He slips in fresh mud as he turns into the alley, his heart pounding like a war drum. It was a bad idea to work outside his turf. He hears the sound of fast moving feet right behind him as the shadows of his pursuers loom against the dim light of the street lamp.

When he mounts the stone wall something claws his back and he impacts the damp ground with a hard and painful crack. The three to toughs stand over him, knives glinting in the moonlight. Slipping and stumbling in mud he gets to his feet only to feel the palm of a large hand on his chest pushing him against the hard stone surface. The knife presses against the boy’s neck. Murderous eyes and a crooked toothed smile meet his gaze.

“Tryin to work our street?” the thug barks. “Ain't no festivals on boy, ain't no truce for a fortnight an you know the penalty.”

The knife slowly moves from Draken’s neck down his midsection stopping at his crotch.

“I’m gonna cutchu where the sun don shine.”

In his panic the world stops for just an instant. He doesn’t know exactly how but the knife that had been pressed to his manhood is now in his hand. Instantly he slashes the other boy’s neck. Choking on his own blood and stumbling the thug collapses in a crimson mess. Grunting their rage the two survivors charge with slashing knives. He tosses his knife at one of them, it arcs in the air, spinning like a wheel as it cuts the throat of one boy and then the other.

Three boys twice his size are dead at his feet. Draken knows he should be feeling something but the feeling has drained out of him. Slowly, like a creeping vine it begins to touch his heart, sheer and utter horror.

That night he can not sleep, every time he closes his eyes he sees the knife arc in the air. He feels it’s sudden appearance and shudders. Magic, the only explanation. Most probably that old knife was enchanted, but something gnaws at his gut telling him it’s not the knife. He shuts it out, pretending not to know what it means and finally falls asleep hoping never to touch magic again.