He drank from a public fountain, leaning his head near the stream, fearing to take the water in his hands. The memory, the feeling, the touch, the smell of blood, all were still there. After he filled his thirst, he rewashed his hands. And again.

Stop it. Just go.

He went on, glued to the walls and their shadows, avoiding the street lights. Nobody was on the streets, not even the occasional drunkard, and that was eerie. He felt himself, checking If his belt dagger and the small pocket blackjack were still there. It was at least the tenth check in less than an hour.

Reaching the hills of Ohst Nor, the Upper City, he chose the shorter way and climbed the steps head-on. Panting, he stopped at the top, hand on the railing, taking in air and the view. Embracing the slow river, the neighborhoods of Ohst-Nuin, the Lower City. The labyrinth of narrow streets of the Port, the regular blocks of the Administration, the metal and glass pavilions of the University compound, the Markets and Stock Exchange, the Citadel…

Here and there, lights in windows started to appear, the morning was approaching. Only the Citadel showed no light, a vast dark shape, darker than the sky above. Atop the central tower, the flag hanging in the middle of the staff.

On his back, in the distance, he could hear music. The Allamain Philarmonic rehearsed before the roosters’ song, as usual. He recognized the melody, a symphonic arrangement of a tune whose author’s name had been lost millennia ago.

Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away…

With a shiver on his spine, he turned on his heels, entering the residential area with that blood smell haunting him again.