the whole thing." He leaned closer. "And speaking of dependencies, I'm trying to find Damascus a good lady, you know? Someone sensible, not like these flighty modern girls…" His voice trailed off as his gaze drifted past my father and landed on me, hovering awkwardly by the door. He stopped mid-sentence. "Ah, well, Marcellus, I should be getting back to the bakery. The dough won't knead itself."
As Fiodor walked past me, he gave me a surprisingly gentle pat on the back, though his eyes held a stern warning. "Listen to your father more, boy," he advised, his voice a conspiratorial murmur. Then, with a nod, he was gone, the bell above the door jingling faintly.
The shop felt suddenly quiet, save for the rhythmic shink-shink-shink of the knife on the whetstone. My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it.
I approached the counter slowly, my gaze inadvertently drawn to my father's hands. Both were heavily bandaged, clean white linen stark against his calloused skin. The sight sent a jolt through me – a vivid flashback to the previous day, the struggle in the ruins, the spirit, the blood. His blood. I wasn't so bold, or foolish, as to bring it up.
He finally set the knife down, the silence now complete, and turned to face me. His expression was unreadable, his eyes shadowed.
"Why didn't you go through the other entrance?" he asked, his voice flat, devoid of its usual gruffness.
I took a deep breath, the scent of iron and old wood filling my lungs. "Father," I began, my own voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my soul. "I… I hurt a classmate. At school today. I hurt Matteo."
Marcellus let go of the newly sharpened knife, which lay gleaming on the worn wooden block. He moved towards the counter, his bandaged hands resting lightly on its scarred surface. "What happened?"
The words tumbled out of me then, a messy, disjointed account of the weeks of bullying, Matteo's threats against me and Emily, the promise of torture. "And… and in anger," I finished, my voice dropping, "I… I ripped his ear." I couldn't bring myself to look at him, expecting an explosion of rage, another beating, something.
Instead, there was silence. When I finally dared to lift my gaze, my father was staring at me, his face a cold, impassive mask. Then, to my utter astonishment, a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. It wasn't a warm sound, more like stones grating together, but it wasn't anger.
"Matteo, eh?" he said, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Son of Councilman Servius?" He snorted. "I don't fear the Town Council, boy." He leaned forward slightly. "You shouldn't worry about them either."
My mind reeled. This was… not the reaction I had braced myself for. No questions about the severity of the injury? No lecture on restraint or the consequences of attacking a councilman's son?
"Your mother is waiting for you upstairs," he said then, his tone dismissing me. "Go on."
I was utterly confused. Even considering my father's inherent boldness, his almost defiant disregard for authority, this was unusually brash. Why wasn't he asking for more details? Why did he seem so… unconcerned? It didn't make any sense. It was as if the fight with Matteo was a triviality, or perhaps, as if something else, something bigger, was occupying his thoughts. Could it be his injuries? The strange events of yesterday?
Still, I wasn't about to question his actions or his leniency, however baffling it was. A sliver of relief, fragile and uncertain, began to pierce through my anxiety.
I nodded mutely. "Yes, Father."
Turning, I exited the main butchery, the bell above the door once again marking my passage. Instead of facing whatever awaited me in our living quarters directly above the shop, I took the auxiliary stairs at the side of the building, my mind a whirlwind of confusion and a dawning, terrifying hope that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't in as much trouble as I had feared. But then again, Mother was waiting. And her reactions were rarely so predictable.
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The auxiliary stairs creaked under my weight, each sound echoing the confusion and unease coiling in my gut. Father's reaction – or lack thereof – to my confession about Matteo had been profoundly unsettling. That dismissive chuckle, the assertion that he didn't fear the Town Council, it felt less like reassurance and more like a sign that the world had tilted further off its axis. He hadn't even asked about his own bandaged hands, the stark white linen a silent testament to the brutal encounter of the previous day. It was all too strange.
I entered the main hallway of our living quarters, the air heavy with the familiar scent of old incense and something else… a faint, cloying sweetness I couldn't quite place. My mother was there, a stark figure before the household altar dedicated to Saturn. She was dressed entirely in black: a severe, high-necked blouse and a long, plain skirt that swept the dusty floorboards. It was an attire I'd rarely seen her wear outside of the most solemn religious observances or funerals. The funereal aspect was amplified by her demeanor; she appeared utterly exhausted, her shoulders slumped, her movements slow as she meticulously arranged offerings. It was almost as if she was grieving. For whom, or what, I couldn't imagine.
Upon noticing my presence, she straightened, the weariness in her posture momentarily giving way to a rigid formality. She turned, her dark eyes fixing on me with an unnerving intensity. Without a word, she glided towards me and grabbed both my hands, her grip surprisingly firm, almost painful.
Her gaze was focused, drilling into me as if trying to excavate secrets from my very soul.
A knot of anxiety tightened in my chest. What did she want? What new torment or bizarre ritual did she have planned? Her silence was often more terrifying than her rages.
"I expected you," she said finally, her voice low and devoid of inflection. "Go. Change your clothes. Quickly."
I obliged without question, retreating to my room to shed the school uniform that still carried the faint, metallic scent of the changing room brawl. I returned clad in simple, dark trousers and a plain shirt, my heart thudding a nervous rhythm against my ribs.
She gestured towards the altar. "Kneel. Pray."
As I knelt on the cold, hard floor beside her, the rough-hewn stone of the Saturn effigy looming over us, my mother began to speak again, her voice a monotone chant.
"Your soul is not lost yet, Kassius," she intoned, her eyes fixed on the grim visage of the god. "Saturn will show his blessing. Four days from now, His divine grace will manifest."
Four days from now. That would be the 17th. Saturnalia. I wasn't sure what she meant, what specific "blessing" she anticipated, but I didn't dare question it. My mind immediately raced to the "curses" – the snake scales, the talon marks, the dog-like canines, the entity Emily spoke of. Could this be what she was referring to? Was this "blessing" meant to counteract them?
My gaze drifted upwards to the imposing statue of Saturn, specifically to the wickedly curved sickle clutched in his stone hand. The god of harvest, I muttered inwardly, a desperate, fragile hope flickering within me. Would Saturn harvest these spirits that clung to me? Would he reap away the darkness that threatened to consume me? It seemed too much to hope for, yet the alternative was too bleak to contemplate.
The rest of the night was spent in a haze of forced piety. Hours crawled by as I knelt beside my mother, echoing her rote prayers, the words feeling hollow and meaningless on my tongue. The incense smoke curled around us, thick and suffocating, making my eyes water. My knees ached, my back screamed in protest, but I dared not shift or show any sign of discomfort. Finally, well past when the city had fallen into silence, she deemed our devotions complete. She prepared a quick, late dinner – a meager portion of lukewarm soup and a hunk of stale bread – which I ate in silence under her watchful gaze. There was no warmth, no comfort, only the chilling continuation of her strange, solemn mood.
Sleep. That was all I craved. Escape.
Back in the sanctuary of my small room, I moved not towards my bed, but towards the rickety wooden drawer where I had hidden the revolver. My fingers closed around its cold, heavy steel. The weight of it was a strange comfort, a tangible reality in a world that felt increasingly surreal.
Could I perhaps use it to shoot the spirits? The thought was a desperate lunge in the dark. Could a physical weapon harm these intangible entities that plagued me? Or was it just another futile gesture?
My hand, seemingly with a will of its own, raised the weapon. The barrel, dark and ominous in the sliver of moonlight filtering through my grimy window, pointed towards my own head. The cold metal kissed my temple. Just a twitch of my finger, and it would all be over. No more pain, no more fear, no more confusion. No more Emily's terrifying prophecies of my future death and unholy pacts.
My whole body began to shake uncontrollably.
Then, a flash of green eyes, Emily's earnest face. Our agreement for tomorrow. She'd asked me to go around with her, to not hole up in my room. A promise.
What if this idea went wrong? If pulling the trigger didn't bring oblivion, but something worse? What if it didn't end the curse, but solidified it, or unleashed something even more terrible? And what if, somehow, my self-destruction hurt her? If this fragile connection we had, this thread of a shared future she spoke of, meant that my end would unravel something for her too? She had said I was her everything. The thought of causing her pain, even inadvertently, was a sudden, sharp anchor against the encroaching darkness.
With a shuddering groan, I lowered the revolver. The urge to end it all was still a potent poison in my veins, but Emily's face, her plea, had given me a reason to hesitate, a reason to endure at least one more day.
Eventually, defeated and exhausted, I gave up. I slid the revolver back into its hiding place beneath a pile of worn clothes, the metal feeling colder than ever against my skin. Then, I crawled into bed, the hard mattress offering little comfort, and surrendered to a fitful, uneasy sleep.
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DATE:14th of December, the 48th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Genova
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I rose from the bed, the phantom ache of yesterday's terrors clinging to me like a shroud. Today was Saturday. The day I was supposed to meet Emily. A strange flutter, half anticipation, half dread, stirred in my stomach. After the night's oppressive prayers and my father's baffling leniency, anything felt possible.
I got changed quickly, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of a clean shirt, my mind still a whirlwind. Before daring to face whatever mood my parents were in, I peered into the small, cracked mirror above my washbasin. A familiar wave of disappointment washed over me. The canines were still there. I sighed. There was no hiding them. But... Hide them?
Only then did I realize that no one commented on them. Not my parents and neither Matteo. It was a really low hanging insult too, the ability to call me an animal. Why didn't anyone ask about them?
Whatever.
Steeling myself, I made my way downstairs. My parents were already seated at the worn wooden table in the kitchen area. Mother, a stark figure still clad entirely in black as she had been the previous evening, moved with a quiet, solemn rigidity. She ladled a portion of steaming lamb stew into a bowl and placed it before me without a word, her face a mask of grim composure.
As I picked up my spoon, my gaze drifted unwillingly to my father's plate. I had to suppress a grimace. He was tucking into an unusual breakfast, his own peculiar, stomach-turning version of a stew: a large, bloody steak, meticulously cut into small, bite-sized pieces, swimming in a soup that looked disturbingly like fresh blood. I knew it was actually beetroot juice; he swore by its health benefits. But the sight of it – the raw-looking meat submerged in that vibrant, crimson liquid – always churned my stomach. Why would he combine them like that? No matter the supposed nutritional value of the individual components, eating them together, presumably just to save time or effort, struck me as utterly barbaric. I quickly averted my eyes, focusing on my own more conventional meal.
I tried to eat, forcing spoonfuls of the lamb stew past the knot of anxiety in my stomach. The silence at the table was thick, broken only by the clatter of our spoons against the earthenware bowls and the robust, almost aggressive sounds of my father chewing.
Finally, after managing to clear most of my plate, I took a breath. "I'm… I'm going for a walk this morning," I announced, my voice emerging a little shakier than I'd intended. I kept my eyes fixed on my bowl, bracing for the inevitable objections.
Mother, predictably, disapproved instantly. "A walk?" she snapped, her voice sharp, cutting through the oppressive silence. "You have studies to attend to. Saturnalia is approaching; you should be reflecting on your sins, not gallivanting about the city."
Before I could even attempt a defense, a response that would likely only earn me more scorn, Father spoke. His voice was a low rumble that, as usual, silenced Mother immediately. "Let him go," Marcellus said, not even bothering to look up from his gruesome breakfast. "Boy wants a walk, let him have a walk. Do what you want, Kassius."
I was stunned. I stared at him, my spoon hovering halfway to my mouth, expecting a catch, a veiled threat, some sardonic remark. Anything but this casual, almost indifferent permission. It was so unlike him, so contrary to the man who usually sought to control every aspect of my meager existence. His perplexing leniency from yesterday, after I confessed to maiming Matteo, seemed to be extending. What had changed? Was it the aftermath of our violent confrontation in the ruins? Or was it something else entirely?
Not daring to question this unexpected reprieve, lest he change his mind, I scrambled to my feet. "Thank you," I mumbled, my gaze flicking uncertainly between my parents. I practically fled the oppressive atmosphere of the kitchen, eager to escape before the moment shattered.
It was only when I was outside, the cool, damp morning air of Genova hitting my face, the heavy wooden door of our dwelling shut firmly behind me, that the full weight of my oversight crashed down. Emily. We had agreed to meet today, to go around together. But in the emotional whirlwind of our parting conversation yesterday – amidst the kisses and confessions and terrifying revelations – we hadn't actually decided where or when we would meet.
A groan of frustration escaped me. How could I have been so stupid? Genova was a sprawling, labyrinthine city, a maze of narrow alleyways and bustling piazzas. Finding her now, without a prearranged location, would be like searching for a single, specific pebble on a vast, rocky shore. My momentary relief at escaping the suffocating confines of my home evaporated instantly, replaced by a new, urgent anxiety. I had a promise to keep.
Or actually, I thought, a flicker of resignation dulling the edge of my panic, I knew what to do. Nothing. There was only one place she knew to find me, one place I always returned to, however reluctantly. So, I crossed the dusty road from the butchery and settled myself down to wait under the sparse, half-shade of a prickly, skeletal tree that offered little comfort but at least wasn't directly in front of my home. I certainly wouldn't step back into that oppressive house until hunger, or perhaps my father's summons, forced me to at lunchtime. The sun climbed, the sounds of the city slowly waking around me, and I waited, a knot of uncertainty tightening in my stomach.
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Eventually, after what felt like an eternity but was probably only an hour, she did arrive. I spotted her from a distance, a splash of unfamiliar color against the drab browns and grays of our street. As she drew closer, I realized she was wearing… a blue, military-like uniform? It was crisp, impeccably tailored, with sharp lines and what looked like polished metal insignia on the collar and shoulders. It was utterly out of place in our dilapidated neighborhood, making her look like she'd stepped out of a propaganda poster for some foreign power. I didn't really understand her choice of clothes, the logic behind such a conspicuous outfit, but I'd long since learned that questioning Emily's decisions often led to answers that only deepened my confusion. So, I didn't question her.
A radiant smile lit her face when she saw me, and she quickened her pace. Without a word, Emily took me by my hand. Her skin felt incredibly soft and smooth, almost creamy, a stark contrast to the calloused, rough hands I was used to in my world. The unexpected warmth of her touch sent a strange tingle up my arm.
"Ready to explore?" she asked, her green eyes sparkling.
I nodded, and we started walking, her hand held firmly in mine.
We ambled through the familiar, depressing streets of my district. Run-down buildings listed precariously, their crumbling facades like decaying teeth in a forgotten skull. Apartment complexes, filled to the brim with too many families crammed into too little space, loomed over narrow alleyways choked with refuse and despair. The air hung heavy with the scents of poverty – stale cooking smells, unwashed bodies, and the ever-present undercurrent of hopelessness. Just looking around, you wouldn't think that this was once Genova the Proud, a cornerstone of the old Ventian Empire, a vital imperial recruitment hub that had sent legions to conquer distant lands. Now, it was a forgotten backwater, slowly rotting from the inside out.
No doubt part of the reason for the general unhappiness is how we compare everything with the past. People like Mister Figaro think they inspire others to reach greatness again, but I don't see it.
As we walked, I noticed the locals eyeing Emily strangely, their gazes lingering on her sharp, unfamiliar uniform. Whispers followed in our wake. Why wouldn't they stare? She looked like a foreign agent, a spy from Normandia, dropped inexplicably into their midst. The uniform practically screamed "outsider" and "authority," two things that always made people in our part of the city deeply uneasy.
It seemed like she also understood, because after a particularly prolonged stare from a group of women by a communal water pump, Emily squeezed my hand and leaned in. "Perhaps this wasn't the best choice of attire," she murmured, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "It's a Ventian Navy uniform from… well, from a time when the Navy was more active. Genova used to be a military wharf so I presumed there was still a naval tradition. I thought it looked smart, but it's in rather bad taste in hindsight, isn't it?"
I felt a flush of embarrassment myself, mostly for the unwanted attention she was drawing, but also a strange sort of sympathy for her social misstep. "It's… noticeable," I managed.
"Let's go back to my apartment," she suggested. "I should change into something less… official."
Her apartment? The idea sent a fresh wave of curiosity and apprehension through me, but I accepted her offer with a nod.
We changed direction, heading towards a part of the city I rarely frequented, closer to the old, crumbling administrative district. And then I saw it. Looming over the dilapidated rooftops, impossibly tall and sleek, was a tower made entirely of shimmering glass and polished metal. It pierced the grimy Genova skyline like a shard from another world, reflecting the pale sunlight in dazzling, fractured patterns.
I stopped, staring. I'd lived in Genova my entire life, and I couldn't remember its presence. Such a structure… it was impossible. It didn't belong.
Emily, noticing my confusion, smiled. "Ah, yes. That's where I'm staying."
"But… I've never seen it before," I stammered.
"That's because I made it myself," she explained, her tone as casual as if she were discussing baking a loaf of bread. "It's not quite finished inside, but the exterior is mostly done. I liked how the residential towers in Concord looked, the ones you frequented. I've always wanted to visit a real one sometime."
She made this? A tower of glass and steel? My mind struggled to comprehend the scale of it, the sheer impossibility. Didn't she say this was "my" dream? And what does she mean by saying to visit a real one? Wouldn't we have gone into these together if we were so close?
I didn't know what she was talking about, not really, but faced with the gleaming edifice before me and the serene confidence in her eyes, all I could do was nod dumbly in what I hoped looked like approving understanding.
My awe at the impossible glass tower was quickly followed by a fresh wave of disorientation as we approached its base. The entrance wasn't a familiar wooden door with a rusty handle, but some sort of sleek, metallic frame holding a large, tinted glass inlay. It looked more like a window than a door, yet there was no obvious way to open it. Emily, however, approached it with an air of complete familiarity. Beside the frame, a small, flat metal panel was embedded in the wall. She pressed her fingertip to it. There was a soft click, a green light blinked on the panel, and with a barely audible hiss, the glass door slid silently sideways into the wall. My jaw practically hit the grimy cobblestones. I had never seen anything like it.
"Come on," she said, already stepping through the opening.
I followed her into a space that felt even more alien than the exterior. It was some kind of reception area, I supposed, though it was unlike any I'd ever encountered. The floor was polished stone that gleamed under soft, indirect lighting emanating from hidden sources in the ceiling. The walls were smooth, seamless panels of a material I didn't recognize, cool to the touch. There were no dusty ledgers, no harried clerks, just a profound, almost sterile silence. In the center of the far wall were two more of those metallic doors, side-by-side.
Emily led me towards one of them. "This is an elevator," she explained, noticing my bewildered expression. "It's a sort of moving room, or a moving floor, used for transportation between levels in tall buildings. Much faster than stairs."
A moving room? The concept was difficult to grasp. As we stood before the metal doors, I had an almost irresistible urge to reach out and touch the cool, smooth surface, to confirm its solidity. But just as my fingers were about to make contact, the doors slid open silently, revealing a small, box-like chamber within. I jumped back, startled, a yelp escaping my lips.
Emily chuckled softly. "It's alright, Kassius. There's nothing dangerous. It just senses when someone is waiting." She gestured for me to enter. "Walk inside."
Hesitantly, I stepped into the small chamber. The interior was lined with the same smooth, metallic panels as the doors. Emily followed, and the doors slid shut behind us, encasing us in the confined space. On one wall was a panel with rows of glowing buttons, each marked with a number. She pressed the topmost button, which glowed brighter for a moment. "I made my apartment on the last floor," she said with a smile. "The view is much better."
Suddenly, without any warning, the floor beneath my feet lurched upwards. I yelped again, losing my balance completely, and would have crashed into the wall if Emily hadn't quickly grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong, steadying me.
"Easy," she said, her voice calm amidst my disorientation. "It's just starting."
The sensation was utterly bizarre. There was a smooth, almost imperceptible hum, and a strange feeling of lightness, as if my stomach were trying to float up into my chest. I felt disoriented by the machinery, by this unnatural ascent. Compounding my unease was a strange, repetitive music that began to emanate from hidden speakers within the elevator. It was a series of bland, lifeless melodies, utterly devoid of passion or emotion, almost like a clockwork toy winding down over and over again. I didn't know it was typical elevator music, a sound designed to be unobtrusive and calming in its own culture, but to my ears, accustomed to the raw, earthy folk tunes or the solemn, powerful hymns of the Church, it was eerie and deeply unsettling. It scared me, making the small, moving box feel even more like a trap.
When the elevator finally glided to a smooth stop – a sensation almost as jarring as its initial movement – and the doors slid open again, I didn't wait. I rushed out onto solid ground, my legs shaky, my head spinning. The floor promptly came up to meet me, and I found myself sprawled on my hands and knees. It was a very fine wooden surface, I noted dimly through my haze of relief, smooth and polished to a high sheen, utterly unlike the rough-hewn floorboards of my own home.
Emily giggled, a bright, clear sound that echoed in the sudden stillness. She exited the elevator with far more grace, stepping lightly onto the polished wood. "Oh, Kassius," she said, amusement dancing in her green eyes as she looked down at my undignified heap. "I didn't think you would forget the sensation of elevators so completely. You used them all the time."
Used them all the time? The thought barely registered. I was too busy being grateful for the solid, unmoving floor beneath me, even if it was in a place that felt like it belonged to another planet entirely.
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Slowly, I pushed myself up, my legs still a little shaky. As my vision cleared, I took in my surroundings. We were in… her apartment? But it wasn't like any room I had ever seen. The elevator doors had opened directly into a vast, open space, stylish and impossibly modern. Sunlight streamed in from what seemed to be an entire wall made of glass.
"Why did the elevator lead directly into your residence?" I asked, still trying to get my bearings. It felt exposed, vulnerable.
She waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, I'm the only tenant in the tower, so I didn't bother putting in many interior walls for this floor. It's all one big space, mostly." She smiled brightly. "You can look around while I decide on a new outfit. This uniform is definitely not right for a casual stroll." With that, she disappeared into an area to my right, demarcated by what looked like a free-standing screen of some translucent material, leaving me alone in the enormous, sun-drenched room.
I rose to my feet, truly absorbing the sheer scale of the place. It was bigger than the entire ground floor of my father's butchery, probably bigger than our entire cramped living quarters combined. The ceiling soared high above my head, and the sense of openness was both exhilarating and intimidating.
My feet, clad in my worn school shoes, felt clumsy on the gleaming wooden floor. I approached the closest piece of furniture – a massive dining table that could have easily seated a dozen people. Its surface was a single, unbroken slab of something dark and lustrous, cool and smooth to the touch. It shone with a deep, subtle polish. It appeared to be some kind of polished stone, yet it was a material I had never encountered, unlike any marble or granite I'd seen in the grander houses or the church. The chairs surrounding it were equally strange; their seats were crafted from the same dark, smooth material as the tabletop, while their slender, elegantly curved legs were made of a gleaming, unblemished metal – stainless steel probably. They looked too delicate to hold a person's weight.
The brilliant light from the outside pulled at my attention, an irresistible lure. I felt drawn towards the wall of glass, which I now understood was a window, but on a scale I couldn't have imagined. Hesitantly, I pressed my hands against its transparent surface. It was cool, solid, yet it felt impossibly thin to be holding back the wind and the sheer drop that must lie beyond.
Looking out, I gasped. I couldn't understand how high I was. Genova lay spread out beneath me like a child's discarded toy town. The familiar, grimy rooftops, the winding, narrow streets, the distant shimmer of the sea – it was all there, but diminished, almost unreal from this god-like perspective. This was the first time I had ever seen my city like this. It was… much smaller than I thought. I could clearly see the edges, the crumbling ruins of the old metropolitan area that had been abandoned since the last great invasion, a scar on the landscape. I wondered if this concentration of life within the older, still-standing walls was why the inner city always felt so congested, so suffocating.
I rubbed a hand against the glass, marveling at its clarity and strength. How did it hold? What magic or unseen engineering kept it from shattering under its own weight, or from the pressure of the wind at this dizzying height?
My gaze swept across the rest of the vast room. Near one corner, nestled by another stretch of the glass wall, was some kind of couch. It was enormous, covered in a soft, pale fabric that looked incredibly inviting. Curious, I walked over and hesitantly sat down.
The sensation was extraordinary. I felt like I was floating. The cushions were incredibly soft, yielding to my weight as if I were sinking into a cloud. They enveloped me, conforming to my body, offering a level of comfort I had never experienced. My mother's hard wooden benches and my own lumpy straw mattress were instruments of torture by comparison.
Leaning back, surrounded by this alien luxury, the silence of the apartment broken only by the faint hum I now realized was the building itself, I felt a profound sense of displacement. This was Emily's world. A world of impossible towers, moving rooms, and unimaginable comfort.
And sitting there, adrift in that sea of softness, a question, sharp and unwelcome, pierced through my awe. What kind of life have I actually led? Back there, in the dirt and grime and casual cruelty of my Genova, in the suffocating shadow of my parents… was I happy? Had I ever been? The answer, stark and undeniable in the pristine silence of Emily's impossible home, was a resounding, desolate no.
And then another thought, sharp and unwelcome, pierced through the haze of awe and disorientation. Saturday. Today was Saturday. I was supposed to be at church. My mind was so filled with the girl's presence this morning that I didn't pay attention to the bells of all the churches we walked past. My mother, with her rigid adherence to ritual and her deep-seated fear of divine retribution, should have dragged me there, beaten or not. Why hadn't she insisted? Why hadn't she even mentioned it this morning?
A strange sense of relief, almost guilty in its intensity, washed over me. I hadn't attended church. I hadn't had to endure Uncle Marcellus's droning sermons, his thinly veiled accusations, his inevitable judgment. Surely, after the events of the previous Sunday, after his terrified reaction to the "snake scales" on my arms, he would have made an example out of me today. I shuddered, imagining the kind of public penance I would have been forced to endure, the humiliating rituals of flagellation or prostration after the main ceremony, all under the watchful, scornful eyes of the congregation.
Had Father taken pity on me? It seemed unlikely. Pity wasn't a word I associated with Marcellus. But if there was one thing he openly despised, one institution he clearly loathed despite his forced attendance, it was the Church. Could he have intervened, somehow prevented Mother from forcing me to go?
But no, that didn't feel right either. That would require a level of concern for my well-being that he rarely, if ever, displayed. Did he then… fear me? After what happened in the ruins? After I told him about what I'd done to Matteo? Had that confession, that display of unexpected violence, somehow shifted the dynamics between us? I couldn't be certain of anything. My father was a complex, brutal man, his motivations often opaque, his actions unpredictable. It was… it was all too confusing.
It was then, as my mind wrestled with these unsettling possibilities, that Emily came back out. She wasn't walking; she was almost skipping, a giddy energy radiating from her. She ran towards the couch, her earlier seriousness replaced by a playful enthusiasm that was startlingly infectious.
"Ta-da!" she announced, striking a pose before me. She proudly presented her new outfit: a vibrant blue and white checkered blouse, neatly tucked into a pair of surprisingly short black shorts. Her green hair, now free of any military severity, cascaded around her shoulders in soft waves. She looked at me with bright, expectant eyes, clearly waiting for praise, for admiration of her taste.
The outfit was… unexpected. It certainly wasn't something any Ventian girl, or woman for that matter, would dare to wear on the streets of Genova. The shorts, especially, would have caused unwanted attention. It was too bold, too foreign, too… . But looking at her hopeful, beaming face, the genuine delight she seemed to take in her appearance, I felt a pang of something akin to embarrassment for her, but also a reluctance to dampen her spirits. Criticizing her now felt cruel.
"It's… chic," I managed, the word feeling awkward and unfamiliar on my tongue. It was the best I could come up with, a neutral term I hoped would convey approval without sounding entirely dishonest.
She seemed to believe me, or perhaps it was simply that she was so pleased with her choice that she would have taken any utterance as praise. Her smile widened, and before I could react, she threw herself onto the couch beside me, the soft cushions sighing under her sudden weight. And then, with a playful laugh, she leaned in and gave me a quick, warm kiss on the lips. It was light, fleeting, tasting faintly of whatever sweet beverage she might have had while changing, but it sent another jolt of surprise and a confusing rush of warmth through me.
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"So," she said, bouncing slightly on the cushions, "ready for that walk? I promise to choose less… conspicuous attire this time." She gestured vaguely towards the room she'd emerged from earlier. "Though, I did quite like that Navy uniform. It had a certain authority."
I could only nod, my mind still struggling to catch up. "Yes. A walk. That sounds… good." The word "chic" I'd used earlier echoed in my head, making me wince internally. She'd probably seen right through my awkward attempt at a compliment.
We descended in the "elevator" – an experience I endured with gritted teeth and a white-knuckled grip on the railing Emily pointed out, trying to ignore the disorienting sensation of movement. Stepping out of her impossible tower and back onto the familiar, cracked cobblestones of Genova felt like re-entering a dream, albeit a grimier, more familiar one.
The city air, thick with the scents of woodsmoke, cooking food, unwashed bodies, and the faint, ever-present tang of the sea and the canals, was a stark contrast to the filtered, almost sterile atmosphere of Emily's apartment. Here, life was raw, unfiltered, and often brutal.
We walked for what felt like another hour, Emily's hand once again finding mine, her fingers intertwining with a casual intimacy that still sent a jolt through me. This time, I didn't pull away. Her touch, surprisingly, felt… grounding. A small point of warmth and connection in a world that increasingly felt like it was trying to tear me apart.
As we neared the central plaza, the air grew thick with a different kind of energy – a restless, agitated hum. A crowd had gathered, a dense mass of bodies pressed together, their faces turned towards a makeshift platform where a man was speaking, or rather, preaching. His voice, amplified by passion and the acoustics of the square, carried clearly over the murmur of the onlookers.
Emily's curiosity was immediately piqued. "What's going on over there?" she asked, her eyes alight with interest.
"Looks like a preacher," I said, a familiar sense of weariness settling over me. These impromptu sermons were common enough in Genova, usually fiery condemnations of sin, dire warnings of impending divine wrath, or, increasingly, thinly veiled political rants. "Can we get closer? I want to hear what he's saying," Emily urged, already tugging gently on my hand.
Reluctantly, I let her lead me as we wove our way through the tightly packed masses. The crowd was a mix of disgruntled artisans, worried-looking shopkeepers, a few rough-looking youths, and a surprising number of older women, their faces etched with hardship and a fierce, almost desperate faith. The smell of unwashed bodies, stale wine, and simmering resentment was potent.
The preacher himself was a striking figure. Tall and unnervingly skinny, he was dressed in stark black church clothes, but notably, they bore no sigilia – no emblem of Saturn, no symbols of any recognized religious order. His face was gaunt, his eyes burned with a feverish intensity, and his long, bony fingers sliced through the air as he spoke, emphasizing his points with dramatic, almost theatrical gestures.
He was already in the middle of a fiery speech, his voice cracking with emotion. "…and they tell you it is progress!" he roared, his voice echoing off the surrounding buildings. "They tell you their machines will bring prosperity! But I ask you, brothers and sisters of Genova, whose prosperity? Not yours! Not the hardworking Ventian who toils with his own hands, who pours his soul into his craft! No! Their machines are devils given flesh, stealing the bread from your mouths, the dignity from your labor!"
A low rumble of agreement went through the crowd.
"They want to enslave us!" the preacher continued, his voice rising to a fever pitch. "The Normandian agents, the collaborators within our own city councils, they work tirelessly, decisively, to lower our standard of living! To drive us into poverty so that we are forced, forced, to become mindless laborers for their infernal contraptions! They seek to minimize our creativity, to crush our ancient skills, to turn us into cogs in their soul-destroying engines, all so they can better control us!"
The crowd seethed, shouts of "Shame!" and "Down with the foreigners!" erupting from various sections. The air crackled with a dangerous energy.
The preacher paused, letting the anger build. Then, he held up a tattered, burnt piece of cloth – what looked like it might have once been a Ventian flag. "Look at this!" he cried, his voice thick with outrage. "This is what they think of our heritage! Inspectors came to my church, my humble place of worship! They crushed the sacred statues of our old gods, the protectors of this land! They stripped me of my title, my right to speak Saturn's truth! And why? Because they want us to convert to their false god, their 'Benevolent Saviour,' a foreign idol from a foreign land!"
He spat on the ground. "They want to erase who we are! To make us forget our traditions, our ancestors, the very blood that flows in our veins!"
His eyes swept over the crowd, blazing with righteous fury. "But we must not forget!" he commanded, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, urgent tone. "We must remain strong, even in poverty! We must resist their poison! I tell you now, I will personally organize militias! We will defend our homes, our workshops! We will destroy these factories that blight our land and enslave our people!"
He drew himself up to his full, lanky height. "I dare any policeman in this crowd, any agent of the puppet council, to arrest me now! For I speak the truth of the people!" He scanned the faces before him, a challenging glint in his eye. Then, he threw his arms wide. "Who will join me? Who will stand for Genova? For Ventia? For our gods?"
The crowd erupted. A roar of cheers, a wave of raised fists, a surge of bodies pressing forward. The mood had shifted from simmering resentment to a volatile, almost violent fervor. I felt a prickle of fear. This was how riots started. This was how blood was spilled in the streets.
Emily, who had been listening with a rapt, almost academic intensity, now looked uneasy. Her fingers tightened around mine. "Kassius," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the din, "I don't like where this is going."
I didn't either. The air was too charged, the anger too palpable. This crowd was a powder keg, and the preacher had just lit the fuse.
"Let's go," I said, pulling her gently but firmly away from the epicenter of the unrest. We squeezed our way back through the agitated masses, earning a few glares and muttered curses, until we finally broke free and ducked into the relative quiet of an empty side alley.
Emily leaned against the cool stone wall, letting out a shaky breath. Her face was pale, her earlier curiosity replaced by a profound sadness. "All that anger," she murmured, more to herself than to me. "All that hate. It's… heartbreaking."
I nodded, understanding her sentiment, but also knowing that this raw, desperate anger was a constant, simmering undercurrent in Genova. It was the inevitable result of poverty, oppression, and a gnawing sense of lost pride. Today, it had simply found a voice, a focal point. And that, I knew, could be a very dangerous thing indeed.
The raw emotion in Emily's voice, the profound sadness in her eyes as she leaned against the alley wall, struck a chord deep within me. The preacher's fiery rhetoric, the crowd's volatile anger – it was a familiar ugliness, a part of Genova I usually tried to ignore. But seeing it reflected in her dismay made it somehow more potent, more shameful.
I reached out, placing my hands gently on her shoulders. "It's… it's alright, Emily," I said, the words feeling hollow even as I spoke them. "Things are bad now, but… they'll get better. Ventians are strong. We'll regain our freedom. Everything will be fine." It was the kind of empty platitude my mother sometimes offered after a particularly harsh beating, a fragile hope thrown against a wall of despair.
Emily shook her head, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down her cheek. She didn't seem to notice it. "No, Kassius," she whispered, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the grimy walls of the alley. "That's not… that's not why I'm sad. Not just because of their anger, or their suffering, though that is terrible." She took a shaky breath. "It's… it's this whole conflict. The invasion, the aftermath, the poverty, the resentment… all of it. It's just… incredibly sad. Such a waste."
She looked at me then, her green eyes, usually so bright with curiosity or playful mischief, now clouded with a deep, almost ancient sorrow. "Do you know how the invasion actually started, Kassius? The real reasons behind it?"
I shifted uncomfortably. The official story, the one taught by Mr. Figaro and proclaimed by the Church, was one of unprovoked Normandian aggression, of Ventian valor betrayed by foreign treachery and overwhelming numbers. It was a simple narrative.. "I… I know what they teach us," I mumbled.
A wry, humorless smile touched her lips. "I've spent… thousands of hours understanding this subject," she said, her voice gaining a quiet intensity. "Reading every book I could find online – from my time, of course – listening to every opinion expressed, every academic article written, every declassified report. It's a complex, tragic mess."
She paused, gathering her thoughts, the historian, the researcher, momentarily eclipsing the enigmatic girl. "The old Ventian government, the one before the Unified Kingdom established the current protectorate, had a very developed spy agency. Highly sophisticated. It used to have branches in all the major capitals on the continent – Normandia, Aquitaine, the Confederacy, everywhere. But because of how large and powerful it became, the officials in Genova, the King and his council, they started losing control over their own agents."
Her eyes took on that distant look again, as if she were seeing events unfold from centuries away. "These agents, armed with advanced weaponry, powered by a mythical material called Ventium – a rare element found only in Ventia's old colonial territories in the Southern Continent – they started pursuing their own personal ambitions. Rogue cells, warlords in the making, operating outside of any real oversight."
She took another breath, the story clearly paining her. "It all came to a head when some deserters from the Normandian branch of the Ventian spy agency, acting on their own initiative, kidnapped a prominent member of the royal family of the newly established Unified Kingdom. Back then, it already encompassed Normandia, Aquitaine, Belgica, and Hispania, and they had recently… conquered, or rather, absorbed, the independent Principality of Concord." Her voice caught slightly on the name "Concord," a flicker of personal pain in her eyes.
"That kidnapping," she continued, her voice dropping, "that reckless act by rogue agents, it was the spark. It exposed the entire clandestine scheme the Ventian Kingdom had been running for decades – trying to destabilize and subtly control its former colonies and rival powers through this network of spies and provocateurs. When the Unified Kingdom discovered the extent of Ventia's covert operations, and that their own royal family had been targeted… well, they retaliated. Swiftly and decisively."
That certainly was different from the official narrative.
"The Unified Kingdom invaded," Emily said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion now, like a chronicler reciting a well-known tragedy. "And they defeated Ventia at every step. Ventia had a larger army, ten times the size of the the expeditionary force, on paper at least. But the the Unified kingdom's technology was more advanced, their soldiers' training was superior, and most importantly, their tactics, their leadership, were far more advanced. They were… efficient. Real, professional soldiers. Not "empowered militias"."
The word hung in the air, cold and brutal. "They ruined the country," she stated simply, the immense suffering contained in those few words almost too much to bear. "But," she added, a note of bewilderment creeping into her voice, "after the war, after they established the protectorate, the Unified Kingdom set aside an immense sum for the rebuilding effort. Billions of Zols in today's currency. To repair the infrastructure, to help the people, to get Ventia back on its feet."
She looked around the grimy alley, at the crumbling buildings beyond, her expression one of profound confusion. "I just… I don't understand where all that money went, Kassius. How, after all that aid was supposedly provided, the citizens of Genova, of Ventia, are still living in such abject poverty, in such squalor. It doesn't add up."
I didn't know how to respond. Her words had painted a picture so vastly different from everything I'd been taught, so much more complex and tragic, that my mind struggled to process it all. The heroes were villains, the villains perhaps not entirely so, and the suffering… the suffering was a constant, a predictable outcome of a game played by powers far beyond the comprehension of ordinary people like me. I felt small, insignificant, a pawn in a history I didn't understand.
Emily seemed to sense my bewilderment, my inability to offer any coherent response. She gave a small, sad sigh and pushed herself off the wall. "It's a lot to take in, I know." She offered me a tentative smile. "Shall we… shall we continue our walk? Perhaps somewhere a little less… charged?"
I nodded dumbly, grateful for the change of subject, though her words, were harsh. It wasn't like I didn't see how forced this all was. The image of the preacher, his face contorted in righteous fury, now seemed less like a champion of the people and more like another symptom of a deep, festering wound, a wound inflicted not just by foreign invaders, but by our own pride and folly.
But at the same time, I don't think that The foreigners are entirely innocent. How could these all powerful forces not react when the lords and thieves scorned the money they offered? It was planned. This conflict can't be reduced to absolutes.
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Our pace was unhurried. Emily seemed content to simply observe, her keen green eyes taking in everything – the crumbling facades of once-grand buildings, the narrow, shadowed alleyways, the bustling, chaotic energy of the smaller market squares we passed through. She asked questions, not about the grand history Mr. Figaro so loved to lecture on, but about the everyday lives of the people we saw. Why did the women cover their hair with such drab scarves? Why were there so many stray dogs, their ribs showing through matted fur? Why did the children play with such rough, makeshift toys in the gutters?
Her questions were simple, almost childlike in their directness, yet they forced me to see my city, my world, through fresh eyes. Things I had taken for granted, accepted as immutable truths, suddenly seemed… questionable. Arbitrary. Unjust.
"It's just how things are," I found myself saying more than once, the inadequacy of the answer hanging heavy in the air between us.
"But why?" she would press gently, not with judgment, but with a genuine curiosity that was impossible to dismiss.
I rarely had an answer.
The sun climbed higher, casting harsh shadows and baking the already dusty streets. My stomach began to rumble, a hollow ache reminding me that I hadn't eaten since my mother's grim breakfast. Emily, with her uncanny ability to sense my moods, or perhaps just my basic biological needs, seemed to notice.
"Hungry?" she asked, tilting her head.
I nodded, a little embarrassed. "A bit."
"Me too," she declared brightly. "Let's go back to my place. I'll make us some lunch."
The thought of returning to that alien tower, of eating food prepared by this enigmatic girl from the future, filled me with a strange mixture of apprehension and an undeniable curiosity. "You cook?" I asked, surprised. She seemed more like someone who would materialize food with a wave of her hand or a press of a button on one of her strange devices.
She laughed. "I can manage a few things. This episode in your past is actually the first time that I cooked, but I practiced a bit since this started... I promise to at least not poison you."
The journey back to her glass tower was quicker this time, or perhaps my senses were simply becoming dulled to the sheer impossibility of it all. The elevator ride was still unsettling, but with Emily chattering beside me about some strange Concordian fruit that apparently tasted like sunshine and despair, it was marginally less terrifying.
Her apartment, when we re-entered, felt slightly less alien, though no less grand. The sunlight still streamed through the vast glass walls, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air – a small, comforting sign that perhaps this place wasn't entirely divorced from reality.
"Right," Emily said, clapping her hands together with an air of brisk efficiency. "Salad it is. I think I have some chicken left from… well, from another time. It should still be good." She headed towards an area of the vast room that I now recognized as a kitchen, though it bore little resemblance to my mother's cramped, smoky domain. This kitchen was all gleaming metal surfaces, smooth, dark countertops, and strange, silent appliances embedded into the walls.
She opened a large, humming cabinet – a refrigerator, but much bigger than the one at home – and pulled out various colorful vegetables I barely recognized, along with a pre-cooked chicken breast.
"Right, the knife," she muttered, rummaging in a drawer. She produced a gleaming chef's knife, its blade looking lethally sharp.
I watched as she began to chop the vegetables on a transparent cutting board. Her enthusiasm, I quickly realized, far outweighed her skill. She held the knife awkwardly, her movements jerky and uncertain. Chunks of cucumber went flying, tomato slices were mangled rather than cut, and she narrowly avoided slicing her own fingers on more than one occasion.
"You, uh, seem a bit unsure with that," I ventured, trying to keep the amusement out of my voice.
She scowled at a particularly stubborn carrot. "It's harder than it looks! In the simulations, it's all perfectly precise. Real-world physics are… messier."
I couldn't help but chuckle. "Here, let me try." My own culinary experience was limited to gutting fish and roughly hacking meat under my father's impatient gaze, but surely I could manage a few vegetables better than this.
Famous last words.
I took the knife, its weight unfamiliar in my hand. My first attempt at slicing a bell pepper resulted in uneven, ragged strips, one of which skittered off the board and onto the pristine floor. My cheeks burned. I remembered my father's disgust, his pronouncements of my incompetence. "Actually," I mumbled, retreating, "I don't think I'm much better."
Emily giggled, a genuine, unrestrained sound that made the vast apartment feel a little warmer. "It seems we're both culinary disasters, Kassius. which surprises me because your adult version was a pretty good cook. You essentially took care of A...." She paused as she said that letter. She had a cold expression
"Of what?" I wasn't sure what she meant by that. A... another person?
"Well, you were a good cook..." She seemed to dislike the subject so I didn't press her further.
Despite our combined lack of skill, we managed to assemble a passable salad, the vibrant colors of the vegetables a welcome sight after the monotonous browns and grays of my mother's "ethical" cuisine. Emily added the chopped chicken, a sprinkle of some fragrant dried herbs, and a drizzle of oil and vinegar.
We ate at the enormous, polished stone table, the silence comfortable now, punctuated only by the soft clinking of our forks against the smooth, unfamiliar plates. The salad, despite its rustic preparation, was delicious. The vegetables were crisp and fresh, the chicken tender, the dressing light and tangy. It was the best meal I'd had in… well, possibly ever.
"This is… really good," I admitted, surprised.
Emily beamed. "See? Not a complete disaster."
As we ate, I found myself observing her more closely. The way the sunlight caught the green strands of her hair, the focused intensity in her eyes when she spoke of her "research," the small, almost imperceptible smile that played on her lips when she thought I wasn't looking. There was an undeniable allure to her, a strange mix of otherworldly knowledge, childlike enthusiasm, and a profound, almost melancholic wisdom. Who was she, really? And why, out of all the people in the world, had she chosen to connect herself to me, a broken, cursed boy from a forgotten corner of a decaying city?
After we finished eating, and after Emily had demonstrated another piece of baffling technology – a "sonic dishwasher" that cleaned the plates with nothing but sound waves – she looked at me, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Fancy a bit more exploring, Kassius? I was reading about the old ruins just outside the city walls. The pre-invasion settlements. They sound fascinating."
The many abandoned neighborhoods were a perfect location for gangs to hide from what remained of the Genova police department. My father did take me there one time because he had to go to an old temple in that area to get a prayer book for my uncle from one of the high priests. It wasn't exactly a place for exploration. But Emily wasn't an average girl so we were probably fine.... right?
"Alright," I said, surprising myself. "But if we see any sign of my danger, we run."
She grinned. "Deal."
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The ruins lay sprawled under the now-afternoon sun, a skeletal reminder of a Genova that had existed long before the Unified Kingdom, before the canals were dug, before the current walls were even conceived. We approached them from a different direction than I had with my father years ago, skirting the edge of a withered olive grove. The air here was quieter, heavy with the scent of dust, dry grass, and the faint, melancholy perfume of decay.
Many of the houses, built from rough-hewn local stone, were indeed half-standing, their roofs caved in, their walls breached by time and neglect. Yet, others seemed remarkably intact, their sturdy structures defying the centuries. Some even looked… functional. I could see remnants of faded paint on a heavy wooden door, a surprisingly intact window frame still holding shards of ancient, bubbled glass, the ghostly outline of a garden path now overgrown with weeds.
Emily moved through the ruins with a quiet reverence, her fingers tracing the worn stones, her eyes scanning the crumbling architecture with an almost academic intensity.
"It's incredible," she murmured, peering into the shadowed interior of what might have once been a prosperous merchant's home. "The craftsmanship is so… solid. So enduring. Why would they abandon all of this? It doesn't make sense. These houses could still be lived in, with a little work."
I shrugged, kicking at a loose stone. "The city grew inwards, I suppose. After the last big siege, the one that broke the old walls, everyone clustered closer to the port, to the new fortifications. These outlying areas became… less desirable. Unsafe."
"But so much space," she mused, looking out over the expanse of forgotten foundations. "So many homes, just… left to rot. While inside the city, people are crammed together like fish in a barrel."
"There are the gated towns now," I offered, remembering snippets of conversations I'd overheard, my father's bitter complaints. "Near the new foreign factories, further inland. They say they're clean, orderly. Secure. Maybe they drew a lot of the communities away from places like this. Offered a different kind of life."
Emily nodded slowly, though her brow remained furrowed. "A different kind of life," she echoed, her voice thoughtful. "But at what cost?"
We explored deeper, venturing into a section where the ruins were more densely packed, forming a labyrinth of narrow, shadowed passages between crumbling walls. The silence here was deeper, more unnerving. The cheerful chirping of unseen insects seemed to cease, and even the gentle breeze that had rustled the dry grasses seemed to die away.
I began to feel uneasy, a prickling sensation on the back of my neck. The hairs on my arms stood on end. It was the same feeling I'd had just before Matteo and his gang had cornered me, the same feeling I often had when my father's mood turned particularly dark. Danger.
"Emily," I whispered, "I think we should go."
She looked at me, her own expression growing serious. "You feel it too?"
I nodded, scanning our surroundings. The shadows seemed deeper here, the silence more menacing. "I think… I think we're being watched."
Just as the words left my lips, I heard it – a soft scraping sound from behind a nearby collapsed wall. The snap of a twig. The unmistakable murmur of low voices.
"Thieves," I hissed, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Or worse. Deserters, maybe. The ruins are full of them." These forgotten places were notorious havens for outcasts and criminals, preying on anyone foolish enough to venture too close.
Emily didn't hesitate. "This way," she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards a narrow gap between two leaning stone structures. We squeezed through, the rough stone scraping against my clothes, and found ourselves in what looked like a slightly wider, though still overgrown, pathway.
"We need to get to higher ground," I said, my mind racing. "Somewhere we can see them, but they can't easily reach us." I vaguely remembered a cliff face, not too far from here, that overlooked this part of the ruins and offered a commanding view of the city beyond. It was a bit of a climb, but it was our best chance.
We ran, stumbling over loose stones and tangled roots, the sounds of pursuit growing closer behind us. I could hear their harsh laughter now, the thud of their footsteps. They were toying with us, enjoying the chase.
Just as we reached the base of a steep, rocky incline that led up towards the cliff I had in mind, Emily cried out, her hand flying to her ankle. "My foot! Oh, Kassius, I think I've sprained it!" She sank to the ground, her face contorted in pain.
Panic flared through me. We couldn't stop here. They were too close.
"Can you walk?" I urged, trying to help her up.
She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. "I… I don't think so. It hurts too much."
There was no time to debate, no time to think. With a surge of adrenaline born of desperation, I scooped her into my arms. She was surprisingly light, yet carrying her up the treacherous, uneven slope was an agony. My muscles screamed in protest, my lungs burned, sweat poured down my face, stinging my eyes. The "dog" canines I possessed seemed to offer no supernatural strength now, only the dull ache of overexertion. I had to actively mind my breathing to not puncture my tongue in them. Each step was a battle, the loose scree threatening to send us tumbling back down into the hands of our pursuers. I could hear them closing in, their jeers and taunts echoing up the hillside.
I gritted my teeth, focusing on nothing but the next step, the next handhold. Emily clung to me, her face buried in my shoulder, her small body trembling. I didn't know where the strength came from, but somehow, I kept going, driven by a primal need to protect her, to get her to safety.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of torturous ascent, we reached the clifftop. It was a small, relatively flat expanse, dominated by a single, fallen tree, its bleached branches reaching towards the sky like skeletal fingers. We were exposed here, but we also had a clear view of the approaches. And, more importantly, the climb was steep enough that our pursuers would be slowed, giving us time to react, or perhaps, for them to decide the effort wasn't worth it.
I gently set Emily down, her back resting against the smooth, weathered trunk of the fallen tree. My own legs were shaking so violently I could barely stand. I collapsed beside her, gasping for breath, my heart feeling like it was about to explode from my chest.
Below us, we could see the figures of the thieves – three of them, rough-looking men armed with cudgels and knives – hesitating at the base of the cliff. They looked up, saw us, and after a brief, animated discussion, they seemed to decide against the difficult climb. With a few parting curses that drifted up to us on the breeze, they turned and melted back into the ruins.
Relief, so potent it was almost sickening, washed over me. We were safe. For now.
We sat there in silence for a long time, the only sounds the rasp of our own breathing and the gentle sigh of the wind as it swept across the clifftop. The sun was beginning to dip towards the western horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange, red, and purple. Genova, spread out below us, was slowly being enveloped in shadow, its myriad lights beginning to twinkle like fallen stars. From this height, the city looked almost beautiful, its grime and decay softened by distance and the golden light of sunset.
We watched the transformation for another half hour, the shared danger and the breathtaking beauty of the scene forging a silent bond between us. The earlier tension, the fear, slowly drained away, replaced by a quiet sense of peace.
Emily stirred beside me, her small hand tentatively seeking mine. I took it, her fingers cool against my own calloused palm. We sat like that, hand in hand, watching the last vestiges of daylight fade from the sky.
Then, she turned to me, her green eyes luminous in the gathering dusk. The silence stretched, filled with unspoken emotions. Slowly, she leaned in, and this time, there was no playful mischief, no surprising suddenness. It was a deliberate, tender movement. Her lips met mine, soft and warm, a gentle exploration that spoke of a depth of feeling that both thrilled and terrified me. It was a kiss that tasted of shared fear, of unexpected rescue, of the fragile beauty of a sunset viewed from a precipice. It felt… right. More right than anything had felt in a very long time.
When she finally pulled away, the sky was a deep indigo, pricked with the first stars of evening.
"You should probably return home, Kassius," she whispered, her voice a little breathless. She rose from the fallen tree with a surprising agility, standing easily, putting her full weight on the foot that had supposedly been sprained.
I blinked, the pieces clicking into place with a sudden, startling clarity. "You… you didn't actually sprain your leg, did you?" I asked, a slow smile spreading across my face despite myself.
She had the grace to look embarrassed, her cheeks flushing a delightful shade of pink in the twilight. "Well," she mumbled, scuffing the toe of her boot against the rocky ground, "getting carried up a cliff by a brave hero… it was a scenario I might have… fantasized about once or twice." She looked up at me, her expression a charming mix of apology and sheepishness. "I'm sorry for making you worry, and for making you carry me all that way. It was a silly thing to do."
I should have been angry, or at least annoyed. She had tricked me, put us both through a considerable ordeal for a childish fantasy. But looking at her standing there, so earnest in her apology, so undeniably… Emily… all I could feel was a strange, fond amusement. And perhaps, a little flattered.
"It's alright," I said, and to my surprise, I meant it. "The view was worth it."
Her smile returned, radiant and relieved. "It really was, wasn't it?"
The descent from the cliff was far less dramatic, though my legs still protested. We took a longer, safer route back towards the inner city. The earlier fear had completely dissipated, replaced by a comfortable camaraderie.
As we reached the familiar, shadowed street where the butchery stood, a sense of melancholy began to settle over me. The day was ending. This strange, wonderful, terrifying interlude with Emily was drawing to a close, and the grim reality of my life was waiting just beyond my father's door.
We stopped a little way from the entrance. The shop was dark, but a faint light glowed from the windows of our living quarters above.
"Thank you, Kassius," Emily said softly. "For today. For… everything."
"Thank you," I replied, my voice a little rough. "For showing me… well, for showing me there's more."
An awkward silence fell. I knew I should go in. My parents would be wondering. But I found myself reluctant to break the connection, to step back into the shadows.
Then, on an impulse that surprised even myself, driven by a feeling I couldn't quite name but knew was real and strong, I leaned in. This time, I initiated the kiss. It was hesitant at first, a mere brushing of lips, then deepened as she responded, her hands coming up to rest lightly on my shoulders. It was a kiss of gratitude, of nascent affection, of a promise of something more, something hopeful, something that transcended the grime and brutality of my everyday existence.
When I finally pulled away, my heart was pounding, my face flushed. "I… I should go," I stammered.
Emily nodded, her eyes shining. "Tomorrow?" she whispered.
"Tomorrow," I confirmed, a genuine smile finally reaching my own eyes.
With one last look at her, a look that tried to imprint her image on my memory, I turned and stepped towards the auxiliary stairs that led up to our living quarters, the phantom taste of her lips still warm on mine, a fragile beacon against the encroaching night.
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The lingering warmth of Emily's kiss, the echo of her laughter, the fragile sense of hope she'd ignited – it all felt like a distant, fading dream as I stepped through the auxiliary door and into the oppressive gloom of our living quarters. The day, for all its anxieties and revelations, had ended on a note so unexpectedly sweet that the return to this house felt like a plunge into icy water.
When I entered, the first thing I noted was the profound darkness. No lamps were lit in the main hallway, nor did any light spill from the kitchen or my parents' usually occupied spaces. A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the faint, rhythmic creak of the old house settling around me. My parents… they must have been unconscious, or at least deeply asleep. It was the first time that I return this late and this level of stillness was unusual, almost unnerving.
A flicker of unease prompted me to lock the door behind me, the heavy bolt sliding home with a decisive, metallic thud. Then, I turned towards the stairs. Each step groaned under my weight, the creaking sounds magnified in the silence, making me anxious. But I pushed on, the experiences of the day – carrying Emily, facing down my own fears, the memory of her unwavering belief in me – emboldening me, lending a sliver of courage to my weary frame.
Reaching the upper landing, I stepped into the central hallway, the small, sacred space that served as a hub for all the rooms. It was here, before the imposing household altar to Saturn, that my mother usually conducted her somber rituals. Tonight, though, the usual array of incence was absent. Instead, a single, flickering candle had been placed at the very foot of the Saturn statue. Its low, unsteady light cast long, dancing shadows that writhed across the walls, making the god appear to be standing guard over the very gates of hell.
The statue itself was an old, foreboding carving. In his left hand, Saturn clutched his emblematic sickle, its stone edge glinting menacingly in the candlelight. In his right, he held an hourglass, the sands of time perpetually frozen. I had always detested this particular representation of the god. Most statues of Saturn I'd seen, like the grand ones in the city's main church, depicted him with a scornful, judgmental expression – stern, but somehow understandable in his divine authority. After all, he was the all-knowing father. This one, however, was different. This Saturn wore a smile. It wasn't a kind or benevolent smile. It was the cold, knowing smirk of a superior being mocking his subjects, a silent derision that always made my skin crawl.
My negative connection with this specific idol was deeply ingrained. So many times, after my mother's beatings, I'd been forced to kneel here, tears streaming down my face, and that mocking smile would be the last thing I saw before being dismissed. It was a symbol of my pain, my helplessness, my mother's fury.
But tonight… something felt different. The day with Emily, her acceptance, her belief in a future where I wasn't just a victim – it had shifted something within me. For once, as I looked at that leering stone face, I didn't feel the usual crushing weight of despair. Perhaps, just perhaps, I wasn't actually cursed. Perhaps there was a path beyond this endless cycle of suffering.
A strange impulse took me. I approached the altar, the single candle casting my own elongated shadow onto the wall beside the god's. And for the first time in my life, I smiled back at the statue of Saturn. A small, hesitant, yet undeniably genuine smile. I brought my hands together, closed my eyes, and began a short, silent prayer. Not a prayer of supplication or fear, but something quieter, a nascent hope for… something better.
As I was about to whisper "Amen," I heard it – weak creaking from the floorboards near the top of the stairs. Not the settling groans of an old house, but the distinct sound of footsteps. It must have been one of my parents, roused from their slumber. A sliver of my earlier anxiety returned.
Just as I was about to finish my prayer and turn, I felt it. A familiar presence. Too familiar. Hands, strong and unyielding, clamped onto my head from behind. Before I could even register the shock, before I could cry out, my world exploded in a starburst of pain.
My head was slammed, with ferocious intensity, against the hard stone structure of the altar. Once. Twice. A third time, even harder, the impact resonating through my skull, cracking it open, sending waves of agony and disorientation crashing through me. The world tilted, spun, then dissolved into a grey, swimming haze.
Then, I was airborne for a fleeting second before being thrown contemptuously to the floor. I landed in a crumpled heap, the rough wooden planks scraping against my cheek.
Dizzily, tiredly, I raised my eyes. Through the blurring pain, a figure resolved itself. My father. He stood over me, a long, gleaming butcher's knife held loosely in his other hand, its polished blade catching the flickering candlelight. But it was his face that chilled me to the bone. He wore the face of a hunter, a predator observing its downed prey. His eyes… they were empty, devoid of any emotion, any flicker of paternal recognition. Just cold, calculating emptiness.
This was his revenge for our battle. Or was it something else? My proud father would never feel fine with an ambush. I could see it in his figure. he was prepared to strike. He was cautious. He looked at me as if I was going to spring back on my feet.
But... I didn't.
A warm, sticky wetness began to spread across my scalp, down my forehead. Blood. My blood. It felt cold as it trickled into my eye, obscuring my vision further. My limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. Consciousness began to fray, the edges of the world receding into a vast, echoing darkness. No spirit clung to me. There was no rage to be had. I felt tired.
And then, as I drifted away, I heard his voice, distant and distorted, as if he were speaking from a kilometer away, a final, damning pronouncement.
"Pitiful. To think that even the demon prayed before this false idol."
The world dissolved. I went still.
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