The sunlight stabbed at my eyes as we stepped into the street, its blistering heat pressing down like a hand trying to crush us. The Ashes didn't care if it was day or night—it was always dangerous. Daylight only made it easier to see the filth and decay. The air reeked of dust, sweat, and something sour, like rotting meat left out too long.
I stayed close to my mother, her dress brushing my fingers as we moved through the crowd. The streets were alive, a chaotic mess of sound and motion. People jostled and pushed, shouting over each other as they dragged carts or hawked their wares. I kept my head down, mask firmly in place, trying not to bump into anyone. You never know who's looking for trouble in a place like this—or who's waiting for an excuse to start it.
The noise became a dull hum in my ears, but the stares never stopped. I felt them like a weight, eyes dragging over me, sizing me up. Mothers jerked their children away as if a touch of our presence might stain their purity. One woman hissed at her son, "Don't look," shielding him from me. I could still feel the weight of her gaze, the disgust in it as thick as the air itself. A boy peeked out from behind her, his eyes wide with fear and curiosity. He looked at me like I was something to be avoided. I kept my gaze low, my chest tight, trying to disappear into the crowd.
The men were worse. Their eyes crawled over my mother, leering and hungry, their words thick with mockery. I kept my breath even, but my hands trembled. I hated how they looked at us and how their voices hung in the air like poison. They could never pass by—they had to ensure we knew we didn't belong. The fear was palpable, hanging in the air like a heavy fog, choking us.
"Keep your head down," my mother said, her voice steady, though there was a slight tremor in her hands as she gripped her purse. She was always calm, always in control. But I saw the tightness in her jaw when one of the men laughed and made a crude joke. There was a flicker of something in her eyes, something I couldn't name, but I saw it. She wasn't as strong as she let on. I wasn't the only one breaking here.
I swallowed hard, my fists clenching at my sides. Hot and bitter rage was there, rising in me like bile. I wanted to scream, to lash out, but I didn't. What good would it do? Just a kid in the middle of the Ashes. My mask cracked a little more each time they looked down on me. I couldn't stop it. But I wasn't sure I wanted to anymore.
The smell hit me next, sharp and cloying. It wasn't just the streets. It wasn't just the dirt or the sweat. It was the smell of death, decaying flesh, a body left out too long. Even in the Ashes, it stood out. A man lay by the alley, his skin already blackened, his limbs stiff and twisted. His empty eyes stared at nothing. I fought the urge to gag, the scent clawing at my throat. But I couldn't look away, not yet. The body was just another part of the Ashes, just another casualty of the world we lived in.
We pushed forward, the crowd thinning as we moved past the marketplace. I could hear the laughter of the people with an addiction even before I saw them. Slumped against walls, their eyes glassy and unfocused, they were lost in their world. One of them caught my gaze—skin stretched tight over bones, a hollow stare that made my stomach twist. I turned away quickly, my hands tight at my sides. There was no point in feeling sorry for them. They were beyond help, just like us.
I glanced at my mother. She didn't flinch. She never did. But I saw her hand trembling as she adjusted her dress, her eyes flicking toward the alley where the people with an addiction lay. I didn't know if she was afraid for me or if it was just the weight of everything pressing down on her. Maybe it was both. But I didn't say anything. What was there to say?
The heat wrapped around us like a blanket, suffocating. The sweat trickled down my back, but it was nothing compared to the suffocating weight of the Ashes. Every step felt heavier like the world was pressing down on me, trying to crush me. My heart thudded louder in my chest, and I could feel the anxiety creeping up my throat, threatening to choke me.
We passed a woman sitting outside a bakery, her face streaked with flour and grease, staring blankly ahead. She didn't even seem to notice us. People like her became invisible here, fading into the background, a part of the scenery. No one looked at her. No one cared.
Ahead, a commotion broke out. A man shoved another, and before anyone could react, fists were flying. The crowd cheered, the air thick with violence. No one stepped in to stop it. Why would they? It wasn't new. Fights were as much a part of the Ashes as the dirt on the street. I wanted to look away, but my eyes locked on the struggle. The sound of skin hitting skin. The smack of a fist landing. The way the men fought like animals, rage in their eyes.
"Keep moving," my mother muttered, tugging me forward. She didn't even look back. It was all part of the game to her—a silent agreement to let it happen.
As we passed the butcher's stall, rotting meat and stale air filled my lungs. I caught a glimpse of the carcasses hanging from the ceiling, their blood still dripping into the dirt below. Flies buzzed in lazy circles around the bodies, but no one cared. The Ashes didn't care about cleanliness. It only cared about survival.
"Stay close," my mother's voice broke through the haze of my thoughts. Her hand brushed mine, a reminder that we were still here, walking and moving forward. I clung to her side as we passed more bodies sprawled in the streets, more souls lost to the city. It was easy to get lost here, to become another forgotten name. I didn't want that. But how could I stop it?
We passed a group of people with an addiction slumped against a wall, their eyes half-lidded and unfocused. The acrid smell of Drask burned my nose. The drug left blackened stains on their lips and fingers, like soot. I'd seen it before. Everyone in the Ashes had. It wasn't like the strange, elegant powders and elixirs the nobles used in Veridion. No, the magic used here was for survival, for alchemy to create enhanced drugs or illegal weapons that could explode at any moment. It was reckless, dangerous, the complete opposite of what magic was supposed to be. I couldn't imagine magic being used like that in Veridion, where it was meant to ease lives, to make life better.
Veridian. I'd heard so many stories about that place. The women at the brothel loved to talk about it, painting pictures of a world so different it didn't seem real. Anya once told me the city was so big and sprawling that people used magic to travel quickly from one place to another. Magic. I'd only seen it a handful of times and never liked that. It was nothing like what they described in Veridion. They said you could travel at high speeds without horses, just magic, and no one even thought twice about it.
I wondered, did Veridion have people with an addiction in broad daylight like the Ashes did? They had drugs, but did they hide them like their masks? Did the nobles ignore them, walking past, pretending they didn't exist? Or were the streets clean, untouched by the horror I saw daily? Maybe it was just a myth.
The heat here was stifling—or it wasn't the heat but the Ashes' intensity, pressing down like an invisible weight. Sweat dripped from my body; others did, too, sticking to me as we squeezed through the crowd. Each step felt heavier, more laboured. It was like I could feel the desperation in the air. I tried to push past it, but it always lingered—the stares, the whispers, the violence.
I avoided the people with an addiction, but they were everywhere—some sprawled out on the pavement, others leaning against walls, their bodies twitching, barely alive. One of them caught my eye. A kid no older than me, his face sunken and hollow, scarcely recognisable as human. His eyes were rolled back, his body stiff except for the small jerks that made him look like he was trapped in some nightmare. I tried not to look at him but couldn't tear my gaze away. It scared me. A child, just like me, but already wasted by the world. The drugs had sucked the life out of him. He looked more like a mummy than a living person.
I squeezed my mother's hand as we hurried on, trying to shake off the image. She didn't seem to notice, her face stoic as always. But I could feel her tension, the way her grip tightened in return. Neither of us said anything. There was nothing to say.
Then he appeared, stepping into our path like he owned the street.
Drenar.
He was tall—taller than most men I'd seen—and thin, with a long face that seemed stretched at the edges. His dark eyes always looked half-closed, like he was halfway between sleep and a smirk, and the faint smudge of makeup beneath them made the shadows seem even more profound. His black hair was tied back into a tight bun, though a few loose strands clung to his forehead, damp from the heat.
His clothes were light. A dusty beige trench coat hung loosely over his shoulders, the ends frayed and stained from the streets. The coat shifted as he moved, and I caught a glimpse of the knife I knew he kept tucked. He never went anywhere without it. Beneath the coat, he wore a simple linen shirt and trousers, both too clean for someone who spent so much time in the Ashes.
He smelled like cheap perfume—sharp and sickly sweet, the kind that clung to the inside of your nose and refused to leave. It didn't cover the other smells, however. There was the faint tang of chicken grease on his breath, probably from the scraps of lunch I spotted on his collar, and something bitter and metallic, like he'd been chewing on coins.
"Drenar," my mother said sharply, her voice cutting through the noise around us. She tried to step past him, but he moved to block her path, his trench coat swaying as he did.
"Now, now," he said, his voice low and gravelly, which made you feel like he was always telling a joke, even when he wasn't. His lips stretched into a smile, showing teeth just a little too white like he'd spent more time caring for them than he cared for himself.
His smile widened as his eyes shifted to me, and I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. A slight chill ran down my spine, and I fought to keep my hands from trembling. "Don't I even get a hello?"
"I don't have time for your games," my mother snapped, her tone sharp. She pushed forward again, but his hand came up and rested lightly on her arm, stopping her in her tracks.
"Always in a rush?" He said, tilting his head slightly, a soft chuckle slipping from his lips. The sound was smooth, almost inviting, but it didn't reach his eyes. His gaze slid over me again, slow and deliberate. "You know, you should slow down, take a breath. The Ashes isn't going anywhere."
His breath hit me, a wave of greasy chicken and something sour. It made my stomach turn. But the chill down my spine wasn't gone. It lingered.
Before I could think, my hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, yanking it off my mother. "Can't you see we're busy?" I said, my voice shaking even as I tried to sound firm.
Drenar's smile didn't falter. If anything, it grew more expansive. He looked down at me, his dark eyes glittering with amusement, but something about his gaze felt colder than the smile. His lips parted slightly as if to say something, but the words came out slow and deliberate. "Easy there, lil' man... careful," he added, his voice sliding into something darker momentarily. I felt his words like a weight like he emphasised what he could do—if he wanted to. His gaze dropped to the knife at his back, and I felt the chill creep deeper into my bones.
"Didn't realise you'd grown into such a fierce warrior," he continued, his tone casual again, but I could still hear the quiet threat beneath it. "Careful now—someone might wanna test your fighting skills." His smirk lingered as he stepped back, slow and deliberate, his boots scraping against the cracked road. He never blinked, not once, as he disappeared into the crowd, his laughter trailing after him like smoke.
My mother sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping momentarily before she straightened again. "You didn't have to do that," she said as we started walking again, her voice clipped and tight.
"He had no right to touch you," I argued, my fists still clenched.
"Don't," she snapped, her tone harsher now. "Drenar was right. Someone might kill you for doing something like that." She turned to look at me, her expression a mix of frustration and something softer—worry, maybe. "You don't need to protect me. I'm the one who's supposed to protect you."
I bit back the argument that rose in my throat. My chest felt tight, my anger still simmering just beneath the surface. But I kept my head down, letting the mask hide the emotions I couldn't control. It couldn't stop the heat rising in my face.
The air seemed to conspire against me, thick and heavy, even though the heat was merciless. Though the sun blazed high in the sky, its searing intensity didn't touch the narrow alleys of the Ashes. The towering shanty-style houses, stacked haphazardly like drunken towers, cast dense shadows that turned the alleys into a patchwork of light and dark. The shade should have been a relief, but the air between the buildings was stifling, trapped and unmoving. It felt like we were breathing steam, each inhalation thick and damp.
My shirt clung to my back, soaked in sweat dripping in rivulets. I adjusted my scarf, pulling it down to gasp for air, but the heat pressed harder against my chest. My hair stuck to my forehead, and every step made my legs feel heavier, as though the world's weight seeped into my muscles.
Mother and I walked side by side, the heat pressing down from every angle. Though the towering houses shielded us from direct sunlight, it felt as if the warmth was trapped, pulsing off the stone like a furnace. The alleyways, often shadowed by layers of rundown buildings, were too narrow and choked with debris. Sweat clung to my brow, my shirt stuck to my skin, and my throat felt parched, struggling to swallow the heat.
I always notice the way the buildings close in around us. Once vibrant reds and yellows are painted, they've faded and cracked, revealing the rough stone beneath. The lack of sunlight and the constant shade leave the place in perpetual twilight, even in the middle of the day. The air feels thick, stifling, and heavy with the silence of too many people packed too closely together. The streets hum with noise, but it's not lively—arguments, children shouting over each other, and distant cries of babies echoing from above. Even amidst the clamour, I hear the unmistakable gnawing of a rat on something. I glance to the side, where a man's body lies twisted in a heap, a rat feasting on him—another grim reminder that survival here is a constant struggle.
But mother doesn't react. She never does. She's seen too much to be startled. It's just another piece of our broken world, and I've learned not to say anything. Detachment and stoicism are how we keep moving and how she keeps from breaking down. I understand it, though it still feels wrong sometimes. I've learned to accept the harshness of our world, to bury softness and vulnerability. Her mask, her composure, is necessary. If she showed even a fraction of her pain, we wouldn't survive. So, I don't protest. I accept it like I accept the heat, the dirt, and the noise. There's no room for anything else here.
It was harder when I was younger. The lack of a comforting touch and the cold distance between us felt too much to bear. I watched the others—the children whose mothers could laugh, whose parents could hold them, whose families had the luxury of warmth in a world that left none for us. For a while, I resented it. I resented her for being distant, strong, and holding me at arm's length when all I wanted was to feel safe. But now, as I'm older, I understand. I know that her silence, her quiet strength, is just another form of love. She doesn't have the luxury of being soft—not here, not in this place, not when the world is a breath away from swallowing us whole.
The path winds upward, narrowing, the city growing denser with every step. The houses stack higher, and the staircases steepen. The air thickens, pressing on my chest as I feel the burn in my legs. Each step is a small battle, a reminder of how little this world gives.
We pass a small shop with fresh produce, the smell of fruit reaching my nose. My stomach growls, but I don't stop. My eyes flick briefly at the colourful display, but I don't linger. The tightness in my chest eases momentarily as I glance at Mother. She doesn't look at me, but her hand, warm against mine, tightens slightly. Her fingers flex, reassuring her that she knows what I need even before I do. It's not much, but it's enough. I smile faintly, not wanting to draw attention but letting her know I'm okay, even as the weight of everything presses in.
We reach the final set of stairs leading to our home. My muscles scream in protest. My legs feel like lead, but I push forward—just a few more steps. The vibrant flowers in their pots by the window come into view, a stark contrast to everything else—full of life in a place that tries to drain it. We reach the last step. The strain in my legs is familiar, but I'm always grateful for the climb. It's my way of proving I'm still here, going, and still surviving.
Mother doesn't let go of my hand—not yet. Her grip tightens again, just enough for me to feel her warmth. I do not need to hold on; it's a reminder that she's still here. Even now, even in this moment. The gesture is quiet, but for a second, it's enough.
As we reach the door, Mother pulls the key from around her neck. It's worn, like everything else in our world, but it still promises safety, even if just for a little while. I know that once we're inside, it will be our small reprieve from the harshness of everything outside. I don't say anything. I don't need to. I stand there, my heart still racing from the climb.