Broken Bonds [ON HOLD]

Chapter One | Emory Pain

**A/N: Story is still a draft and will contain errors. Subject to change.**

Updated: 1/16/2017

    THE SUN WAS  bright, but the road was dark, covered in blood, bribery and litter. Emory hated the litter. Scattered on the ground were boxes, various wooden planks, broken house shingles and crumpled papers with various notes on them regarding rent payments, overdue taxes and death threats. The road to the gang hideout was repugnant with gore, dirt and water mixing as it slithered its way through the small cracks in the mossed-covered cobblestone. With each step, Emory feared his new shoes would be stained and that would be a serious blot, he figured, when returning to the Head Magi.

    Where is this wretched place? Emory asked himself. There was a swishing in his russet coat's front pocket. It was the sprite, rustling around, trying to get the boy's attention. He refused. If Nelly was seen, by kings, who knows what would happen to the poor creature around these parts. Her wings must be worth something and a single lock of her ocean hair would buy any poor man a meal. If an educated thief stole her, he would know about the magic within her, within all sprites. What Emory didn't know was how to get the magic out, but time may serve the messenger well.

    Is it left? No, it must be right. No, no, that can't be. Was it here I was supposed to go straight? Emory tried his best to recall the map him and the sprite looked at earlier. He bit his lip and kept going straight, hoping to find that triangular building. Rumor had it that if you went down Saint Mills road—the one that was at the end of Center street—then you would find law breaking folk.

    Dammit, which end of Center street?

    Yario, the capital of the Naviam Empire, was a big city in its own right. The closer to the center of the city you got, the richer it got—with better roads, of course—and Center street cuts right through the entire capital. From there, other streets would branch off like twigs on an oak. The outskirts of Yario were full of ragged men and women. Emory was surprised to find so many outside with how hot it was and with all the buildings cramped together. The messenger weaved through the crowds like a master seamstress. There were no horses, just people all dressed in tablecloth rags and had ill-tempered manners. There was a smell in the air—one that smelt like horse shit, which was impossible since no one around here could afford a horse; Emory thought it'd be best to not find out what it could be. He pushed his way through the zombie walking crowd and stood on the sidewalk, watching the throng of people go somewhere, anywhere, looking for something, anything. One woman, sitting on a step in front of a broken home, had a gaze that never left Emory, making the messenger feel quite uncomfortable.

    Her eyes were a cruel green swimming in vessels of red. She wore an awful marsh brown, baglike shirt to cover her body and had hair greaser than a dough ball Emory ate earlier this morning. The woman did not smile nor frown. She had a blank look, a hopeless one. Emory's eyes darted around and he gave a half-assed smile to the woman, hoping she would turn away. She didn't. He itched the back of his neck and continued to walk in the opposite direction, not caring in the slightest if it was the wrong way.

    In all Hells, why is she still staring at me? Is my coat not dirty enough? Do you want me to roll in the mud and smell like a bathless flake? Curse it all, Master May, why did you send me here? It better be worth it.

    With the sun still set high, he was on his way. Of course the sun was still set high, it never set this time of year! It did not snow this time of year, either. Naviam got the occasional rain, but monsoon season was months away. Good thing, too, as Emory hated the rain. Well, the messenger kept going, praying to the kings he was going the right way and, of course, happy that the sky was clear as glass. The boy would kick a paper bag or some stone that got in his way, grunting like a spoiled child, cursing his father's name.