The cobbled-street stretched out before me, devoid of people. The buildings that lined it watched in sombre silence, their windows dark and foreboding. I stepped from streetlamp to streetlamp, grateful for their small pools of light that kept the night at bay.
I popped up the collar of my trench-coat, before stuffing my icy hands back into the warm embrace of the coat’s pockets to keep a sudden chilling breeze from piercing my bones. The wind swept down the street as if it were my escort.
I glanced about fervently, hoping that my careful watch would deter anyone from thinking I was an easy mark. People often disappeared in the early hours of the morning; only to be found dead, their throats cut and their possessions pilfered. Such was the method of the gangs that prowled the streets when the city slept.
As much as I detested the thought of killing another person, I could not fault those who committed the act. Work was scarce, and the city overcrowded. Life was punishing for those not born into the Fold–the city’s elite–and the old ways of peddling magic to the outer-cities had died with the last of the magicians. The Fold had since deemed the use of magic heresy, unless you were born of their stock. To be caught wielding magic now was a death sentence.
Once a talentless used magic, the Fold always found them and tore them from this life screaming.
The figure of a man detached itself from the shadows a couple of yards ahead of me. The blood froze in my veins. I dared a glance over my shoulder and saw two more figures lurking in the shadows behind me. I silently cursed my luck.
The man shrouded in shadows ahead did not move, content to wait for me to reach him, knowing that I had no choice. Thoughts raced through my mind.
Perhaps I could convince them to let me go once I gave them what they demanded. Or perhaps I could convince them I was not worth the effort.
Each stride brought me closer to the man in shadow, each slow and purposeful step sealing my fate like a funeral process making its way to the burial site.
“Tha’s far enough, boy’o,” the man said, and I halted within the shimmering pool of a streetlamp.
I took a shaky breath, trying to steady my nerves. The glint of steel that flashed in the man’s hands caused me to swallow hard. I don’t want to die, I thought, not like this, not here. I scanned the surrounding buildings, hoping, silently pleading for any signs of help. Anything to deter those that now surrounded me, but I was alone, left to the whims of my assailants.
Words tumbled from my mouth. “I’ll give you whatever you want, just please don’t kill me!” The last words were a mere squeak.
The man spat.
“Now why would we do a thing like tha’? Let ye run off to flap yer gob abou’ our lil’ meetin’.”
He shook his head as if insulted by the idea.
“No, better to kill ye and take wha’s yers. Much easier tha’ way.”
The man took a step forward into the pool of light as I attempted to take several paces back, bumping up against firm hands that grabbed and held me in place. The gruff voice that belonged to the hands barked.
“Yer not goin’ anywhere, you snivelling worm.”
I fervently tried to pry loose from the brute’s iron grip that held me as the man with the wicked-looking dagger closed the distance. His eyes were hard and cold, his oily smile revealing a scant number of yellowed, rotting teeth. His rancid breath washed over me and I fought against the urge to retch.
Panic replaced fear as the dagger’s edge came to rest against the soft flesh of my throat. The men that surrounded me laughed amongst themselves, revelling in my fragile and helpless state, content to drag out my sentence at a leisurely pace. They knew I would not cry out; it would only hasten my death.
I DON’T WANT TO DIE!
The words roared through the swirling chaos of my mind, and all fell silent. The world seemed to slow around me. I could feel the beads of sweat that sluggishly rolled down my face. The increasing pressure of the blade at my throat as it drew the smallest trickle of blood. The tightness in my gut as my bowels threatened to give out, and the stench of fear, so thick in the surrounding air I could almost taste it. My head felt ready to burst at the seams and I could do nothing to relieve the pressure that was building up, engulfing me.
My body vibrated with a silent scream, and the world echoed that vibration. Windows of buildings shattered, sending showers of broken shards pattering against the cobblestone street. The paving cracked and splintered, as if struck by a great unseen weight. The street lamps bent at odd angles.
I felt the hands grasping me go lax and drop away. The man before me wore an expression of confused agony as blood gushed from every orifice. He crumpled to the ground. The dagger clattered to the street beside him. I did not have to check to know that neither he nor his companions would ever rise again.
I trembled with adrenaline. What had I just done!? The talentless could not channel magic! It was an affront to everything the Fold stood for!
I hastily scanned the street for signs of pursuit. The Fold always knew when somebody used magic. Time was against me now. Already, lights were flickering into existence in the buildings around me as people woke from the disturbance.
My life was over. I was now an apostate and there was only one choice left for me to make: run or die at the hands of the Fold.
I ran.
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