The boy ran through the crowded marketplace, dodging merchants' carts and weaving through the patrons. Masked and hooded to hide his deformity, Xander relied on his special senses, the ones that no one else possessed. He was able to see, hear, smell and predict the actions of those around him. The World moved like it was in slow motion, giving him time to react with unnatural agility.
A full head and shoulders taller than other kids his age, he had lost the ability to work with the rest of the street urchins. No one took pity on a young man in a mask the way they did to a cute little boy with dirty hands and huge, innocent eyes. Xander was forced to learn to use his skill to steal from the markets patrons rather than beg with the rest of the kids. He was able to creep up, snatch a purse and run before anyone registered that the hooded youth ever approached.
Today, however, he wasn't lifting anyone's coppers he used his gifts to get him home, fast, after another of his senses tipped him off. Sometimes, he could even hear the thoughts of others. It was this strange talent that warned him if something bad.
He reached the hovel he shared with his mother beyond the edge of the city, where all those who lived in poverty were similarly exiled. The one room shack was neat, with pallets in one side, a fire at its center, a small area to prepare of and crates lining one wall that acted both as storage and seating.
Xander tanked the door open and froze. His mother who had been sick for weeks was not alone at home. A well dressed noblewoman knelt beside her still firm. The stranger wore a well spun clothing and carried ornate weapons with bejeweled hilts. Her kidskin boots alone were worth more than everything Xander had ever stolen combined.
"Who are you?" he managed at last
"Come in and close the door,boy," the wealthy woman directed.
Xander obeyed. He didn't remove his mask and hood, even within the confines of his home. The stranger glowed strangely in the otherwise dim lighting. Her aristocratic features were pale and her eyes exactly as Xander's mother had once described them: the hue of spring. They were pale green with silver rings that seemed to liquefy and swirl as Xander watched.
The sudden sensation of falling made him clutch the door frame. The feeling that there was someone else in his thoughts made him shake his head viciously.
"How old are you, boy?" The woman asked.
"Ten summer." Xander's surprise turned to concern for his mother. "He cannot serve you today, ikira."
"I do not seek a handmaiden, boy," the stranger said.
Xander crossed to his mother and knelt, wary of the stranger. His mother spoke of a rich woman often, one who sent her on errands when his mother was not wanted at the whorehouse where she made what living was afforded a poor woman beyond the marriage age.
His mother was so pale, like the bodies of the dead he saw tossed in the channel at the other edge of town. His attempts at braiding her dark hair the way she liked it had ended up in a series of knots, because he didn't quite understand how to do it and his man sized fingers were too clumsy.
The instinct that warned him flared again. Her mind was too weak to talk to him anymore; she'd gone silent this afternoon.
"Take off your hood," the stranger said.
"My mother forbids it."
"Son, your mother is nearly gone." There was a soft note in the haughty woman's voice. "You do not hide yourself when you pay your respects."
Xander's eyes were glued to his mother. He hadn't wanted to admit that the sudden muting of her thoughts was a sign of her sliding into death. It made no sense. She'd been sleeping for weeks; surely she could stay sleeping until she was rested enough to fight the illness?
He removed his hood and mask and inched away from the stranger. The two times in his life he recalled people seeing his eyes which glowed like the red gem at his mothers throat- were not pleasant. He was beaten once, at the age of seven, and the second time, his mother was.
"Good boy," the woman said.
Xander held his mothers hand and lifted his gaze. The stranger didn't flinch or curse or scream or run. Instead, a slow smile spread across her face. It was not a warm smile, like Xander's mother gave him, but a kind smile that left Xander scared, without knowing why.
