Sol stands over the four men he has just brutalised. He wipes his shoes on the back of the man he has just put down before turning to Seraphiel, who seems to have temporarily left this earthly plane as his consciousness roams elsewhere.

  Sol walks up to him, looking at the deep incision along his rib. The cut was not clean, but in comparison to the others, it was a blessing.

  He puts out his hand to grab him and

  return to the house, but Seraphiel swats it away and runs toward the exit of the alley, hyperventilating and tearing up.

  Sol observes not moving an inch.

  Seraphiel makes it to a crowded market. People look at this strange boy—clearly a foreigner, missing an eye, pale-skinned. A Cairnreach chosen? Here? Ridiculous. His adrenaline rush has ceased, and his wounded rib now hurts tremendously. He wheezes, walking with a limp as his clothes become stained with pomegranate-red blood.

  This place was like a favela. It had makeshift tents for buildings, and those that did exist were rusted and mostly abandoned. A stark low for a royal.

  Wounded. Alone. Afraid.

  “Oi, kid,” a man calls out. He whispers something to others in a foreign tongue. “Where you from, kid?”

  “I am—I’m, from—” Each word strikes at him and sears him with pain.

  Someone else throws a can at his head. “Get outta here, you vile blooded pig.” The others laugh in unison.

  Such cruelty—for what? Because of the colour of his skin? His facial features? His naturally gaunt appearance? Was the wound dripping through his hand onto the floor not enough to invoke sympathy? Was the fact that he was still a child not enough? Was the missing eye not enough to invoke human decency?

  He had run out of tears to cry, so Sol shed them for him, watching from the rooftops. Interfering not. Was he crying as one does watching a child face injustice? Or as an audience to the beauty in tragedy—the emboldening of a soft soul?

  He needn’t have watched—he had already foreseen what the chosen heir would face that day—but he remained all the same.

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  Seraphiel staggers into an alleyway lined with makeshift shelters, reeking of piss and spilled liquor. Seriol was a beautiful land; this place felt as though it had been pushed beneath a carpet and forgotten. His lips are dry and cracked. His wheezing worsens, and a shiver runs through him. Seriol is always hot, even at night, yet his blood runs cold.

  Quivering, he crawls beneath a tent. The wound in his side is deep, the bleeding unrelenting, and the filth around him makes it unbearable to endure. He collapses onto a dirty pile of clothes.

  A sharp sting—he recoils. A thorn. A flower had been hidden among the rags. He plucks it free and tosses it aside.

  Then he sees what lies beneath the clothes.

  Bandages.

  And strong spirits.

  Brand-new. Clean. Unopened. As if they did not belong to this place.

  He grits his teeth and moans, knowing what he has to do. He pulls off his shirt, lies back, and pours the spirits onto his wound. He cries out in staggered breaths, screaming in agony.

  The sharp spice of the spirits drowns out the stink of the tent and the copper of his blood.

  He begins wrapping his side tightly. His hands are shaking, and that side of his body is a blind spot, so he layers the bandages in multiple creased wraps. He does not feel safe sleeping in such a place, and he is still thirsty. He considers drinking the spirits, but decides against it—young, injured, and drunk in an unknown favela sounds like the worst possible outcome.

  He puts his shirt back on and leaves the tent.

  He wanders the streets, making an effort to hide from people. His throat spasms from thirst, and his head pounds.

  Walking along a side road where no carriages pass, he steps on a thorn—again, another flower. He picks it up and throws it aggressively, though it does not go far; its weight makes it difficult to throw effectively. His foot falls into a hole. The flower had been plugging it—a water bottle oddly wedged into the gravel, a perfect bottle-sized hole in the ground. It is awfully strange.

  He does not bat an eye. He drinks it all within seconds, taking in deep breaths of air, reinvigorated—somewhat.

  He remembers he had left his blade at the scene of the murders. That was his only defence, so he turns back.

  Now at the scene, he finds the red alleyway—formerly dirty and grey—and his sword lying exactly where he left it. He avoids looking at the bodies, then forces himself to look, tired of his weakness. If anyone is to find strength in him, it will be himself.

  He decides to stay nearby for the night, his sword beneath him.

  He lays at the edge of a canal, stacking piles of old newspapers and dirty clothes over himself. He dips his head into the filthy water to blend in with the others nearby, covering his face with a shirt to avoid standing out.

  He curls into a ball and loses his grip on consciousness.

  Somewhere above the sleeping city, an eye with nothing left to see finally closes.