The sun broke through the window, its golden light making Kail stir from his sleep. As he yawned and rubbed his eyes with sore muscles, he realized that he had fallen asleep some time ago. Looking down at himself, he found fresh bandages over his wounds and a weathered gray blanket tossed over him during his sleep.

He smiled softly, remembering Sir’s kindness. Legs protesting at the sudden use, he stood up with some difficulty and stretched lazily. Fresh air blew in through the window, crisp with the smell of seawater from the harbor. The uneven dripping of the broken water clock, the creaking floorboards, even the very smell, Kail was overcome with the sense of nostalgia. Of home.

Stepping into the bedroom, he heard Sir snoring softly, lying on his back. Gently, Kail draped the blanket over the man’s chest before closing the wooden door softly. He then turned and went outside, fetching some water that the basin outside had collected. Filling a stone cup with the rainwater, he set it outside Sir’s door before taking a deep breath.

Making his way onto the street, he navigated through the crowd, the stalls and harbor filled with the sounds of people laughing and yelling. Merchants sold fruit and jewelry; workers unloaded wooden crates from ships in the port. Birds cawed as they circled above, the sky a brilliant blue as the sun shone brightly. It was the day once more, and the previous night was forgotten as quickly as it had come. For the first time in his life in this double-faced city, Kail felt a thick disgust well up inside of him. It was a hate for the people here, who so willingly ignored all that they did in the dark. It was a hate for the gods, for letting place fall to such ruin. It was a hate for the very foundations and stone upon which this place was built; he hated that this place existed. He hated that so many had died, and he hated that so many more still would. The cruel machinations of this world would claim more, like some kind of voracious beast.

A helplessness sank into his bones as he realized the size and scale of what he stood against. It was not a single man, not a mere group. It was a way of life, an entire resigned society resisting change. For the first time in a long while, he questioned his purpose and his drive, questioned his ability. Those doubts snuck into his heart like a quiet poison, and they burned softly no matter how hard he tried to ignore them. Yet his face grew taut as determination set in, a quiet flame that spread from his chest to his arms and legs. There was something that he needed to see before the night fell. That much, at the very least, he could do.

He stopped by a vendor, intending to buy some food before he left. Kail bought some meager bread and dried fruit, tossing a few copper coins onto the wooden countertop before returning home. Placing some of the food outside of Sir’s room, he tore off a bit of bread with his teeth before putting the rest in his pack. He sighed as he felt an aching tiredness set into his bones. He wanted nothing more than to sleep and rest, but he could not. He had made up his mind, and he would see it through.

Sir had cleaned and hidden his weapons away and Kail did not bother to get them out. An armed boy walking in the busy street would only cause commotion and harm, at least during the day. He decided instead to take a simple knife that he held strapped to his forearm, a rare present that he had received from Sir. With a pack full of food and some meager medicinal supplies, Kail stepped outside. He navigated the maze of alleys and backways before ending up near the section of the city that had been razed to the ground only a mere two nights ago.

The new day had done little to disperse the smell of charred flesh, which lingered as a reminder of those who had died. Already he saw carrion birds amidst the ruins, pecking at burnt sliver of meat and bone, sometimes swallowing, otherwise coughing up the dry ash in disgust. The wind blew the black dust into piles, revealing the skeletons of burnt metal and stone. Shattered glass and the occasional beam of timber lay amidst the remains, glinting where they caught the sunlight or protruding like beams of a sinking ship in a rocky sea..

He scanned the ground, forcing his nausea of his memories down, searching for several minutes before he found what he was looking for: footprints. Or rather, pawprints. Amidst the dust and dirt were the faint outlines of clawed feet, caught in running motion. Short hair dusted the ground, some having been blown away by the wind. Carefully, he pinched a hair between his fingers and lifted it to his nose, taking a short sniff. The barest trace of the sickly smell of refuse and waste wafted up, mingling with the stench of death. It was faint, but it was unmistakeable.

Taking a deep breath, Kail sifted through the ash until he found a blackened bone, buried under broken stone and untouched by carrion birds or other scavengers. With an open palm, he lightly dusted off the soot to look closely at the bone. Scratch marks covered its surface, one end cracked and the marrow slurped out. Bits of flesh clinged on in some corners, but the rest was picked clean. Hurriedly searching through the warm ash, Kail found the rest of the remains, an assortment of bones left scattered on the ground. It was obvious that this person had not died in the fire. He had been eaten.

He recognized the claw prints, recognized the greasy hair, recognized the smell. He knew what had come to kill all of these people. It was the rat things.

Gangs usually took in the orphans that had been left on the streets. Sometimes though, if they wandered into the sewers or disappeared in the darkness of the night, they would reemerge as disgusting monsters, as hideous abominations. If they survived whatever happened to them, they became rat things. No one knew what happened to them when they left the alleys and entered the sewers. Some said that they signed a contract with the Devil, others thought they ate other men. Sir thought that it was some kind of wild magic, or perhaps a channeler’s work. Regardless of the cause, they were no longer human.

They had yellowed claws and pale white eyes that bulged in their sockets. Their skin was a cracked green that reeked of refuse. A swollen stomach and bony limbs belied a powerful strength that could tear metal and armor. A black brand ran down their spine, hidden by oily hair that covered their body, their mouths full of sharp teeth and rotting slivers of meat. A slim tail covered in oily fur circled their bodies, twitching and writhing like a worm.

The rat things lived in Maris Tor’s undercity, the network of broken tunnels and sewers leading underneath the alleys. They only came out at night, feasting on the dead that lined the streets. They were like animals, living in packs that fought over the scraps of food and corpses. Perhaps it would be more apt to describe them as broods, the way they fought over territory and grew in size. It was their grotesque version of a family, perhaps, since few were related by blood. They could breed too, amongst themselves, along with “adopting” any incautious orphans. As a result, they littered the sewers under the city, although few aboveground had even heard of them.

Kail remembered the only time that he had seen a rat thing, just a few feet from a broken sewer grate. It had been gorging on the corpse of a man, claws tearing short strips of flesh from the bone. When that thing had smelled him, it had looked up in a sharp movement. Those beady white eyes had gazed into his, and he remembered a horrendous repulsion that filled him even now just from thinking of its visage. It was unnatural, twisted, grotesque. It had given him a high-pitched hiss, akin to violently boiling water from a kettle, and he had ran without a moment’s hesitation. He had not looked back, not even slowed, until he had returned to Sir’s home.

Days had passed, and he had thought it perhaps some dream. When he had finally worked up the nerve, he returned to the alley. Yet beside that grate lay a pile of broken bones, cracked open and the marrow sucked out. On the cobbles were scratches from claws too large for a cat, and the bars on the sewer grate itself had marks from claws and teeth. And that was when he knew that they were real.

In the following days, he began to notice tapping noises in the walls and floors where he had ignored them before. Fetid odors snuck out of the stones, hissing noises where there were no pipes. When he finally asked Sir, he learned of their twisted nature.

Rat things lived under the city, and although their origins were human, they were clearly more beast than man. They bred too quickly, their pups growing in mere days to drive their population to explosion. The pipes were filled to the brim with mewling pups that clawed and scratched as they searched for food with beady eyes. Many of them would be born only to starve to death, their bodies quickly torn apart by their brothers and sisters, not always fully dead. Cannibalism was commonplace with so many mouths to feed, and the oldest bore more scars than unblemished skin. Those exceptionally hungry, or perhaps foolhardy, ventured to the surface in hopes of an unsuspecting meal.

Kail knew those claw marks, knew that disgusting stench. The Black Wolves had become meat for these foul starving beasts.

However, it still did not explain the fire that had burned the neighborhood to cinders. Rat things only sought out food, there was no need for them to completely burn part of the city to ash. Kail rubbed his nose, thinking that it was likely the Blood Hawks had a hand. It would suit their interests, using rat things instead of their own men to kill the Black Wolves, before burning what was left behind to cover their tracks. Kail felt himself grow weak as he thought about what this would implied. It would mean that they had a way of communicating with the rat things, of controlling them. Perhaps it was through magic, or perhaps with simple food.

If so, then what would stop the whole city from burning?

Standing up suddenly, Kail turn around as the sound of soft footsteps came from behind him. A tall man in red was walking towards him, knives twirling in his hands. A mask covered the man’s face, crimson gloves impeccably clean. Not a speck of skin could be seen as he stopped and stared at Kail. This man was a cleaner—someone to cut any loose ends.

“So a little mouse has come out to play.” His voice was smooth and soft, holding in it a quiet confidence that matched his effortless grace. “Seems you’ve bit off a little more than you can chew.”

Without any further words, he flicked his wrist, sending the knife flying straight at Kail. With hardly any time to react, Kail dropped to the ground, hearing the whistling of the air as metal streaked over his head. He could not pause as another two knives flickered at his diminutive form, the light gleaming off their sharp tip. Rolling to the side, one missed him and sent shards of cracked stone flying into the air, the other buried itself deep into his right arm.

Kail clenched his teeth as he stifled a scream of pain. In a smooth motion, he flicked his own dagger out of its holster into his palm, feeling his fingers close around the familiar grip. Knowing that his only option would be to close the distance as quickly as possible, he leapt to his feet before charging straight at the man in red.

“So the mouse thinks he has fangs.”

Kail was in a dead sprint, suddenly dropping into a slide as a fist struck where he was a second before. He tackled the man into the floor, slashing up along the leg to make him crumple. Kail wrestled his way on top, but the masked man wriggled out of the hold before grabbing the hilt of the knife in Kail’s arm and pulling it out with a yell. With his left arm, Kail tried to keep the knife from cutting his neck, his own dagger already having been knocked away in the frantic scramble. Despite using all of his strength, the blade inched closer and closer to his skin, the light glinting in a menacing fashion.

He suddenly let go, sliding his head to the side while using his left arm to punch the man in the stomach. The action changed the course of the slash, which ran down the side of his head instead of his throat. With his right hand, he grabbed the knife, not caring as it cut deep into his palm as long as it was not his neck. His left hand grabbed the man’s throat, squeezing as hard as he could with the desperation of the soon-to-be dead. The knife blade bit into his hand, blood streaming down his arm as the wound burned with fire, but he ignored it. Kail saw the veins on the man’s neck bulge as he increased his pressure, the man’s struggles slowly growing weaker. Sputtering gasps snuck out from behind his mask, but they soon too fell silent. His arms went limp, his chest no longer heaving. He went horribly still.

A memory struck Kail’s mind, images of corpses bathed in blood. Of fountains of scarlet spraying out of torn stomachs and that awful moment wenth the light in their eyes disappeared. Tears filled his eyes as he realized that he had killed before, and that he was about to again. He let go of his grip, the man taking in a deep shuddering gasp. In a sudden motion, he tore the mask off with bloodied fingers, revealing a pox-scarred face underneath. Boils and pustules wept pus over a pitted face, the skin covered with a latticework of knife scars. A Blood Hawk tattoo sat over his right eye, obscured by leprosy and age. Kail did not want to kill him, did not want any further blood on his hands.

Kail rose quickly, the man in red still coughing as he struggled for breath. Leaving him where he was, Kail turned and ran as fast as he could. He did not know where, only wanted to run away before memories and images of those dying faces caught up to him.

As he fled, the cut on his palm dripping a crimson trail behind him.