Ashen sat in the rubble of the devastated village, heart pounding in his chest. By his side was a girl with long golden hair. Her name was Receta. She was a curious child, always there for Ashen, tugging on his sleeve when he tried to focus, beaming at small things he did not see, asking questions he did not always have. Even now, amidst the specter of death and devastation, her big eyes darted nervously from street to street, and her hold on his arm was as if it would keep her from harm.
That evening, after the police had gone and the smoke lay across the village, Ashen and Receta sat crumpled in the corner of their destroyed house. Silence weighed upon them, and it was cut only occasionally by Receta's soft sobbing. He dared not have her witness him come apart. Not now.
He crept across the floorboards to his father's room. Under the broken, splintered bed was the knife his father had secreted there so long ago—a plain, durable blade, smoothed and balanced. Ashen had drawn it time and time again in secret practice, but it was heavier in his grip, heavier with need.
He slowly added the knife to what was left of the bread and both bottles of water they had been able to save. Receta stared at him, wide and shaking eyes.
Are we…really going?" she whispered.
Ashen swallowed. "We don't have a choice. We wait until it's dark, and then we do it. Silent. Quick. Not a soul can ever know we're going."
Hours went by. The village was still under the dark sky, punctured occasionally by the far-off screams of those too weak to move or too slow to hide. Receta was clinging to him, shaking with fear and exhaustion. Ashen looked at the walls, the damaged streets, the blood-soaked dirt on which their families died. He thought of his mother, lost a long time back, and his father. Their loss had left an emptiness within him, but they had also taught him how to survive. He was not going to let anyone down.
And then the night was complete. The streets were vacant. The sky was dark and oppressive, the moon obscured by clouds. Ashen waved a hand for Receta to follow, knife strapped under his jacket. They moved through cracked alleys and fallen walls, staying in the dark, pounding along with each noise.
The countryside beyond the village was emptier than Ashen recalled—nothing but weed-filled fields and the evening breeze of insects. Each noise caused Receta to jump. She remained close, her blonde locks sparkling in the moonlight like flames.
They'd walked for a half hour when fear made them halt. Ashen pulled Emma into heavy shade of a thicket as far-off voices drifted on the breeze. Not officers. Coarser-voiced, harsher.
Crim.
Two men walked down the road, rifles slung on shoulders, laughter rough and thoughtless. Ashen pushed a hand over Receta's mouth as she made a small, terrified gasp. The man turned, stopping, his head.
"Wait," he grunted. "Did you hear that?"
Ashen's heart thumped hard within his chest. He held Receta tightly so the thumping would not betray them.
The second man sneered. "You hear rats. Get moving."
The armed men marched on. Not until the shadows of the men disappeared did Ashen relax. Receta shuddered, her eyes misty with tears.
"I'm sorry," she breathed.
Ashen shook his head. "Don't be. Just… be quiet. Always quiet.
They waited for an hour and then cautiously made a movement again. The street was interminable, but Ashen was looking ahead, his jaw locked. Receta's steps were slow, but she didn't complain.
Three hours in, shaky legs and dry throats, they first saw it—the glint of firelight on the horizon. Rising walls in the distance. The city.
Ashen gazed at the city from the thicket. Fires and lanterns glowed within and among buildings, and long shadows fell. Smoke curled its way into the air, bearing the scent of searing wood, cooked meat, and a second, harsher odor—young iron, blood, and an unsanctified thing.
"Is it… bigger than I thought?" Receta breathed, grasping Ashen's arm.
Ashen did not reply. He just beckoned for her to move closer. He could see from here the alleys coursing between buildings like veins, and the watchtowers breasting every street. The city offered nourishment and warmth, and it also offered danger.
"Stay close," he grunted. He'd learned survival from his father, and it was basic: steer clear of a spotlight, walk soft, and trust nobody.
The streets teemed with people, crowded and rowdy, but no one stopped to gaze at the two gaunt, grubby children cowering on the edge. Guards marched back and forth along the battlements, eyes fierce and belligerent, swords bared. Ashen was smart enough not to believe they'd be all right. Every step, every movement counted. They were weak, small, and inexperienced. The city would devour them and vomit them back up if they took a wrong step.
Receta pulled on his arm, asking, "Ashen… is it safe?
He shook his head. "No. Not safe. But… we have nowhere to go."
He chafed. Hunger gnawed at him, thirst burned his throat, and city walls and gates loomed higher than ever. Every moving form below was fiercer, swifter, or wiser. He grasped the knife under his coat, but not even this afforded much comfort. The knife would not save him from a score of hands, a hurled stone, or the numerous dangers in alleys.
Receta looked up at him, eyes wide with fear and trust. He tightened his hand around hers, silently promising: they would survive. Somehow. One step at a time.
They stayed in the shadows, watching people streaming towards the city gates. Merchants hauled carts, guards bellowed orders, and children played barefoot on the streets. The noise was disorientating, the sheer numbers blinding. Ashen was small, impotent, and exposed. The nature of the city crushed him: a life wasn't going to be given—it was going to be taken, fought for, snatched from others' clutches.
The sun was fully up now, shining on walls in harsh light, leaving no shadows dark enough to hide them. Ashen realized surviving to the city was not sufficient. They were still prey. Weakened, inexperienced, and unfamiliar.
And yet, he couldn't turn back. Not after losing it all. Not after the village. Not after his dad.
Clutching Receta to his hand, Ashen proceeded slowly, off towards the city gates, off towards the unknown.
The world's taken everything from me," he was muttering to himself. "But I'll never give it my freedom. Not yet. Not ever. I'll pull through it however… and I'll witness this world change, one way or another.
Two fearful, little children walked into the city one winter morning, lost among people and walls threatening danger, hunger, and hardship. Ashen did not know what lay ahead. He did not yet grasp what freedom was, or who he was going to be. But he would discover. And he would survive.