Kail stumbled through the swath of rubble and ashes that flame had brought, his slim figure tired and broken against the blackened ruin. The soot covered his boots, his plodding footprints quickly blown away by the stirring wind. The land around him was melancholy and full of loss, much as he was hollow and emotionless inside. He forced himself to keep walking. he closed his eyes, looking away from the broken bones and burnt brick. He pushed the smell of smoldering flesh to the back of his mind. The screams that he imagined of their horror and pain, the ones that were surely still alive, dying slowly under mountains of stone and twisted metal—he pushed them all away.

He forced himself to keep walking.

Down the barely recognizable street that he had first came in, he saw the end of Benedict’s Street, the same sign that he had seen what felt like so long ago now burned completely black. Blood stained its surface, the faded words barely noticeable and covered with soot. Turning, Kail saw the barbed fence that had ran around Black Wolves territory and felt his stomach heave as he coughed up water and bile.

A stack of corpses was piled on the ground in front of the fence, flesh still smoking, cloth burned to dust. Bones clutched at the barbed wire, which was bent and warped under their weight. He could see them in his mind, running from the blaze only to find themselves trapped. He could see the men desperately trying to scale the fence in their panic, climbing over each other in the frantic scramble to escape. He could see the tongues of fire licking at their heels as bloodied fingers clutched thorny steel. One by one they all fell, buckling under their own weight as their flesh was devoured by greedy fire, a brilliant orange burning bright into the sky as smoke swallowed their bodies. It was a massive cremation, and now charred bones and ashes all that were left behind.

He stumbled closer, head throbbing as he felt the world around him spin. Gasping for breath, he reached out instinctively and grabbed something to support him, only to reel back in horror when he saw that it was a bone—a dead man’s femur, covered in a light dusting of ash. He flinched, pulling his fingers back and frantically trying to wipe the filth off on his clothes. He stumbled as he did so, falling backwards and hearing the cracking of bone beneath him.

Low sobs wracked his body as he rolled over seeing the shattered remains that he had fallen on. With a barely suppressed wail, he desperately swiped at his arms and legs. He could feel where his skin had touched the bone, and it disgusted him beyond comprehension. His vision blurred, his lungs burning as fear and hysteria sank their fangs into his throat. Breathing hard, he forced himself to calm down before turning once more to keep walking forward.

He forced himself to keep walking.

As he neared the fence, the wind blew the scent of charred flesh towards him. His heart was heavier than stone, but he forced himself to press on. Taking a deep breath, he began to make his way through the bones and cinders. The acrid smoke stung his eyes, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue. Each step kicked up hot ash that blew around his feet before scattering in the wind. He walked with tenuous uncertainty, bone crunching underneath him as he trudged through the dead.

Reaching the fence that was burnt by flame and blackened by blood, he shrugged his claw-shield onto his arm, feeling his fingers close around the familiar grip as his heart swung in apprehension. With clenched teeth, he swung, brass claws shearing through the aged, worn metal with ease, tearing a massive rent through the wire. He carved another opening in the metal, tired arms feeling like brick. Panting, he let out a cracked yell and started to swing wildly, ripping broken metal to pieces as tears flew from his eyes. Panic and mania gripped him with blackened fingers, refusing to let go as he tore through the metal like a beast. He did not want to think, did not want to remember.

When he was finished, he collapsed onto the ground, dust blowing over bloody fingers, shredded metal lying around him. His muscles were sore and screaming, his body wanting nothing more than to join the others around him. Nicks and scratches in his skin bled beads of scarlet where the flying wire had cut him. He let out a deep sob as he felt inordinately tired, tears burning where they touched his wounds.

He lay there weeping for an eternity before his tears ran dry and his heart died a little more. He felt the death all around him and wondered why he lived. He wondered what it meant to be a hero, wondered what price those stories failed to mention, wondered what the price of life itself was. He wanted nothing more than to lay there and weep, to join these people in desolation.

But, he could not find it in himself to lie peacefully and die, could not find it in himself to give up. There was steel in him that these flames had only tempered, an unyielding determination that he only realized when everything around it crumbled. He could not find it in him to die, because more than anything else he realized his all-encompassing desire to live.

It flickered to life as he gave form to these thoughts, a bright flame bursting from the embers. He wanted to live. It was an incessant voice, a sudden surge of strength. He got up—slowly and unsteadily, but with a decisiveness that gleamed in his eyes. Stiffly, he took one step, and then another, tired muscles threatening to break underneath him. He walked forward seemingly fueled by nothing but sheer willpower, crawling through the hole in the fence as the torn wire cut fresh lines into his exposed skin. A bit of cloth snagged and he tore it free with shaking hands. Then, he kept moving.

He stumbled through the streets, blood dripping slowly. Behind him, the new sun rose slowly, casting onto the earth its heat and light. Kail saw the men of the night go home, saw the courtesans close up their stores. The city underwent its daily transformation as a dying boy stumbled through it. No one paid him any heed; he was just another victim of the previous night, taking far too long to die. As he stumbled, they struck him carelessly, bumping into him roughly and knocking him to the ground several times. He got up coughing each time, hacking up more blood before continuing his grueling march.

He reached a familiar street, chest heaving, his heart about to burst, feeling his vision grow dim. With barely a grunt, he stumbled and collapsed, head striking stone as he fell in front of a wooden door. Blood pooled around him, his eyes blinking slowly. His sight grew faint. The door opened. And he fell into darkness once more.

Kail woke with a splitting headache, the pounding of his heart like a ceaseless drum that made him throb with pain. The bright light streaming through the window hurt his eyes, a piercing white that burned even when he closed his eyes. He tried to tilt his head and was rewarded with a flaming pain that shot down his back, an indescribable agony that made him nearly faint. He dared not try and move his hand; he was cautious even to breathe as little as possible, for his chest felt as if it bore the weight of the world upon it.

He could feel bandages wrapped around his chest and arm, the cloth rough against wounded skin. He was lying on his back, facing a ceiling. He recognized it: it was Sir’s hovel. Looking down as far as he could, he saw the peeling paint, the broken water clock in the corner, and the rotting floorboards. The nostalgic smell brought tears to his eyes as he felt secure in his sense of safety. He was home.

“Finally awake, boy?”

The voice surprised him, making him twitch in a shock that made his tortured muscles howl. The sound had come from behind him and knew at once that it was Sir, but he dared not turn to look out of fear of further pain. Opening his mouth, Kail tried to speak, but his mouth was dry and air came out in only a hoarse whisper.

Sir grunted before lifting Kail gently by the shoulders, leaning him back against a frayed blanket to prop him up. The old man grabbed a worn bowl of cold gruel, handing it to Kail as he grunted, “Gonna owe Mikael some more, it turns out.”

Kail did not respond; he was too busy fumbling with the spoon with numb fingers. Sir snorted before snatching the utensil out of his hand. “You degraded to an infant? Need me to feed you?”

Kail’s pride protested, but his stomach was louder and he nodded slowly. With a sigh, Sir shoveled a spoonful of the meal into Kail’s mouth, looking at him accusingly. “Now, you promised me tha when you came back with yer corpse you wouldn’t get any on the rug.” He gestured towards the trail of dark red that ran from the door to the puddle that Kail lay in now. “Can’t even hold you to yer word, boy?”

Kail looked at Sir’s familiar figure, unflinchingly abrasive even after all that had happened. The sudden warmth struck him unexpectedly, stark against all that he had just seen and been through. He could not hold it back any longer. Breaking out into tears, he sobbed into Sir’s chest, his shoulder heaving.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Sir.” he whispered, the old man’s warmth and familiar scent surrounding him as the weight of all that had happened to him slammed into him in an instant.

Sir’s strong arms wrapped around him, holding him close without saying a word.

“I—I did horrible things. I saw so many dead.” Kail mumbled as hot tears trailed down his face, dripping to mix with blood on the floor. “I...I killed men. Four men.” he breathed, face pale as a corpse. “Blood and bones, I killed them.”

Sir gave no response, only holding Kail tightly, his chest firm and strong despite his age. The gesture only made Kail sob harder; a feeling as if a dam had broken rushed through him, tears running down his cheeks as a torrent of emotion and sorrow tore out of him. The boy wept long and hard, feeling the tightness in his chest unravel and spool out as fresh tears. Finally, after a few minutes, Sir pulled back.

He looked at Kail, his mouth taut and expression stern, but his eyes contained a quiet warmth that Kail recognized only from years of familiarity. They were the same eyes with which he had watched Kaill grow up all these years. Through all that had happened, Sir was still the same man. He was quiet but unyielding, his person always there when Kail needed it. The old man did not give any advice, he just looked long and hard at Kail, who was busy wiping away wet tears, before speaking softly.

“Would you change anything?”

Kail paused in surprise, not expecting the question. He looked up, throat sore from his weeping, eyes red. “What—what do you mean?”

Sir was patient and quiet as he gazed at Kail. “Would you change anything?” he repeated quietly. “If you could go back, knowing what you did then, in the same place as you were back then, would you change anything?” His wrinkled hand cupped Kail cheek gently, thumb wiping away the lingering tears. “If you spared their lives, would you still be here? Was what you did necessary?”

“I—” Kail hesitated, unsure of his response.

Sir pulled his hand back and shook his head. “The answer to that question is not for me to hear. It’s for you and yerself, boy.” Picking up the bowl of gruel, he set it down in Kail’s lap before getting up, knees creaking. His eyes held within them flickers of understanding—of conflict, and of sympathy.

He gave a rare warm smile to Kail, the expression filling the boy with inexplicable warmth and peace as his mentor and teacher turned and walked out of the room slowly to leave Kail alone with his thoughts.

“A hero…” he muttered, his heart throbbing.