Elora Van Eck | Kaz Brekker

ELEVEN | REALM OF DEATH

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Content warning: vomit & death

w y l a n

"FELLAS," a baldheaded, nearly toothless man rasped. Cradling against the stonewall belonging to a meager bakery as if it were a woolen cushion, he looked close to pitiful. His scarred head pointed towards the cracked cobblestone street where Wylan stepped past somber beggars and flippant hooligans. "A rich boy in this part of town. That's a first," the man let out a smoked laugh, followed by a heavy cough. The tone reminded of a hero who once saved twenty children out of a burning building, donating his healthy lungs to a noble cause. Though Wylan did not actually believe in the ridiculous thought that had crossed his mind for a naïve flash.

Wylan tried to neglect the dangerously deep voices that caused droplets of sweat to wet his forehead. Shoulders held high, in an attempt to insinuate confidence, he kept strutting down the street. But the croak still lingered in the air, turning his veins into strings of ice with every threatening syllable that caught up to his ears. "One could earn a fortune with silk as that. I would kill for a big bag of Kruge." The latter words laid a disgusting grin on the bald thug's face as he referred to the expensive clothes covering Wylan's skin. The group of thieves fell into malicious laughter as they watched Wylan pass further, the angst radiating off the tips of his locks and fingers.

The curly head gulped hard, struggling to ignore how the threatening words had sent a cold shiver down his spine.

"Don't listen to them," calmed Jesper, his arm bumping lightly against Wylan's. "If they come too close to you, I'll perforate their hollow heads with beautiful shiny metal. Even if it would be a shame to waste my bullets on such idiots." Jesper twirled his pistol between his fingers skillfully, but after a brief demonstration tucked it back securely into his belt.

The laughter of the men a few meters behind the two boys had ceased, and a proud grin ran across Jesper's lips.

Wylan's eyes grew wide as he studied the earnest expression on Jesper's cheeks. If it were not easier to be described as eager. "You don't have to shoot anyone for me," he waved off the friendly gesture, lightly overwhelmed.

"I don't mind it," the sharpshooter shrugged as the two of them continued to walk through the streets of Ketterdam, "But as you wish, dearest Mr. Van Eck," he bowed mid-walk.

Wylan rolled his eyes, annoyed over the constant mocking of the sharpshooter. But he did not fathom using up his energy by throwing an idle comment towards Jesper.

Now and then Jesper's eyes wandered about house numbers and signs, trying to avoid conspicuous movements.

Wylan followed his doings. Slowly, his sight crept from the right to the left. But the scene of a mourning mother holding her famished child brought him to study his feet instead. He still was not aware of where Jesper was leading him. The dark-haired refused to tell. If Wylan knew, he might be able to help, he thought, knowing very well that he most definitely could not. He had already asked twice, but Fahey's answer had not bartered. "It's a surprise," he had grinned.

Every few minutes, Wylan silently pronounced himself crazy for blindly trusting Jesper – a boy who was no more than a stranger that had pointed a gun at the Van Eck, not too long ago. Still, he followed the sharpshooter every step of the way. Thousands of thoughts pelted through the red-heads mind but not even one doubted his well-being wherever Jesper would take him. Instead, he focused on one thought that would not slip his attention. He had ignored it, but the questions kept thrashing through the surface until he gave in.

Jan Van Eck did in no way seem concerned about Wylan, for his name fell nowhere he walked. Of course, he doesn't care about me. In the end, I am not the one to rely on. He does not need such moron as myself to keep his business running. To him, I'm not a son. I'm only a burden. Always have been. He shook his head absentmindedly as the self-destructing words appeared in front of his inner eye.