The sky was a brilliant azure, the sun halfway through its descent toward the horizon.
The city was as dreary as ever, misery etched into the very fabric of its streets. Ethan never grew accustomed to the city-folk—their gaunt faces, their erratic mannerisms, and the stench that clung to them.
What he had once mistaken for tunics were in truth little more than rags, a chaotic patchwork of fabrics stitched together.
By comparison, Ethan and his mother looked almost refined. Their clothes weren't new, but they bore no tears or grime. She wore a simple light-blue dress, while he was wrapped in a pale linen gown that covered him from head to toe.
If even a common infant was clad in linen, Ethan figured it wasn't nearly as valuable here as it had been on Earth. Not that he minded.
From his vantage on his mother's shoulder, Ethan watched the passing streets. He was older now, and bigger too, which changed the way she carried him. Instead of cradling him, she supported him with one arm beneath his rear, the other bracing his back.
They were moving through the part of town Ethan had dubbed the Mercenary District. Rough-looking men and women prowled the streets, armed with an assortment of blades and weapons. One might expect men of their ilk to sneer or glare, but most seemed strangely at ease—save for a few hard-eyed exceptions.
What struck Ethan most was not their demeanor, but their behavior toward his mother. She walked through their ranks with effortless composure, while they gave her a wide berth, as though even brushing against her would violate some unspoken law.
She, however, appeared unfazed.
After hours of walking—and another long ride by carriage—they finally reached the doctor's office, a reminder of how vast this city truly was.
The doctor himself was… peculiar. Ethan couldn't catch every word between the adults, but he had learned to read tone and body language. And everything about the man screamed flirtation.
His mother clearly noticed too. She kept edging back, avoiding his gaze, her discomfort plain. It was an odd, almost comical scene.
Only after repeated attempts at wooing did the doctor finally tend to his patient. He examined Ethan with professional precision, but could offer no real explanation for the infant's supposed night terrors.
With a weary sigh, his mother thanked him and tried to pay with a handful of strange teal coins. The man declined, flashing a wink as he ushered them to the door.
His mother looked at Ethan, puzzled. Ethan met her gaze with equal confusion—then both broke into quiet laughter.
---
Dusk had fallen, the sky's pale lilac bleeding into a violent crimson. Overhead, a treachery of crows circled the city as if anticipating something.
Ethan and his mother were already more than halfway to Hargette's inn. Instead of walking part of the way, she had chosen to take the strange public carriage all the way through.
Ethan sat stunned in her lap. He hadn't noticed at first, but the carriage wasn't pulled by ordinary horses. These beasts towered nearly five metres tall, with jagged spikes bursting from their foreheads—spikes that glittered like quartz, sharp enough to shear glass.
'… We're being pulled by unicorns.'
Perched on his mother's lap, Ethan could only gape. The woman sitting beside them chuckled at the boy's reaction. She exchanged a few words with his mother before reaching to pinch his cheek. Without thinking, Ethan smacked her hand away.
His mother hurried to apologize while he kept staring at the monstrous stallions.
The carriage itself was massive, carrying nearly twenty passengers, and the fare cost no more than a single coin. They rumbled through the slums when suddenly a staccato of screams split the air.
Every passenger turned toward the sound. Ethan too looked—but not at the ground. His eyes fixed on the sky, where the circling crows had thickened into a writhing mass. And amid the shrieks, there was laughter.
'The crows? Are they… laughing?'
Unease rippled through the passengers. His mother's grip on him tightened. A man barked at the driver, though Ethan was too distracted to parse the words. He squinted at the flock, and then—
A familiar voice rang in his ears.
This time, it had something new to say... Something Ethan could actually understand.
"You are in grave danger. The world has chosen to embroider you, regardless of yo—"
The words cut short as a searing agony tore through his chest. It was as if molten steel had been pressed to his heart, etching something into it.
The infant's scream pierced the carriage. Not a cry, but a guttural wail that mirrored the distant shrieks. His mother panicked, clutching him close, whispering desperately, but nothing could stop the sound ripping from his throat. He screamed until darkness swallowed him whole.
---
The world detonated. A thunderous boom shattered. The building beside them exploded, brick and dirt cascading into the street. The spiked steeds reared, bolting with such violence they tore free of their reins.
The passengers, wide-eyed and trembling, ignored the unconscious child. Their gazes locked on the wreckage, once a brewery, was reduced to rubble. From it spilled a grotesque carnival of gore. Organs lay strewn across the street, tiles drowned in crimson so deep their original color would never return.
But there were no corpses.
Silence fell. Every passenger held their breath.
And then, from the ruin, something rose.
That was just it. There was no other way to describe it. Nothing about it seemed right, not a single symmetrical feature. Three wings, three beaks, yet not a single feather to cover the gore that was it's skin.
Someone whispered, voice cracking: "An… A-Aghorath."
The word fell like iron on stone.
The creature's head snapped toward them—no movement, no transition. One instant it was staring at nothing; the next, its five convulsing sockets, none the same size, all positioned randomly on it's face like spilled marbles. Below it's beak, on its chin... There was not a single sign of purpose to its appearance, as if it had not gotten permission to exist.
Below its middle beak, jagged cracks opened, revealing a mouth that should not exist: a grin of rotting molars embedded where no teeth belonged.
The Aghorath's gaze drifted. Slowly. Inevitably. To the unconscious boy in Aurel's arms.
The central beak cracked open with the sound of wood splitting. Slowly, its halves parted to reveal a warped smile lined with dull, human molars.
The thing drifted closer. It did not walk. It did not fly. It simply was closer.
Wet, ragged breaths rattled from its maw, hot and moist on the faces of the passengers.
The treachery of crows screamed with laughter overhead.
Aurel's arms locked around Ethan. Her body trembled.
Then a shout split the tense silence.
"Just give it the damn kid!"
The same woman who had tried to pinch Ethan's cheek lunged, yanking the boy from his mother's embrace. She held him high, offering him like a sacrifice.
The monster's grotesque grin widened.
Aurel snapped. "Eldric! No!" She dashed at the woman—but before she could reach her, half the carriage vanished. One blur of movement, and the left side was gone, blood spraying in sheets that drenched her dress.
The woman still stood—if it could be called that. Her head was missing. Her arms, however, still raised Ethan high toward the beast.
Aurel quickly reached for her son, when the crow-thing appeared in front of them once again, it's menacing gaze petrifying her.
It opened it's maw wide and enveloped the little boy, when he suddenly awoke.
Aurel, couldn't move, not out of fear, there was something physically stopping her.
She screamed, voice breaking. "Please! Anybody! Anything!" Her cries echoed across the ruined street.
The Aghorath bit down.
Ethan's green eyes flared.
And then, he was gone. Swallowed alive.
Aurel froze, broken. Will too broken to even scream.
But when the monster pulled back, Ethan was still there.
Unharmed.
Suspended in the dead woman's arms, eyes glowing faintly, as if nothing had ever touched him at all.