After the adrenaline rush dwindled, bone-rattling aches and searing pains erupted across Dimitry’s body. Most painful was the penetrating trauma. His foot screamed in agony as dirty blood trickled through grain-sized rocks embedded in a deep gash.

For those who starved like him, among cardiac and electrolyte disorders, there was another killer. It struck anyone whose atrophying organs absorbed scant nutrients in a struggle to keep functioning, leaving little for immune responses and wound healing.

That killer was infection.

Dimitry would succumb to it soon. He had sustained a puncture wound from a dirty object in a filthy environment. Whether it was tetanus or an equivalent alien microbe that penetrated his skin, he would eventually die from sepsis or endotoxic shock.

He tore a small slice of fabric from his rags and tightened it around his foot. The pressure would stem the bleeding while he procured clean water. Although Dimitry drank from wells for days without contracting illness, the contents weren’t sterile enough for wound care.

To produce purified water, a container capable of holding boiling liquids was necessary. A non-problem. The polluted streets of Ravenfall had, among countless hazards, ceramic scrap littering the ground. So much so that one had to look down whenever they walked.

Before long, Dimitry found a jug with a jagged upper half and a fitting wooden lid. He filled the ‘teapot’ at a well, then retreated to where Samuel and Arnest slept, hoping to find an open flame.

Sat on an alley floor was a young man with a grimy beard and a scar running down his cheek. Arnest pointed to the five silver gambling pieces in his hand. “Six… three… one… four… six. That’s twenty-two!”

The balding old man across from him groaned. “It’s twenty, moron.”

“You’re just mad ‘cause I won! Admit it, I’m gettin’ better!”

Samuel’s sigh came to an abrupt halt at the sound of approaching footsteps. His head darted to the side. Upon seeing the visitor, a sly grin floated onto his face. “Hey, kid. You look like shit.”

“Feel like it too,” Dimitry said. “Mind if I use the fire?”

“Help yourself. We’re leaving soon, anyway.”

Arnest tucked each dented silver shard into a small pouch and caressed it like a mother cradling her newborn child. “Alright! Let’s go before Agatha kills us.”

“We’re fine,” Samuel said. “Kids these days gotta learn to take their time.”

“But I wanna stop somewhere on the way.”

Samuel rubbed the chin under his gray-black beard. “Those children again? You should try looking after yourself before worrying about them.”

“Yeah…” Arnest’s face had a tinge of red to it.

“Whatever.” Samuel sighed. “Kid, remember to keep the fire small and to blow it out when you’re done. Guards’ll kill you if they find it.”

At some point, the threat of death had lost its effect on Dimitry. Perhaps he was too exhausted to register fear. “Got it.”

The two men shuffled out onto the street.

Dimitry moved the burning wood scraps that made up the small fire pit, carefully placed the water-filled jug into its center and topped it off with a wooden lid. He gently blew on the fire whenever its flames dimmed.

Once the jug’s contents reached a roaring boil, Dimitry tore another strip from his rags and soaked it into boiled water, hoping this world’s pathogens couldn’t survive extreme temperatures. He removed the makeshift bandage from before.

A deep, contaminated, and now dry wound pierced deep into his foot. Dimitry’s head jerked back—a reaction uncharacteristic of him. He had unflinchingly handled many grievous injuries in his life, but then again, he always had soap and saline solution handy.

Unfortunately, now wasn’t one of those times.

He washed his hands, cleaned the area around the wound and thrust forth an unsullied portion of cloth to take out whatever fragments of filth and rocks he could find. A rag stabbing deeper into subcutaneous tissue elicited a wince, but aggressive wound debridement maximized his chances of survival. More so when antibiotics didn’t exist. Upon removing all foreign material with repeated cleanings, he wrapped his foot in fresh bandages.

Dimitry raised a hand to shield his eyes from an overhead sun sending blinding rays of light into his cramped alley, illuminating the amalgam of dirt, refuse, and scraps littering the floor. The stench of rotting matter was one he could never acclimate to, no matter how long he sat there, leg hanging over a piece of timber, waiting for the bandages to dry.

He ran a finger across their damp surface. It wouldn’t be long until Dimitry could leave to search the stashes he left near Inscriber Works for illicitly gained goods. Two gold gadots was all he needed to purchase a certificate and discard his charade of thievery.

However, despite nabbing enough coin to cure countless illnesses and an equally impressive quantity of vol, the stress of a rabid chase by guards made concealing money during escape difficult. Some gadots fell to the floor. Others protruded from their hidey-holes.

Did enough loot remain hidden? The longer Dimitry waited to find out, the faster his heel tapped the ground. All of his anxiety stemmed from invisall’s failure—an unexpected outcome.

The spell concealed him within Ravenfall’s market, yet faltered in a small shop when a nearby gray-glowing statue diminished its intensity. Considering that neither glowing axes, walls, nor lamps Dimitry encountered while invisible did the same, he assumed that either every object or the hue of the aura they emitted had a different effect. Magic’s unpredictability made relying solely on invisall dangerous.

Bare feet slapping against the ground drew closer.

Dimitry’s head jerked sideways. Seeing two familiar thugs rather than livid guards relieved him. He greeted them with a feeble wave.

“Still here, kid?” Samuel carefully lowered himself onto a crate protruding from debris, then stretched his arm towards the fire. “Strange to see you here in the middle of the day. Usually, you leave to piss off the Church or the guards or whatever it is you do.”

“Just taking a short break while I think things over.”

“What are ya thinkin’ about?” Arnest asked as he sat across the fire.

Samuel smirked. “Since when did you take an interest in thinking?”

“S-shut up!”

Dimitry contemplated asking them about the gray-glowing statue he encountered while invisible, but Samuel was clever and well-connected. Gossip about a familiar homeless man whose invisibility spell was drained by an identical statue would garner suspicion. Besides, the old man mentioned previously that their magical knowledge was limited. The risk of inquiry overwhelmed potential returns.

“It’s nothing serious,” Dimitry said. “Just ruminating while waiting for these bandages to dry. Hurt my foot bad today.”

“I know what you mean, kid.” Samuel pointed to a wrinkly sole covered in scars and calluses. “Fifteen years and my feet still aren’t used to these damn roads.”

Arnest’s head nudged towards the jagged ceramic in the fire pit. “But why do ya need a broken jug?”

“I’m using it to sterilize water.”

“Sterilize?” The young man contemplatively combed his grimy beard.

Arnest’s confusion didn’t surprise Dimitry—the scholars of this era likely haven’t established germ theory yet.

He opted for an explanation devoid of scientific jargon. “Basically, there are tiny bugs that live everywhere, including in the trees, soil, and water. If they get into open cuts, they can cause illness. I boiled the water to kill the bugs inside before using it to clean my wounds. That way, the bugs don’t get under my skin.”

Samuel peeked inside the jug. “I don’t see any bugs.”

“Maybe he already ate ‘em ‘cause he was so hungry.” Arnest astutely deduced.

“You can’t see these bugs because they’re tens of thousands of times smaller than a grain of sand.”

Laughing, Samuel placed his hand on Dimitry’s shoulder. “Whatever you’ve been drinking, I want some.”

Why did Dimitry bother explaining? All their conversation did was make him fantasize about carbohydrate-rich beer.

“As if ya didn’t waste enough coin on mead already,” Arnest said while juggling a handful of rocks he plucked from the ground.

“Better than gambling my money away on a children’s pastime.”

“Lots of men play knucklebones!”

“And when we finish this job,” Samuel said, “you can give away all of your hard-earned gadots to those men. Again.”

“Nu-uh. Even a grumpy old-timer like you admitted that I’m gettin’ better.” Puffing out his chest to brag, Arnest hit himself in the chin with a rock he forgot he threw. “Ow.”

Dimitry’s eyes narrowed. The ‘job’ the two men spoke of—was it lucrative enough to provide money for gambling and alcohol binges? With the earnings from his heist uncertain and reliance solely on magic perilous, perhaps working for Tenebrae remained his only option. Even if Dimitry loathed the thought. “You’re talking about the job you mentioned last time?”

“Why?” Samuel leaned forward, smirking. “You interested after all?”

“I might be if you tell me more.”

“Wait,” Arnest interrupted. “Shouldn’t we ask Agatha first?”

“That hag didn’t nag me when I introduced you to her. If anything, she’d be happy to get another pawn to throw around.”

Arnest crossed his arms over his chest. “But how can we know if he’ll have our backs if things go bad?”

“With my leg the way it is,” Dimitry said, “it’ll make it easier for the two of you to get away were something to happen. Isn’t that good enough?”

“I guess you’re right… but I don’t like leaving people behind.”

Although Arnest appeared a seasoned thug, he was kinder than the initial impression suggested. Poverty revealed the worst in everyone—Dimitry included. Who was he to endanger a kid with his own mistakes? “Not that I plan on holding anyone back, but if I mess up, that’s my problem to deal with. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Sounds good to me. I say we give him a chance.”

Arnest sighed. “Fine, whatever.”

“With that out of the way,” Samuel said, “We were asked to keep an eye on the port. That’s all.”

“We shoulda been watchin’ right now, but old ass here keeps asking to take breaks.”

“We’ve been staring at that rickety piece of shit for days now. No one will notice us taking a small break.” Samuel stretched his arm. “Besides, I’m getting tired in my wisdom years. Breaks do my back good.”

Expecting a devious plot, Dimitry was surprised to hear that people got paid for loitering. “That’s it? You just hang around the port?”

“Yeah, this job ain’t too bad. Just borin’.” Arnest stood to brush ash from his rags. “C’mon, let’s get back before Agatha finds out. I don’t wanna get yelled at again.”

“Guess it’s about time.” Samuel tapped Dimitry’s shoulder. “You coming? We can waste all day talking about what we do, but it’ll make sense once you see for yourself.”

To believe that money came without struggle in a society where many starved was naïve. There had to be a catch to working for a crime syndicate like Tenebrae, a caveat Arnest and Samuel neglected to mention. Joining them was an unnecessary gambit when two gold gadots might await Dimitry in the nooks near Inscriber Works, yet the employment opportunity wasn’t one he could disregard. Not until he had a barber’s certificate in hand.

Dimitry ran a finger along his foot’s bandage—dry at last. He was ready to depart and claim his loot, but first, he had to excuse himself. “The port, right? Give me a moment to think. I’ll meet you guys there when I decide.”

“You’re always thinkin’.” Arnest frowned. “Can’t ya just think on the way?”

“I have to pee, too. Or did you want to watch?”

“Oh.”

Samuel laughed. “We’ll be by the warehouse. See you there, kid.”

Heart pounding, Dimitry glanced into one of three alleys he dashed through while fleeing Inscriber Works.

Neither the shopkeeper nor the city’s armed guards were in sight.

The relief of their absence didn’t last. Tensity constricted Dimitry’s chest tighter with every step past a muddy cheese wedge and a lifeless rat whose morbid stench plagued the narrow pathway. His goal was the gold gadot he jammed underneath a loose timber beam during the escape. Was it still there?

Anticipation and anxiety, amplified by hypoglycemia-induced glucocorticoid release, surged into a adrenal-abusing cocktail as Dimitry pulled the timber beam up.

His gut dropped.

Only dust and dirt lay where the coin once was.

That was okay. That was fine. Dimitry hid money and vol in a dozen crannies throughout the pre-planned route. The shopkeeper couldn’t have found all of them. Just two gold gadots was all Dimitry needed.

He rummaged through a crack between a plaster wall and the ground.

Empty.

Searched for the silvers he tossed into a moldy cloth and straw heap.

Gone.

Behind a shattered plow’s wheel.

Nothing.

Icy winds clawing at his leg, Dimitry rushed from alley to alley, overturning debris and shoveling trash. There had to be something somewhere! Just two fucking gold gadots! With every crushed hope, desperate optimism teetered further into denial, culminating in anger that peaked past rage, catapulting his bare foot into a crate.

Crumbling pain dropped Dimitry into a kneel. He palpated his fifth metatarsal for fractures in the fragile bone, and a quiet sigh escaped his lips upon learning he wouldn’t have to limp for the next twelve weeks. His gaze traveled up.

Then Dimitry saw it—a glimmer of hope.

It lay atop piled cloth scraps beside the kicked crate. A single dark green shard.

Pure vol.

Dimitry would make it count.