Four Conduits have been dismantled since my meeting with the Conclave. Our progress is incredible, and I feel a huge weight easing off of my chest with each passing day. If all goes well, by the end of next year I may be able to travel to Aljana and retrieve my treasure. I am glad it remains safely in the care of Osman.

Since Asad forced Osman to cease guild operations, his letters have been growing scarce. He fears Asad and his Vizir may be planning for the worst. He has guaranteed that if Asad were to eject the mages, he would take my treasure further south, and settle along the coast of Ulfala until my deconstruction project is complete and the political turmoil settles down.

Dated 25th of 1st Moon, Year 982 of the 100th Millennium, from a journal found in the ruins of Castle Reid

Raafi was afraid to knock upon the door that stood before him, though the smell of bread was strong and inviting. He supported the weight of Sallah, as slight as he was, against his shoulder, and he swallowed as he considered dumping the boy on the doorstep and fleeing, running through the city gates and across the desert where he would never be found.

The door was a thin, warped board on rusted hinges and lacked a proper handle. It was set in the front wall of a ramshackle house near the inner wall, squeezed between tenement buildings in the poorest human neighborhood of the Southern District.The walls were bare of paint or trimming, and the roof looked ready to cave in on itself. This was the dreaded place called home.

He recalled a time when he was not afraid of the place called home though at that time it was a different home entirely, and he lived with a mother and father who loved him deeply. These days, as he approached pubescence, his parent’s faces had become blurred and distorted in his memory, but their voices still resonated in his heart.

Raafi’s father had been a bricklayer who helped maintain the walls of Aljana, and his name had been Jahid. His mother worked in a textile factory in the Lustalma district, producing rugs for export, and her name had been Aliya. Raafi and his parents had lived in a well to do neighborhood of the Eastern District, safely buffered from the nonhuman refugees taking up residence in the Western District and trickling into the North and South.

In the traditional Sarrasad home, the mother would maintain the home, and the father worked in the city, but Jahid and Aliya were not traditional Sarrasad. As Jahid worked in the outer districts, and was closer to home, he bore the burden of suppertime. In the afternoons Raafi’s father would take him to the market and they would buy ingredients for dinner. His father would teach him to cut vegetables and handle meat, and they would cook as a family.

Aliya’s work in the factory was far from home. It took her an hour to walk to work, and another to trek home. By the time she reached the house, dinner was prepared, and they would eat as a family. They would clean as a family. Then they would sleep.

When they did not have to work, Raafi’s mother and father would take him to the gardens, they would hold his hands and swing him over the cobbled walkways, and they would chase him and each other in games of tag. The small family earned odd stares and looks from the other sarrasad, but Jahid and Aliya did not care. Their voices still resonated with Raafi, because in the seven years that he knew them, there was never a time someone in their home did not say “I love you.”

When Jahid and Aliya had been killed in an attempted robbery on their home by nonhumans, the words “I love you” died with them. The Saqr guards had dragged Raafi from under his bed, past the gutted corpses of his parents, and discarded him here, in front of this door, at his new home. In this place, “I love you” had no meaning. They were empty words, and they made Raafi sad.

When the door had opened for the first time, Raafi was not met with a kind adult, ready to care for him, or love him as Jahid and Aliya did. Instead, he was set face to face with a grim looking boy of a breed he’d never seen before, with pinkish pale skin, and sad blue eyes. He may have been sad because he had no shirt to cover the welts on his back, or the bruises on his arms. Perhaps he was sad because his stomach was sunken with hunger.

Raafi listened as this boy, Callum, guided him through the house, introduced him to the other boys, taught him the rules, and how to earn his nightly meal. Raafi learned that to survive, you must be clever. To eat, you must work hard. To be loved, you must be the best.

You “earned” by stealing anything valuable you could get your hands on without being caught. If you were caught, you were disavowed from the house, and your hand was chopped off by the Saqr guards per the Shah’s laws on thievery. You presented what you had “earned” at home, and in return, you would be allowed to eat. Those were the guiding principles on which they staked their lives by becoming orphans in Aljana.

Raafi soon found himself happy that Callum had answered the door. Callum, who did not know who his parents were, nor how a child of Northern blood like himself had come to Aljana in the first place, had spent his life living hard and alone. He was frequently rejected by the older boys because he was different, bullied out of his earnings, his blankets and his meals.

The bruises and welts were not a result of bullying. Fighting was strictly prohibited in their home, and no one would flex that rule. Punishments were inflicted by one person, and she did not tolerate boys who could not earn their keep.

Raafi and Callum, as the youngest and weakest, quickly became friends, and soon after, they were partners. Raafi had the benefit of being sarrasad, as he drew less attention to himself on the streets. Callum had the benefit of being able to read, and he had both a clever streak and a showman’s flare that allowed him to be a great distraction in times of need.

Together, they earned their keep and then some, becoming the greatest earners in the house and the envy of the other boys. As many grew older and moved out, they took newer boys under their wing, and taught them how to survive as urchins of Aljana. Sallah was the youngest, having arrived the previous year, and he’d become an asset in his own right.

As the oldest, and as the best, Callum and Raafi had become her favorites. They got the most food, and the best beds. They were comfortable, or as comfortable as they could be. Now, with this debacle, their position had become unstable, and Raafi was afraid.

Bianpao had done well in drawing the orcs away from Raafi and Sallah, and Raafi felt a small regret at having referred to the young hou as a “monkey”. He’d given them a chance to escape, and now they were home.

Shifting Sallah against his side, Raafi knocked on the door, and in short order it swung open. A lanky thirteen year old boy in patchwork clothing stood before them, and he looked them over.

“What happened to him?” he asked, taking Sallah by the arm and helping him inside. “We heard that there were orcs chasing some kids around the district. Was it you and Sallah?”

“It was bad,” Raafi said, handing Sallah off. “Take him to bed Nasir, I’ll go get his dinner.”

“Did he earn it?” Nasir remarked. Raafi shook his short pants, and coins jangled about inside. Nasir nodded in approval, but stopped as Sallah spoke.

“Raafi,” the boy said weakly, leaning against Nasir to stand on his own. Sallah did not look as beaten down and exhausted as he had when he’d been carried from the gardens, but his complexion was ashy and he looked ready to collapse. “Where’s Cal?”

Nasir looked to Raafi with wide eyes. “Callum didn’t come back with you?”

Raafi shook his head.

“He distracted some of the orcs and we split up,” he said. “He’ll be back by morning.

“Mother is coming home early!” Nasir said, his voice emerging as a quiet hiss. “She sent a message ahead, she wants Callum in her rooms when she gets there!”

Raafi felt the blood rush to his face and his heart pounded in his chest as he realized that if Callum were not there, then Raafi would have to answer for him as the second oldest.

There were no boys older than Callum in the house at present, despite there being some fifteen to twenty orphans living there at any given time. At fourteen a sarrasad boy was of age to become a man, and they were conscripted into the Caliphate’s army as a tribute to the Shah. Many of the boys before them had become Saqr Guardsmen, some had fallen in campaigns in far off lands.

That only applied to the boys who had been good earners of course. Sallah did not know what happened to boys who did not earn their keep. Callum knew, or he seemed to know, but he would never tell.

“Cal will be back,” Sallah replied to Sallah, who smiled weakly and waddled off towards bed. Raafi spoke to Nasir. “Get him his dinner. I’ll be in Mother’s room.”

Nasir did as he was told, as a younger boy ought to, and Raafi proceeded to Mother’s room. The house the urchins resided in was provided by the Shah as a place for them to sleep, but his coin did not maintain it. The walls were dilapidated and worn, and the floors had holes that peered into the cellar. The boys all shared a single bedroom, with the youngest and lowest earners sharing straw mats, and the older, higher earning boys sleeping in cots and proper beds.

The kitchen was similarly deteriorated, but they kept their dishes clean and took turns on washing. It was dinner time, and most of the boys in the home were hard at work baking flatbread and boiling rice, preparing the evening meal. Raafi, who had learned to cook from his father, had done his best to pass on what he remembered to the newcomers, so they could at least feed themselves with what food was provided by Mother in return for their bounties.

At the back of the house, down a side hall, was a door that was set apart from the rest of the environment. It was built of heavy, finely varnished wood, colored with red stain. It had no handle, but at eye level for Raafi was a heavy iron knocker. The door was outlined with a text that Raafi could not read, the characters reflecting light at different angles as if they were made of an ethereal metal, or perhaps a glimmering liquid.

Raafi pulled the knocker back and bashed it against the door three times. After a moment, it swung inward. On the other side was a stunningly beautiful woman, short for a human, with dark skin, thick curly black hair and lips painted red. She wore a sheer, see-through dress, and nothing underneath, and Raafi caught himself staring at her before she cleared her throat.

“H-hi Adia. I-I’m going to wait for M-Mother in her room,” Raafi stammered. “Can I come through please?”

The woman, Adia, looked him up and down dismissively before she spoke in a thick Ulfalan accent with heavy emphasis on vowel sounds.

“She only wants the Northboy today,” she said. “She did not ask for you.”

“Callum isn’t at home,” Raafi replied, reaching into his pockets to fish out the two bags of gold he’d stolen from the merchants that afternoon. “I have to speak for him. I brought this.”

An eyebrow raised, Adia asked, “Where is he then?”

“I don’t know,” Raafi said, his brow creasing with frustration. “Just let me in!”

Adia rolled her eyes and stepped aside, allowing Raafi through. The rooms at the other side of the door were another world entirely, with pillars of marble supporting high stone ceilings, and standing on clean tile floors. The rooms were humid and steamy, with powerful incense permeating the air and illuminated by enchanted stones. Raafi knew that this room was not a part of the house the orphans lived in, but he did not understand what magic brought him there.

Raafi padded shoeless into the next room, a wide area where most of the room was concealed behind white curtains. The steam was strongest here, and more women could be heard behind the barrier, speaking foreign tongues and moving about in water. Boys, urchins and orphans like Raafi walked about carrying trays of food and drink, taking them behind the curtain as an offering to the bathers.

Raafi feared these Ulfalan women, because like Mother, they were foreign to the Sarrasad Caliphate, they had cruel tempers and disarming beauty. Like her, like Callum, they knew magic. The adults believed there were no mages in Aljana. Maybe the Shah believed that too, Raafi mused silently. Aljana had many secrets that few knew of, but the urchins had learned to take advantage of that.

Raafi came upon another red stained door, without runes, and knocked. There was no answer, so he allowed himself in, pushing the door open and entering a wide, circular bedroom. The center of the floor comprised a perfectly round bed framed in see-through curtains that hung from the ceiling. It was covered in fine fur blankets, with large soft pillows. Two boys, older than Raafi, likely from another district slept on the bed, their bodies draped in the blankets.

Raafi swallowed. He had been in their position before, draped in those blankets, along with Callum. He did not like being in this room, and he knew it was worse for Callum, who often spent the night outside sick when he returned from this chamber, his retching heard through the walls of their ramshackle house.

At the other end of the room was another door, which did have runes about the edge. Raafi knew that this door led to Mother’s study, which lay within the Shah’s palace. Raafi knew this, but he had never been there. He’d learned of it from Callum, who had been caught stealing books from the shelves inside.

There was a small pillow on the floor before the bed, meant for presenting tribute to Mother, and Raafi rested upon it, setting the bags of coin on the floor before him. He sat silently, anxiety and dread churning in his gut as he waited for Mother to arrive.

Eventually, the door to the study opened, and the clicking of shoes upon tile signalled the presence of Mother. She stepped around the bed, and he looked up to see her. Shaba, as she was known to the public and the nobility, Royal Vizir to the Padishah Sultan, Mother to Urchins looked at Raafi with malevolent disdain as she sat upon the edge of the bed.

“Where is Callum?” she demanded. Raafi stared at her, shocked at her appearance. She had become thinner since last he saw her, with gray streaks in her hair. Her breasts were not as full, and she had wrinkles on her face.

The boys in her bed woke from their slumber, and crawled across the bed to sit at her sides, and she placed her long, pointed fingers upon their heads. They did not acknowledge Raafi, their eyes vacant and staring off into space as if their attention were on some invisible object far far away.

“It… there… we were chased,” Raafi struggled to say, but Mother Shaba raised a finger to silence him.

“You stole an item from a wizard and were pursued by orcs,” she finished for him. “I understand that this was accomplished with Callum’s limited grasp on… magic.”

The last word rolled off her tongue with a putrid disgust as her face scrunched up as if she’d eaten something sour.

“Y-es Mother,” Raafi replied. “Callum used magic to steal it, and then to help us escape.”

“He knows the rules,” Shaba said. “If he continues to use magic, I cannot protect him from the Shah’s wrath. I will speak to him about this.”

Before Raafi could speak, Shaba pulled back the head of one of the boys, and leaned in close, pressing her lips to his forehead. Neither boy reacted.

It was not a kiss of affection, but a whispered curse. She muttered words against the child’s skin that echoed across the room, but were incomprehensible to Raafi’s ears, and the child began to change before him, his skin growing tight against his bones, his eyes becoming sunken and hollow. Raafi closed his eyes tightly as life was taken from the boy on Shaba’s bed.

“Look at me Raafi.”

He opened them slowly, to see her stroking the head of the other boy. The first lay lifeless upon the blankets, the copper tone of sarrasad skin now ashen gray. While he lay dead, the other boy did not react. Shaba looked as youthful as she ever had, her hair full and dark, her skin smooth, the contours of her body curved and shapely.

“Have I ever told you why the sisters and I can use magic,” she said, running her hands through her hair as she delighted in her reinvigoration. “But not you boys?”

“N-no Mother,” Raafi said.

“Because,” she said, her voice taking on an edge. “Men who wield magic inevitably fall victim to the power it grants. Men who wielded magic betrayed our Padishah Sultan, and were thrown to the blade. Be sure to warn Callum of that the next time he seeks to betray me, as he inevitably will!”

Raafi recoiled at the venom she spat at him, and closed his eyes, but when she spoke again, her voice had softened.

“I am not angry, this time,” she said, letting out a long exhale. From between Shaba’s lips fell a thin black smoke, scentless to Raafi, but inky and fluid. The smoke expanded before her, and then dissipated to nothing. “I am willing to forgive, if forgiveness is earned. The object you took is very precious to me Raafi. If Callum has it, I need to speak with him. Where is he?”

Raafi swallowed, and looked around the room, as if he were considering a hasty escape.

“Callum doesn’t have it,” Raafi said quietly, resigning himself and looking at the floor.

Shaba was quiet for a moment, staring down at Raafi with a coldness that froze his heart and kept him from breathing.

“Who has it?” She asked, each word slow and deliberate. “Where is the key Raafi?”

“Key?” Raafi asked, looking up to see the open palm of Shaba streaking towards him, unable to react in time to keep it from striking him across the cheek. He let out a cry and gripped his face, rolling on the floor as she loomed over him.

“Where is it?!” she screamed down at him, her hand held high.

“Mother please!” Raafi wept openly, trying to crawl away from her. One of her rings had split the skin of his cheek, and he was bleeding. “I brought you gold! I brought gold!”

“Gold?!” She grabbed Raafi by the hair and lifted his head enough to allow her to strike him again in the same spot, letting him go at the last second so he would hit the floor harder. “I want that key! Tell me where it is you worthless piece of shit!”

She left him and went to the bed, flipping the blanket aside to retrieve a length of belted leather, with a metal stud at the end. Upon seeing it, Raafi’s eyes went wide, and he screamed a name.

“Sallah! Sallah had it! He threw it away! I didn’t lose it! Please Mother, pleeeeease!”

The pleading did not stop Shaba from using the belted leather. It never did. As the sounds of metal striking flesh and screams filled the chamber, Shaba’s voice carried out of the room, and to the ears of her bathing apprentices and the boys in the bath house.

“Bring me Sallah! Find Callum! I want them here, NOW!”