Kindred: The Man With No Name

Shane

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My first thought, as Erik and I weave through the square, is that we have walked into an alternate reality. The Silver city is devoid of character, color and any semblance of life. The path we take is impeccably clean, so much so that it is unnatural. There isn't a speck of dust to be found anywhere.

It is bitterly cold. Even our gear is not impervious to it. The wind chills my fingers into a clumsy numbness, licking my face as it creeps under my gear. The buildings we come across are criminally grey and uninspiring- twisting monoliths of glass and steel that reach out and kiss the orange sky.

The people we pass move about mechanically. Almost all of them are draped in long dark coats to keep away the biting cold. One or two of them nod to Erik at the sight of him but continue without as much as a glance in my direction.

I have come to grow awfully fond of their indifference. My mother's name counted for little in the order. Here, respect had to be earned.

Even without his light, Erik is still a first commander.

He held a station. I am a mere foot soldier, an inconsequential cog in the machine- holding no place of value in the order.

To be fair, this could mostly be accredited to my unrivaled determination be to carry out any task I am assigned half-heartedly. I joined the order to get Lord Oblak off my ass, and as long as I toed the lines he had lovingly drawn for me, he could not care less about my progression.

It does not take us long to get to the heart of the city, and soon enough, the guild comes into view, shimmering in the half-light that the blood red sunset wrought. It is a series of shapes- four large columns that enclose an equally towering dome. Like the rest of the city, it is muted, coated in a soulless silver pallet that cast a distinct air of gloom which has wafted about its vicinity for nearly half a century now.

Erik takes the wide marble path that leads directly up to the dome, and I trail behind in the wake of his shadow. There are guards stationed every fifty yards, armed, yet unwaveringly still, even as the wind provoked them. The gold in their armor distinguishes them from us. They are from the Golden city, which could only mean one thing.

Erik notices too, and the little cheer on his expressionless face fades away entirely. Jeremy had that effect on anyone who did not have their head wedged up his cunt. He is a grade one shit stick, and worse still, one with the considerable backing of Lord Oblak and the council. He is the crown prince, heir apparent to my brother. It is about the only reason I have not tried to kill him yet.

Each face we pass is sullen, as impassive as the next. I have always wondered whether they were trained this way, or if the bitterness was something that crept up on them after they realized that they would have to take orders from the crown prince.

There are two more guards stationed at the arched entrance. I recognize them almost instantly. They see me before I can sneak up on them, and for the first time in this wretched city, I am met with a look of enthusiasm.

Bass is short, bright-eyed, with a sharp jawline that could cut through concrete. His long dark hair was tied back, as was the custom with most of the men from the harbor. Grant is much taller, solemn-faced, with short hair that shrouds his face like the top of a cloak. Years of service in the order have robbed him of his once youthful appearance and left him with significantly patchier skin, and a large scar that ran through his right eye, casting it milky.

He is my best friend, or more accurately, my only friend.

I have come to accept a hard truth in my old age. Every person needs an anchor, a secure attachment of love - for, without one, we are likely to find ourselves lost in this new world, drifting down with no hope to latch on to- in such pain that shutting down is the only way to keep out the darkness. But Grant was not that person for me. He was a whirlwind of chaos that pushed me right into the abyss, and I loved him all the more for it.