He dreamt of the Richter’s home. That he stood outside, rattling the door. Voices came from within, conversations, warm laughs and the creaking of a floor he knew. But, no matter how much he slammed his fist against the wood, no one answered.

  He woke up with a gasp, drawing in foul air. Blurry metal bars came into focus as he blinked. A cage, and he was in it.

  It didn’t leave enough room to stand, and the metal was cold to his bare skin, he was naked.

  A thumping pain came from the back of his head, and he groaned. His fingertips reached for his skull, a dry crust of caked hair and blood.

  The gears in his head turned, and a dozen questions fought for his attention.

  They caught me?

  Did the others survive?

  Smugglers, or Gulschaks, the humans from the other side of the mountains?

  Forcing the flame to his skull, he persevered through the pain of his regeneration. A few moments later he exhaled in relief muddled with anxiety, his head became free from pain, but lucid enough to remember.

  “They caught me...” he whispered.

  With a shake of his head, he forced the thoughts away and looked around.

  The cage hung from a chain, floating at chest height above the ground under a wide wooden bucket. The room was only six meters across, with more scattered buckets, crates and goods stacked against the walls.

  The sides were littered with cogs and chains, continuing up to a roof far above. Light filtered through a web of painted glass, a mechanism of gears around a pointer.

  “A clock tower,” he said out loud.

  Other cages dangled above, hoisted up by chains just like his. Wretch could see at least four that were occupied, a large wooden bucket under each.

  “Hello?” Wretch called out.

  The rustle of paper.

  “New one, no talk. No nothing. No nothing,” said a lisping voice.

  Wretch had overlooked a man, seated in an armchair with a newspaper raised, beside him was the only door.

  “Where am I? Are you Gulschaks?”

  The man groaned and lowered his newspaper. His eyes were on different heights, and his nose was large and uncentered over a protruding jaw. He sported a tall top hat and his suit had lost all traces of color.

  The man took a short stick that leaned against the armchair and limped towards him on legs of different lengths.

  “You speak, you get the prod.”

  Wretch barely had time to flinch before the man jammed the stick through the squares of the bars, stabbing him with the blunt end, yet something sharp pierced his skin.

  “Ouch, okay, I get it,” Wretch said, pressing his back towards the cage as it rocked back and forth.

  Another stab, this one towards his curled up legs. He twisted, but had nowhere to go.

  “Don’t… speak.” The man hissed.

  A third stab pierced his skin, and this time he just endured it. Compared to the things he had suffered, it was just a sting. The man turned around and waddled back to his chair, slumping down, he raised the newspaper and disappeared behind it.

  A pair of small piercing wounds on his thigh were visible in the low light.

  Must be two short needles on the end, he thought, dragging his thumb across the drop of blood.

  He looked up at the other cages. Although the figures inside were slumped and unmoving, he could hear their breathing. Four of them, leaving the other cages empty.

  But something was wrong.

  His gut clenched.

  The figures were mutilated, missing limbs, most only had one arm or leg. The other extremities ended in black stumps protruding from thin, emaciated bodies.

  They must have starved, but they weren’t just thin, they looked broken.

  Why?

  To another human being.

  A bubbling heat grew in his chest.

  “What have you done to them?” Wretch growled.

  The man with the prod groaned again.

  “What the hell did you do to them?” He shouted. “Bloody whoreson, disfigured maggot. You did this to another human. You are scum.”

  The disfigured face flushed red.

  “Don’t speak!” the man screamed back at him.

  “And what are you going to do about it, you freak? Come hit me and I’ll gut you.”

  The holes were wide enough for his arms to fit through and he extended a long ashen limb, ending in sharp claws. Wretch gestured the man closer with a joyless smile.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Limping towards him with his stick, the man's face contorted with fury.

  The man held a safe distance and raised the prod, but when his eyes met the claw, his contorted face melted. Fear and hesitation, his emotions as obvious as a child's.

  He lowered the stick and stood there with a glassy gaze.

  “You're scared of a kid in a cage, you pathetic shit,” Wretch growled.

  The man looked thoughtful for a moment before he lit up with glee, limping towards another suspended cage.

  “Come back here!”

  “Leave them.”

  The prod stabbed at the closest occupied cage, an emaciated girl with only a leg and an arm, she gave a muffled whimper.

  Wretch’s claws flexed against the metal bars. Aching to tear into the man, to rip him apart as he knew he could. He swallowed the feeling whole.

  “Stop, I will be quiet, I promise.”

  The man turned to him with a childish grin, prodding the poor soul twice before limping back to his seat.

  The room fell quiet, the only sound, the rhythmic clicking of the clock high above and the odd flip of a page from the newspaper.

  Wretch drew his knees to his chest, fighting back the urge to vomit, only in part because of the stench. It came from the large wooden buckets underneath, everyone except his filled with a murky liquid.

  He was going to escape. There was a lock to the cage, but no key hung from the belt of the disfigured man. He had a card up his sleeve, but the question was how to use it.

  As his thoughts aligned towards a singular purpose, a thread of calm found him.

  He looked at the clock, Astrid had taught him what the numbers and pointers meant, in his past life, he had just listened to the chimes of the bells to get a sense of it. The inverted numbers were tricky to understand.

  Should be half-past five. I probably got knocked out this morning then.

  An image of a silhouette crawling over the eastern wall surfaced in his mind. He shuddered and forced away the projection.

  Footsteps approached the only door and he peeked up, smacking his head on the top of the cage.

  With a click, the door swung open. A person in a white mask frozen in joyous laughter entered, clutching a box wrapped in white cloth and dressed in a black robe with a thin outline of a long blade.

  The Blessed with lightning and a rapier.

  A violent cough rattled from under the joyful mask.

  “Boris, you dimwit.” The man snarled. “You're supposed to empty the bucket’s twice a week.”

  The disfigured man shot to his feet, clutching his hand, and shuffled closer.

  “Sorry mister, Boris is sorry!”

  “I forgot because the smell doesn’t bother me. I will see to it, yes? But don’t tell the professor, yes?”

  “Be more alert Boris, the new material is Blessed, be wary if he tries anything.”

  “Blessed, What is Blessed mister?”

  The masked man sighed.

  “It means he is tricky, and has powers. His cage can handle it, though. Just do your job.”

  “Yes mister, will do, mister,” Boris said.

  The masked man handed over the package and left, closing the door behind him. Wretch heard his coughing as he walked away, the sound spiraling downwards.

  Stairs on the other side.

  Boris opened the package, revealing six bowls of mushy stew and a handful of canisters, each bowl equipped with a handle. The man licked his lips.

  Using a long hook, Boris passed a bowl and canister to each of the occupied cages. Three of them had at least one arm to grab the bowl, but one poor soul had only a leg, taking the bowl by the toes.

  When Boris reached Wretch’s cage, he paused, looking down at the bowl with a blank expression. Then, he poured half of it into his own mouth. A pleased and mischievous smile on his face.

  The half empty bowl was passed to him and he extended his claw and human hand out of the cage to grab it. The holes weren’t big enough for him to fit his head through, but his arms could extend without issue.

  He leaned back, clutching the meal, a mix of oatmeal, boiled vegetables and a few thin strips of meat, cooked down to brown, flavorless paste. If Boris thought Wretch would pass up a warm meal just because his ugly mug had been in it, he was mistaken.

  He gulped it down like soup. It was bad, way worse than the meals Jonna and Jenni cooked, but far from the worst he had eaten.

  His name was Wretch the Rat-Eater after all.

  The canister contained simple water and at the sound of the sloshing liquid, he realized how thirsty he was.

  The hours passed and soon boredom settled in.

  Boris emptied the waste into a hole in the floor, cleaning the buckets with water and collecting the bowls and containers.

  Wretch looked at the other prisoners. They sat hunched with blank stares, their skin was stained gray and their hair matted like rope. The missing limbs were severed close to the torso, leaving a blackened stump. At the sight of them, he flexed his own limbs, a sense of dread coiling around him.

  They were defeated, he’d make sure not to join them.

  He passed the time by looking at his ember through his mind’s eye. In the beginning, he would have to close his eyes to see it, but now he could find the warmth at the back of his mind even with his eyes open.

  Four monstrous figures surrounded it.

  Blavssish, Corpse Child.

  A giant, dead crab with one claw and broken legs. Fused with two long fish bodies and a human arm, the creature had its heads bowed low, as if in reverence. Even in front of his ember, ghastly wounds covered it.

  Milley, Tireless Gatherer.

  A creature made up almost entirely of human hands. The horror had long zigzagging scars, holding its form together, some arms even had multiple elbow joints, making the arms long and inhuman.

  Ivan, Last of Kin

  A corpse made only of paper-thin skin and black bones. He’d stolen them weeks ago and changed every one of them. Turning his own brittle white into the same metallic black.

  Krii′ttch, Ravenous Ratling

  A man-sized, naked rat with sharp teeth, claws and a long tail. It was the being he had stolen the most features from. His sense of smell, hearing and his clawed left hand.

  He moved on to the information available in his mind.

  Wretch, The Rat-Eater

  Ember

  Times Kindled: 4

  Regeneration: Consume flame to restore broken flesh, purging rot and poison. Greater wounds demand greater cost.

  Flesh Stealer: Consume flame to reshape the body and take the form of any blessed you have slain and devoured, the change can be overwritten only by a new by shape. Each change decreases your maximum flame permanently.

  He had put off changing anymore of his features. Every change decreased his flame, but also, it stripped some of his humanity. He wished to be a hunter, not a beast. And even if he killed a Blessed human in the future and changed back to human, it wouldn't be him.

  Maybe I have lost that luxury.