SONS OF GODS

Chapter Two: Cienzo

CIENZO

HIS MIND RACED with the same question as he exited the tent: Why would she say that to me? The words echoed in his ears like oscillating panic alarms. I'll miss you, Zo. I'll miss you, Zo. I'll miss you, Zo. Dread rose in his gut in bile-ridden waves. He stumbled on the ground to catch a breath, to still the blotches that frayed the corners of his sight.

"Breathe, boy," a voice called from behind.

Cienzo was to his feet within moments. The Mender who was to perform Isla's therapy stood at the corner of her tent.

"You worry for her." The old man's skin, old and pruned, sagged in folds from the sleeves of his woven Crothian cloak. His slinky earlobes flapped against his hunched shoulders, pulled down by the weight of miniature animal skull earrings. He wore the rags of time over his face and body, but his eyes were ethereal and vivacious; sparkling aquamarine gems hooded by ashen colored brows. Long, snow-colored dreads were held back by a thin band of branches.

"I do," Cienzo agreed.

"May I speak?"

"Hau'."

"Life carries no promise. The therapy is also no promise. This you know?"

Cienzo nodded. "It's worth more than trying nothing at all. She is all I have."

"Understood," the Mender said, gliding over like a wraith to where Cienzo stood, his skull earrings clanking against his skin. He circled him, breathing in his scent as if it told a story. "You smell of fire. You know this?"

Cienzo shuddered with unease. He stepped to the side. "It comes with working at the forge."

"Of course." The Mender turned his back to Cienzo. "You owe payment. No payment, no therapy. No therapy, no life."

Cienzo's pulse spiked immediately. "I'm on my way to the forge now. You will have the remainder of the payment tomorrow before the therapy."

"Good night, fire boy," he said flowingly. It was all that the Mender said as he breezed off behind the tent.

Fire boy. Something about the way the Mender said it made Cienzo uncomfortable. But, nonetheless, the old man was right: he had yet to complete his payment. Cienzo picked up his bag and took off for the forge. It was the place he disliked the most. It was not for the fire and the metal—no, these were the things he absolutely craved. It was the principal of being there. A place he was forced to be at to support his life, his sister. His dapa', Demetrios, was at one time a notoriously respectable blacksmith, his forge the beating heart of their city. Fire and steel were his voice, and with it he could orchestrate magic. But then on one abrupt night, Demetrios fled their home and was killed by Roamers. The shop remained open, but a questionable fire consumed it whole, taking with it everything they owned and Cienzo was forced to take a position under his dapa's nemesis, Astran. Astran had welcomed him into his forge, but with grave pretense, forcing Cienzo to declare his loyalty to him as he knelt on his knees in the mud as the rest of the Forgers watched. It was the epitome of humiliation, a reminder of the unjust in life. But Cienzo promised himself to never forget that moment. And as he announced his false devotion to Astran, he recalled the image of his sister. Luckily, she was too young to understand, nor remember any of it. One day, Cienzo would make him pay, but for now, he would do what he must to ensure she lived.

He lumbered through his city, Kepria, approaching now the stone and steel wall that lined its limits. It had been built centuries ago to ward off attacks, but since the signed execution of the Civil Peace Treaty between the provinces of Eastern Kenslan and Western Crothus, the wall's gate was never closed. Even then, the Lord of Kepria, a leader of pointless pride, reminded trespassers of his power over the city with the heads of criminals impaled on the iron poles just above the guardhouse. The engorged, blackened eyes of one treason offender sent chills down Cienzo's spine.