“Bloodweed by the stone! Ten coppers, fresh from the Skaavosi Isles!” cried out a vendor on the bustling street, his cloth-wrapped stalls displaying all manner of produce. The wood was painted a lurid red, jewels and gaudy baubles ringing in the wind as the hung in front of his tanned face.

“Cloths!” cried out another. “Fine cloths from the west, durable and cheap! Fourteen coppers a hand!” She bore some of her product around her face, hanging it like a veil to shroud her mouth.

The street was filled with the sounds of merchants hawking their wares, but that was to be expected in Mea Vatal. It was one of the busiest ports—perhaps even the busiest port—in all the Edgelands. All manner of merchants came from across the Golden Sea, hailing from islands and lands at the edge of the world. They bore fruit and beads, fabric and carvings, knives and arrows from these foreign lands. Any good one wished to find, it could be found here in Mea Vatal—for the right price, and if one knew to look in the right place.

It was not the merchants that the boy was eyeing, however. As he peered through his mask, he rattled a small bowl in his hands at the bustling passersby. Most ignored him, scurrying along their way like so many rats on the street. Some eyed him with scornful gazes, painfully cold and searing at the same time. Others went out of their way to mock him, throwing waste and kicking stones at his empty bowl. A few came to blows with him, striking his stomach and legs before spitting on his unresponsive figure.

But there were some that threw scattered coins into his bowl. Perhaps it was out of kindness, perhaps out of pity, perhaps out of boredom. The boy did not know what went through those people’s minds when they flashed their coppers at him, but it was enough. Day after day, he endured this pathetic ritual, begging for scraps in this majestic port of wealth. Day after day, he found just enough for another meal, scraped together just enough favors for some long-needed amenity. Day after day, he managed to survive one day longer.

It was never enough to get him anywhere. He was dragging himself up a sisyphean slope, always only to slip and fall back to the bottom when a day’s luck ran out. He borrowed for more food, stole clothes, even fought vendors for where he begged on the street. All this because he was an orphan. All this because he was a cripple. All this because he was a leper.

Or at least, that was what he was perceived as. With the metal mask over his features, that was the disguise that he wore. In reality, the truth of his nature was even worse than mere disease. There were no blisters on his face, no sores on his skin. Underneath that mask ran oily black lines, swirling tattoos that covered his features—the Maes. They were not paint; they were carved into his flesh, as much a part of him as the hairs on his head. He would burn them off if he could, would pay any price to be rid of those brands on his face.

A scar ran along his cheek where he had tried to carve it off with a dagger one night in the rain, when they had first appeared. He had not been born with them—he had woken one night to find them covering his face. Horror had gripped his heart that day; he had tried everything to scrape the marks off his skin. Soap, cloth, blade, it had all been to no avail. He had been forced to hide himself behind this bronze mask, lest he be chased out of the streets with torches blazing behind him.

As the sun began to set over Mea Vatal, he slowly rose from his seated position on the stones. Rubbing his sore legs, he bent over to pick up his bowl. It was pitifully empty, only forty-and-two coppers inside. That would be enough for something at least, and his screaming stomach reminded him that something was more than nothing. Cupping a hand over his bowl, he slowly began to stumble his way down the street. His one wooden leg clacked loudly against the stone, too short for him now that he was beginning to grow. It had fit him since a child, but he would need a new one soon.

Turning the corner, he soon arrived at the Crown and Lady, a well-known tavern in the city. They were kind enough to beggars—kinder than most, at least—and they were one of few places that did not spurn the boy away at first glance.

“Miss Kayla.” he spoke hoarsely as he limped through the door, his voice rusty from a day of disuse. Inside the tavern smelled of sweat and booze, both clinging to the wood and lingering heavy in the air. Candles flickered in low light through the main hall, a few women cleaning the scraps off of the tables. The boy eyed them with a hungry glance, but he dared not to overstep his bounds; this was perhaps the only place that would feed him in this crow-cursed town. He had to watch his behavior.

“Ah, Willem.” she called out cheerfully. Kayla was the singer at the tavern, her face flushed red from work and her cheeks ruddy. What makeup she wore came off in patches as she dabbed her face with a handkerchief, resting in a chair. She could not be called skinny—no Edgelander woman truly could—but her features held a motherly grace and warmth that the boy had long lacked in his life. “I had the cook save some for you.”

“I can—I can pay.” he stammered, rattling the bowl with his hand. Yet his grip was weak and tremorous, and the bowl slipped from his grasp. Copper coins scattered over the floor, rolling under the tables and chairs, and he scrambled to pick them up with weak fingers.

“Don’t worry about that.” Kayla replied, struggling to hold back laughter. “We’ve extra on the house. There’s some bits of lamb that someone didn’t finish, and some pie that got too burnt to go out.” She bent down to help him, gathering some of the coins under table legs, to far for him to reach.

His wooden leg scrabbled uselessly as he tried to get up, nearly losing his balance and flailing out with a hand for support. Inadvertently, it landed on the arm of one of the waitresses, and she stiffened suddenly with a sharp breath. “S-sorry.” he stuttered, grateful for the mask hiding his embarrassed features. He saw her eyes turn to his hand, saw the look of disgust that flickered across her expression and made her recoil out of instinctive shock. He could only pull his hand back quickly, putting it behind his back, every fiber of his body wanting to hide desperately.

“Now don’t be that way, Sasha.” Kayla chided. “You know he didn’t mean nothing.” She clattered the rest of the coins into his bowl, waving a hand for him to follow her. “Come, I’ve been keeping them warm in the back.” Humming a little tune, she bustled through the chairs towards the kitchen, and he made to follow her, keeping his gaze to the ground. He pretended not to notice the disdainful glances that the other women flashed him, clutching his coins painfully close to his throbbing heart.

“Now you just sit right there.” she commanded, disappearing through some curtains. The boy sat on a chair, his bowl of coins in his lap. If he was not to pay today, then he could put this money into his pouch. Together with what else he had already, that was eighty-and-three coppers. One hundred for a single silver, and he owed Old Man Karson three silvers for the mask. It had been a simple favor that he had asked for—Karson had been throwing the thing out anyway—but he had not expected to be charged regardless.

Still, a good leper mask stopped questions and drew more coin his way than without. He was a little closer to ridding the debt; that was still something, and in this pitiful life he learned to take what he could. Taken by a sudden urge, he lifted his shaking fingers to his face, undoing the leather straps that fastened it to his face. Slowly, it fell away, and he traced the edge with a thumb. The mask was still a strange thing, foreign to him despite the years that he had spent with it on his face. Yet before he could think any further, sudden footsteps rang out on the floor and Kayla appeared through the curtains without warning.

Hurriedly, he lifted the mask to his face, heart thumping louder than a drum as he wondered if she had seen him. Noticing her downcast gaze, a sudden relief coursed through him as he refastened the straps, inwardly cursing his own stupidity that she had almost seen.

“Here, Willem. It’s not much, but it’s still good. We’ve taken in a boy to help with the cooking—a little older than you, I’d imagine. But he burned a perfectly good pie, can you imagine? Cook Miriam was furious.” she laughed as she handed him a fork and a plate with the food. He gripped the utensil awkwardly, eager to dig into the meal, and his stomach echoing the sentiment with an echoing growl. Yet he stopped, lifting his gaze to meet hers, and she raised a hand to cover her mouth.

“Of course, of course, so sorry.” she replied as she turned away, disappearing out of the hallway. “One of these days I’ll see what you’re keeping secret, you know.” she called out in a singing voice.

“I hope not.” he muttered under his breath, lowering the mask and letting it rest on the floor before picking up the fork. It was awkward in his grip, not quite fitting in his crippled hand. His gaze was drawn to his own limb, and he looked at it with disgust. Three fingers covered with grime and dirt, a thumb with yellowed nails. And the fifth was but a stub, a twitching nub that gave a memory of wanting movement. He had no fifth finger—had been born without one. He had been graced with that stump instead, on both hands, and a stump below the knee on his left leg as well. A cripple, he thought bitterly. Nothing but a bitter cripple, and the gods thought to curse me with more still.

With shaking hands, he stabbed through a bit of the burnt pie, lifting the contents to his mouth carefully. Sauce dribbled over his chin, the food lukewarm and too-salty—clearly the work of an amateur. Yet to him, it was heaven and bliss. He chewed slowly, uncertain if he ought to savor it or shovel as much as he could. Swallowing, he felt the warm lump slide down his throat to where his clamoring stomach greedily accepted, and he decided upon the latter.

There was lamb as well, with bits of garlic and cloves of something else that he did not know but loved the taste of. It was chewy, stringy, and deliciously tender until it seemed to slide down his throat. Tears filled his eyes as he fought not to drop each piece, his body too weak to even savor this food.

There was clamoring outside as the waitresses cleaned the tables and tidied the hall after a busy night. A door opened, the wind outside ringing a bell, and the sound of footsteps. A gruff voice spoke, “You’ve any ale?”

“So sorry, sir.” came a reply, likely one of the waitresses. “The barkeeper's just went on break. I’ll go fetch him.”

“No need, I’ll speak to him myself.” he slurred, and the sound of footsteps drew closer.

“Wait, sir! You can’t go in—” Kayla cried out suddenly, and a sensation of panic gripped his heart as he let the fork fall. Yet it was too late as he bent to pick up the mask, the door flying open to reveal his unobscured face.