Flame in the Veins | Book 1 | Complete

IV | Crucible

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I drag myself up the hill to my vantage point, muscles aching from the long night that continues to stretch on. My eyes—grainy with exhaustion—track my muddy boots as they slip on the bulging roots of the great tree, nearly sending me tumbling back down the steep incline.

Reaching the top, I stretch out my arm to rest my palm against the thick trunk of the tree, steadying myself. My tree, as the other street rats are fond of telling me.

Clinging to what is no more.

I turn and slump to the ground, pressing the back of my head to the wood, knowing the voices speak the truth but refusing to heed them.

I shift my head and my breath stills as it always does to witness Warroll sprawled before me. It's a limited view of the town from the cold alleys and sagging buildings. Warroll seems like a different town where I can't hear the echoing laughter of drunks or the shouts of the soldiers. Perhaps that's why I was drawn to it two years ago, staggering into the dirty streets with nothing but the clothes on my back and a cold sort of hollowness in my gut. It was before I truly understood what Warroll really was.

I study the town now, pretending I don't know about the cesspool of filth that winds through the narrow streets, between the slats of wood that make up the majority of Westside. But it's not the west my eyes trail over, it's the west, across the flowing canal.

Eastside is where every street rat dreams to end up, even if that's just as one of the servants in the brick and iron manors. I look to Eastside and don't feel hope, but a spark of anger low in my stomach. They're the ones that profit off the misery of the world; the bureaucrats and delegates of the Empire whose coin is bathed in blood.

It's brighter in Eastside, orange light from the numerous lanterns trickling over the damp cobblestone roads and illuminating the way for finely dressed bastards.

My lip curls and I turn away from my view of Warroll before I convince myself to cross the canal and start lobbing stones at their crystal windows. Instead, I busy my hands by uncovering the whetstone hidden at the base of the tree. I slip my blade from my belt and am graced with the soothing noise of the steel whispering again the stone.

The roots of the tree are ancient and great, winding through the earth, thriving with life even amongst all this death. My brother described his favourite place to sit and scheme as such. A great tree amongst the centre of conflict and blood.

But he described his tree as something different. It had veins of blue as it drank magic and exuded warmth, found and nurtured by witches. The breeze in the leaves would whisper a song with its dancing chimes and it cleared the clutter from his head.

Sometimes I hear such a song and I imagine him beside me, telling me about it, murmuring of the home he abandoned in order to help me.

Then I remember where I am and that the past is in the past.