The cold forest faded into black.He remembered the crunch of leaves beneath him, the distant howl, the second breath he took in this new world. Then nothing.
When Seth woke again, it was to the sting of something sharp brushing across his cheek.Light — weak, gray, flickered in from a dirty window.The air reeked of herbs, sweat, and mold.
He was lying on a thin cot, barely more than a wooden board with straw beneath it. His jacket was gone. His boots, too. In their place, rough linens clung to him like paper, and his skin burned where the cloth scraped cuts he didn't remember earning.
Groaning, Seth sat up. His head throbbed with pressure. Something had happened after the forest. Someone must have found him. But if this was a hospital... it certainly wasn't one he'd trust to fix a paper cut.
The room looked more like a supply closet with a cot crammed into it. Cracked cabinets lined the wall, filled with murky vials and old bones. A tray of rusted tools sat next to a jar of something he decided not to inspect too closely.
A voice mumbled from outside the door.
Seth stood, wobbled, and pressed a hand to the splintered wall for support. The door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing a narrow hallway that smelled worse than the room — blood, unwashed bodies, and what he guessed was alcohol used more for drinking than disinfecting.
A man in a grease-stained apron glanced up from a bowl of some indistinguishable stew. When he saw Seth standing, the man's eyes widened.
"Hey!" he barked. "You're not cleared to leave, foreigner!"
Seth's instincts flared. He turned and bolted, ignoring the pounding in his head and the protests of muscles that still hadn't adjusted to this body. The hallway twisted into a crooked stairwell, and he staggered down it, slamming his shoulder into a chipped banister as he pushed through a warped wooden door into—
Chaos.
The city outside hit him like a slap: crowded, and sharp with smells that didn't belong together—roasting meat, smoke, blood, dung. Shouts and laughter mixed with metal clanging in the distance.
He ran.
The man from the clinic shoved through the door behind him, calling out again. "Hey! You owe us silver for the bed, you piece of—!"
Seth darted through a tight alley, ducking beneath hanging laundry and nearly slipping on something foul. He turned a corner, breath ragged, and pressed his back against the stone wall.
Silence.
The shouting faded. He waited a few more minutes, heart racing, until he was sure he'd lost the man.
Then, from behind him—
"Look what crawled out of the gutter," a voice sneered.
Seth spun, only to find himself face-to-face with three figures: cloaks pulled low, blades glinting at their hips, eyes sharp with hunger and boredom. Bandits. Or thieves. Or something in between.
He stepped back, raising his hands. "I don't have anything."
They checked anyway. Quick hands tugged open his shirt, patted his sides, and pulled off the scrap of belt that held his borrowed tunic closed.
"Damn. He's got less than we do," one grumbled.
"Waste of time," said another.
But instead of walking away, the first one scowled — then punched Seth square in the stomach.
He collapsed, air torn from his lungs. A kick followed, then another. Laughter. Boots scraping cobblestones. Pain.
Then — a voice, firm and clipped."City Guard. Drop it."
The bandits hissed and scattered into the alleys like roaches. Seth coughed, curling onto his side.
Boots stopped beside him. The guard wore a faded steel chestplate and a red sash, probably once a symbol of authority, now just stained cloth.
"You're lucky," the guard said flatly, offering a hand. "Most get carved up and left for the rats."
Seth took it, barely able to stand.
"What is this place?" he rasped.
The guard gave a dry laugh. "You new?"
Seth nodded.
"Welcome to Viremont, stranger. Locals call it the Sanguine City. You know why?"
Seth had a feeling he knew why.
"Because the streets bleed," the guard said, voice low. "People die here in broad daylight. The council doesn't clean the blood. Not worth the coin. And the guards?" He gestured around at the empty alley. "There aren't enough of us to stop half of it. You're lucky I was bored."
Seth winced as he limped alongside the guard back to the main road.
"Got a place to stay?" the guard asked.
"…No."
"No coin?"
"…No."
The guard snorted. "Then stay out of the east quarter. You'll end up in a ditch by morning."
Seth nodded. The guard left without another word.
For hours, he wandered the city, taking in sights that should've amazed him — towers of black stone, steam being produced from a street chef's hand, glowing glyphs carved into old gates — but none of it mattered. Not yet.
By nightfall, hunger gnawed at him. The bruises ached. And there was nowhere to go.
He found a spot beneath a worn archway between two buildings. It didn't smell too bad. There was a barrel nearby for warmth, though it held no fire, and a scattering of rags.
He lay down slowly, staring up at the stars between cracks in the stone ceiling.
New world, new rules. I guess.
His breath curled in the air.
And then, beneath the sleeping sky of the Sanguine City, Seth closed his eyes — alone, hurting, and awake in a world that had already begun trying to kill him.