We enter the city in silence. The Kingdom of Alstidon is enormous. Just inside the towering walls, the streets are alive with activity. Merchants haggle loudly with buyers, their voices blending into a symphony of bartering and bargaining. The glow of lifespan transfers flickers like fireflies in the crowd—shimmers of light exchanged for goods. So lifespan is this world's currency as well.
Large dog-like creatures pull carriages laden with goods, their muscular frames weaving between bustling pedestrians. The smells of baked bread and roasted meat waft through the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the cobblestone streets. I can't help but marvel at this world's vibrancy.
We arrive at the orphanage still in silence. The awkwardness between Alondra and me is palpable, but I'm distracted by the sight of the building: an old wooden structure, barely standing. It leans slightly to one side, the paint chipped and the roof patched with mismatched shingles.
The door bursts open, and children pour out in waves, their laughter and chatter filling the air. Some immediately dive for the pears in Alondra's basket and mine, their small hands grabbing at the juicy fruit and biting into it hungrily.
"Mama! Mama!" They cheer.
My heart warms.
"Who's this guy?" one boy asks, his nose running with snot.
Alondra smiles, setting her basket down. "Children, relax. This is my friend, Solice. Say hello to Solice!"
"HI, SOLICE!" they shout in unison, their voices bright and cheerful.
"Are you her boyfriend?" a girl pipes up, grinning mischievously.
"No, I'm not her boyfriend," I chuckle. "How are you all doing?"
I spend the next while playing with the children. Their laughter is infectious, and I find myself smiling despite the heaviness in my chest. Their clothes are tattered, most of them wearing garments too small or too large, patched together with scraps of fabric.
What really hits me is their timers. Most of these children have lifespans of less than two months. They laugh and play with me, oblivious—or maybe indifferent—to how little time they have left.
I glance at Alondra, who is busy handing out pears to the other children. She looks... peaceful. Watching her like this, I start to understand why the children cling to her so fiercely.
But the thought nags at me: I could help. Maybe I should give them some of my lifespan. There are, what, 20 or 30 of them? If I gave each of them a year, that would be 30 years gone. A lot, but it would make a difference.
I shake the thought away. I don't even know how to survive in this world yet. I need to figure out magic first.
Across the street, the slum area of the kingdom catches my eye. Families huddle together in ragged clothing, their faces sunken with hunger. Beggars line the streets, their hands outstretched, pleading for lifespan. Unlike the cheerful children, the people here wear despair on their faces. They keep their chests tightly covered, their hands clutching cloaks or scarves as if their lives depend on it.
Alondra notices my gaze and steps beside me. "You see the slums?" she asks. "Crime is rampant there. Since you know nothing"—her tone has a faint teasing edge—"I should explain that you can't steal lifespan by touching someone. Only by killing an individual..." Her voice trails off, and her eyes drift downward.
I glance back at the children, who are still playing, their laughter ringing out.
"Fortunately," she continues, "these children and I don't have lifespans worth murdering for." Her tone is matter-of-fact, as if she's accepted this reality long ago.
The children swarm me again, tugging at my hands and sleeves, grinning up at me. How can they be so happy? They have almost no time left, yet they play as if they'll live forever.
Was I like this as a child?
"Ha ho," a deep, gravelly voice cuts through the noise.
I turn toward the sound and see a figure cloaked in black. His hood is pulled low, hiding his face. Something about him feels... off.
Alondra moves to meet him, her steps deliberate. She stops a few paces away, and they begin a quiet conversation. I can't hear everything, but I catch snippets that make my stomach churn:
"No affinity."
"100 years."
"Prediction."
Alondra's expression is hard to read. Not angry, not sad—just... disappointed.
When she returns, I ask, "Who was that?"
"Oh, just one of our usual donors," she says with a smile. But her tone doesn't match the expression, and I can't shake the feeling she's lying.
Before I can press further, the children pull me back into their games. Their laughter fills the air, but paranoia gnaws at me. Something isn't right. Something is very wrong.