Chapter 1: Darkness inside people

I grew used to the darkness—both literal and figurative. The absence of light is something you learn to live without. The darkness inside people, that one is a different beast. That is something you should all be afraid of. You fall for it once, twice, and even thrice. It took me years to recognize it, and still today, I sometimes fail.

I lifted the fountain pen from the paper as my mind traced back to those times. Light, food, water, those things I could make without. I’m sure I was in the bones, malnourished and dehydrated. If anyone saw me, they could have thought I was a walking corpse. If anybody… I was not in my right mind; my mother had died. I’m sure I acted strong. I steeled my heart and kept pushing. But when I was presented with the occasion to rest, to touch another human, I mistook it for friendship.

Immersing myself in my own story once more, I dipped the tip in my wild ivy green ink and let my hand move to the tune of my thoughts.

At first, my hands were my eyes. I was crawling down the conduct, barely high enough to fit the body of a 10 years old boy like myself. One hand scanned ahead while my feet pushed me from behind. I was immune to all pain. Not because I developed any physical resistance, no. They were numb, put in a deep sleep by the arctic cold metal. My very soul was frozen.

How long have I been here? Has it been a few hours? Darkness and desolation are bad companionships; one tends to lose track of time. Stopping was not an option. Who knew if my pursuers were right behind me. The path forked on occasion, had holes I could fit through, or vanished into a sea of putrid water. Which way did I go? Not even I knew the answer.

I’m probably bleeding, aren’t I? The thought came to my mind when I sensed something scratch my hand. It must have been deep; otherwise, my dull skin wouldn’t have felt it. Metal was not the only thing here. Years of waste had accumulated and sedimented on the sides. Sharp edges harpooned their way to my knees, legs, feet, and hands. The thin pieces I wore, rags really, didn’t give any sort of protection. They tore apart like butter under a hot knife.

My mother’s teachings came to mind. Dip a cloth in the juice of Alba, bend it over, and directly apply it over the wound. The plant of Alba has disinfecting properties. It might not help to scar it, but at least it will stop viruses and diseases.

Where was I supposed to find Alba inside there? Alba only grows with strong sunlight in the highest mountains of Karal. Not in its capital, the city of Lamar, desolated undergrounds. I was young, poor, without resources. I was many things, but dumb was not one of them. My mother made sure of it. All she knew, be it medicinal herbs, geography, maths, or love, everything in her grasp, she taught me.

There is so much a child like me could learn, of course. But devote every day, no, every second you spend awake, to the pursuit of knowledge, and you will be surprised what a young and tender mind like mine could retain. I made of learning my entire life. I learned to learn, to find the fun in numbers, to savor history, and to feed off literature. My mind was a sponge waiting to absorb the nutrients its body couldn’t receive.

Speaking of minds, isn’t it amazing how humans have the unique ability to push their demons to the most recondite corners of their heads? My mother had just died, I knew it, but my unconscious worked non-stop to keep the memory away. Even when recalling her lessons, I suppressed the urge to remember.

I was immersed in my thoughts, moving by pure habit, and failed to realize where my body was going. Light. I had been following the faint and cracking light that came from the end of my tunnel. A fire, I at last guessed by looking at its distinctive flashes, silhouettes, and shadows.

In hindsight, my eyes raised from the paper, I should have stopped there. Let my mind focus and think for a moment. Was it really a good idea to approach a fire? Could that fire have an owner? If it did, would I be welcomed? The answers to all those questions are evident; even to my past me they should have been. But that poor boy was too deluded, firmly believing he was escaping from his nightmares.

You see, if anyone was living down here, it was not by choice: You were penniless and couldn’t afford housing above the ground. You might be in danger and chose to hide. You were cast out, disowned by the upper society. Your business line was illegal, probably assassinations or murder. Whatever the case, you holed up where no one would come looking for you.

Was I any different? No. I was expelled—the bastard son of a harlot and a man who never recognized me. I never met any of them. I can’t feel anger for someone I never had the chance to see. Mother took care of me as a child, a piece of trash left to rot down there, a nuisance the people above wouldn’t bother to look twice at. I was a happy child, after all. I never got her to answer why she adopted me. She used to say it was my eyes, eyes full of life, eyes bursting with passion and desire. I know that’s probably not true, but I like to think it was.

So, what did that boy do? The allure of light and a place to shelter against the cold was too much for him. I didn’t reflect on the dangers and instead quickened my pace. I must have made quite some noise, but all I could hear was my own hasty breathing. Nothing mattered but reaching that fire.

Disregarding my own safety, being untrue to all my previous precautions, I exited the conduct. Blinded by the sudden change of light, I dropped my hands and moved them around, probing for the floor. I had to extend my arms to the fullest until I managed to touch a rough stone. Whatever room I was in, the ground was composed of irregular rocks glued together in what could be the work of a toddler.

Far from gracious, I rested both hands and impulsed myself. In my mind, I wanted to do a standing somersault, push myself with my arms, and finish it with a perfect stand. Of course, my back pain quickly confirmed that I didn’t execute that as flawlessly as I had imagined. Grunting and moaning, I turned around and slowly opened my eyes.

I was met by a galaxy of little radiant dots. “Ya’ fine boy?” A hoarse voice came from below the constellation, the voice of a man. Small pieces started to fit in my mind. There is only one reason someone would have their eyes tarnished with white spots and, at the same time, the voice of a chronic smoker.

Opal. Addiction to Opal, to be precise. It goes without saying that I hadn’t taken any Opal. Yet. But I did know its effects. More than anything, I knew what it did to those desperate enough for a dose. I saw them crawl, possessed by force higher than theirs, bite and scratch their own kin to rob them of anything. A worn-out boot full of holes and mold? That would do as long as they could sell it and finance their next shot.

Turning pale, I nodded. I wasn’t fine. It could be argued I wasn’t even close to alive. But I couldn’t show any weakness.

The hoarse voice asked again. “Boy! Ya’ fine?” I couldn’t quite figure out his accent. He was not from Karal, but did it even matter?

“Y- yes.” I answered in a thin voice. I was not sure he had heard or that he even cared, but one case or the other, he nodded with his head.

“Come. We have food ‘n water.” That’s the second warning I ignored. Why would anyone share their goods? Nobody would, not even with their own family, less with a stranger they had just met.

While standing up, I didn’t fail to notice how his troubled eyes looked at me from head to toes. It’s easy to figure out what he was looking for: Ink. If I had had Ink anywhere he could see, I bet he would have stripped that patch of skin with his bare hands. That’s how valuable Ink is. Luckily, mine couldn’t be seen. I had my Line hidden by a piece of fabric I used as a wristband. And that other thing, it was still hidden by the sock.

Does that mean I was safe? Of course not. The only reason he didn’t try to go for my Line, or so I guessed at that time, was because he was afraid I would run back to that hole. The truth is, if he had pounced over me, I wouldn’t have even moved an inch. That’s how battered and tired I was.

In fact, I was so out of touch with reality that I chose to follow him to the fire. I could distinguish two more shapes seating by its side. Both hunchbacked and looking at me suspiciously. Their clothes weren’t much better than mine. Aside from not having scratches, holes, nor being torn, they were old burlap sacks.

The man who found me, whose name I did not know, invited me to a seat by the fire, next to him. He grabbed a soup spoon and meticulously filled a bowl. Just then, maybe reactivated by the heat, my gears started to turn. “I’m not hungry, thank you.” I put my most assertive voice, one that wouldn’t show my hunger, my hesitation. Everything clicked into place as I started wondering why some strangers would feed me.

“Ya’ sure, boy?” He raised one eyebrow, doubting my answer that I wasn’t starving, probably fueled by my state and clothes. He was right. Even that questionable and greyish substance, because liquid was not an appropriate word to describe it, lured my stomach and made my mouth wet.

I nodded, not daring to say anything else just in case I exposed myself, and stared at the fire. I can’t explain it, but I’ve always found fires fascinating. Its sparks and flames are like dancers swinging and swaying, playfully exchanging partners. If anything, it distracted me from my impending needs.

Tsk! His tongue, released from the top of his mouth, made a sound of disapproval. I looked around, everyone seemed to be tense, ready to jump. One of them was reaching for his naked ankle. His improvised pants hid most of the drawing, but I still reached to see the handle of a small dagger. If he was to pull that out, I’d be a goner.

“You know what, I’ve actually thought it over. I’ll have that bowl!” Everyone relaxed and was all smiles as soon as I said that. There’s only one reason that would be the case. The food was drugged, most likely adulterated with a sedative.

Acting as the little and clueless boy they certainly saw in me, I took the bowl while covertly looking for exits around the room. I knew there was the conduct I came from behind me, but it was too high to reach in time. There was a narrow corridor that would have fit me on the right; tight enough they wouldn’t be able to follow. However, it would have meant going over the dagger, and I wasn’t confident enough to pull it off.

Then it must be left. I tried to look for any clues indicating if it was a good idea—another corridor, wide enough to fit three people side by side. I didn’t like it, it was easy to follow me, and I wasn’t even sure that it wasn’t a dead-end. Still, it was my best and only option.

Staying there was akin to suicide, my train of thought finally caught up. I brought the bowl closer to my mouth. I could feel their looks piercing through my skin. I could already imagine their laughter as I rolled comatose to the ground. The smell reached my nose. My lips were about to rest on the ceramic when I closed my eyes and acted relaxed, as if relieved to bring something to my mouth.

Now! Immediately after the thought came, I readied my whole body and put my beaten-up muscles to work. I could feel the heat of the substance through the bowl, so I was quite sure the man would panic as soon as it touched his face. I gathered all my remaining strength and threw the dish and its content at him, aiming for his head.

I didn’t wait to see if I hit my target; I was already sprinting when I heard his scream. Head or not, he was agonizing. I stormed through the place. All I could see was the exit. My legs were short, as all boys my age. Even if I had been athletic and had the body of a healthy child, I knew my chances would have been close to nil. I knew I could not outrun them. I had caught them by surprise, or so I liked to think. Now I had to hide somewhere dark, somewhere they wouldn’t find me.

I was already stepping over the corridor when I felt it—a stab of pain on the right of my torso. I palpated the area without stopping. It was wet. Blood. Running hurt, my pulse was accelerating, and I barely had air enough. I continued exploring my wound and was met with a sharp edge that led to a handle. The very same handle I saw in that man’s body.

What happened is relatively straightforward, even I knew. He separated it, made it materialize, invoked the Ink. There’s not a single way to describe it, although I’ve always thought the last one sounds more poetic. Whichever words you use, the fact remains, you can choose to make Ink on your body take shape. Use that object, kill your opponents if that’s what it does, and then blend it again with your skin. Your Ink travels with you; you are your Ink.

Did that mean I could absorb the dagger? Theoretically, yes, I could. Practically, though? There was no way I could pay the price. Either you resorted to an Inker, a professional who carefully carved the object on your skin, or you relied on your own skill. The latter was fast, immediate; you could use any Ink on your body, even your Line, to capture the object. Of course, my only Ink was the Line which I couldn’t afford to shorten, or it. And I wouldn’t use it, right? I know I have not yet said what that is, don’t worry, my dear reader, we will shortly arrive at it.

Why would Inkers exist, then, if you could do the job yourself? Just like you can cook, it doesn’t mean there are no better people at it. Your food might be alright, good even, but would you be able to use the exact amount of spices to bring out the juiciness of your meat, to highlight the savor without killing it? That’s precisely what a professional cooker, or an Inker in our case, does. He has mastered the art and is capable of capturing the essence with infinitesimal precision. Usually, their craft is not limited to that, though. They can improve or embellish an object, draw hidden attributes, sharpen a knife, restore wood, you name it.

On the other hand, rebinding an object that is already drawn on your skin and reverting its form back to Ink, is simpler. You already have the tattoo, you just have to will it, and the object will merge again. The only precaution you must have is to keep an eye on the Ink; it might wear down with its usage, and if worse comes to worst, completely erase.

Short story long, the dagger would stay by my side, reminding me I was stabbed every time I took a step. The corridor lacked light, which was good news for me, but it was straight, and the fire still illuminated much of it. I ran. I frantically moved my legs. I ordered my arms to impulse me. When my vision blurred, I shook my head. When I felt about to faint, I resorted to quick blinks, whole body shakes, jumps, and anything that might have helped to focus me back. I had lost too much blood. Blood I already didn’t have.

I stumbled with something, a rock, a pebble, or maybe my own feet. I rolled to the ground and crashed to the wall. I took the opportunity to look back. Not far from me, but neither close, where the light still reached, I saw the owner of the dagger. The bulkiest of the three. He was not running, either because he saw me fall and didn’t think it was necessary or because he was cautious to adventure in the dark. Or both.

I tried to stand back up, commanding my legs and arms to push. I took a deep breath and held it while contracting my abdominals. But all I could achieve was raising two fingers above the floor. My body didn’t obey; it was beyond its limits. I was about to try for a second time when I heard the sound of stone rubbing with stone. Dust flew everywhere and threatened to enter through my nostrils and mouth. That, however, was soon resolved as a pair of sturdy and callused hands coming from behind grabbed me by the head, skillfully covering my mouth and nose.

Shh. Whoever was behind me attempted to calm me down. I didn’t move nor make any noise. Not because I trusted those hands, not because I didn’t want to flee, merely because I couldn’t. Without choice, like a dog tied by a short leash, I was dragged beyond the wall.

And that’s all I remember. Pinning it on my hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and all the blood I lost, I passed out.