Parzipazio
The walls of Parzipazio rose gray and jagged against the sky. Cracks ran through the stone as if centuries and a thousand blows had carved their marks into it — yet they still stood. Massive. Unwelcoming. Like a fist of stone.
Marion paused for a moment, his heart pounding. Behind him lay nothing anymore: Ravello, ash, screams. Before him lay the city. Perhaps a new beginning. Perhaps another grave.
He took a deep breath and stepped through the gate.
The blow came immediately: the stench.
Rotting meat, stale beer, human waste — all blended into a heavy cloud that nearly made him gag. He pulled his coat tighter over his nose, but it barely helped.
The street was full of people. Merchants shouted their wares, women dragged children behind them, soldiers shoved drunkards aside. And among them: beastfolk.
They carried sacks, hauled carts, shoveled manure. Some limped, some stumbled — and whoever moved too slowly was struck at once with a whip.
Marion stopped, staring.
A young wolf-boy stumbled and fell to his knees. The master leading him kicked him in the ribs without hesitation. The boy gasped, struggled upright, and dragged the sack onward.
No one cared.
For the city, it was ordinary.
"Hey, out of the way, you country idiot!"
A fist shoved him aside. A patrician in a fine coat passed, two slaves trailing behind. Marion staggered, nearly falling into the dirt.
No one helped him up.
He pushed himself to his feet alone, anger rising in his throat — but he said nothing.
As always.
The streets grew narrower the deeper he went. Beggars sat in the gutters, stretching out bony hands.
"A piece of bread… just a piece…"
One was blind, his eyes white and empty. Another had no legs and dragged himself through the dirt on his elbows.
Marion stepped back, heart hammering.
So this is the city. The place I dreamed of.
His dream of becoming a mage felt tiny now — ridiculous amid all this misery.
He sought refuge in a tavern. The sign hung crooked, the entrance blackened by smoke. Inside roared voices, laughter, the clatter of mugs.
When he entered, a few glances fell silent. A boy in a shabby coat, gaunt and dusty — immediately recognizable as a stranger.
After a moment, they turned away again.
Behind the counter stood a tavern keeper, broad-shouldered, scowling. Marion approached cautiously.
"Something… to eat?" he asked.
She looked him over. "Money?"
He placed two copper coins on the counter, his heart aching at the loss.
"Sit."
He took a seat at a wobbling table. A fox-woman approached, a tight collar around her neck, her fur dull. She set down a bowl of stew without a word. Her eyes were empty. She did not look at him.
Marion stared at her, wanting to say something — but the words stuck.
I would have saved someone like her. And she would have killed me.
He lowered his gaze and ate in silence. The stew tasted bland, but he devoured it until nothing remained.
Somewhere in this city there had to be answers. About his return from death. About the spark of fire magic within him.
He drew a deep breath.
"I'll find it."
The Old Man at the Counter
The tavern grew louder as night fell. Voices, laughter, the clatter of mugs — and beneath it all, the strained coughing of beastwomen carrying drinks and bowls through the crowd.
Marion sat alone at his small table, the bowl empty before him, his coat tight around his shoulders. He wanted to be invisible — yet he felt the glances. Strangers in Parzipazio were like blood in the water.
"Hard day, boy?"
The voice came deep and hoarse from beside him.
Marion turned his head.
An old man stood at the counter, leaning on a gnarled staff. His beard was gray and unkempt, his eyes half-hidden in shadow. Yet they seemed alert — almost too alert for his age.
Marion hesitated, then nodded.
The old man studied him for a moment, then shuffled over and lowered himself into the chair across from him without waiting for permission. The scent of old leather and smoke clung to him.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then the old man suddenly asked, "What's your name?"
Marion blinked. "Marion."
"Marion," the old man repeated slowly, as if tasting the sound. "A strange name. Strange… but strong."
Marion shrugged. "It's just a name."
A brief, sharp smile flickered across the old man's lips.
"No name is ever just a name."
The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been. Marion felt a chill. He wanted to ask what he meant, but the old man raised a hand as if he had sensed the impatience.
"And what brings you to Parzipazio, boy? A farm fool doesn't wander into this pit by accident."
Marion lowered his gaze. "My village is… gone. I'm looking for something new. A path."
"A path," the old man murmured. He nodded slowly, as if he had expected the answer. "Perhaps power as well?"
Marion's heart jumped.
"I… I heard you can learn magic here. There's supposed to be an academy somewhere."
The old man studied him again, eyes glinting in the dim light.
"Magic, then. Fire magic, perhaps?"
Marion stiffened.
How does he know…?
"I… I don't know," he stammered. "Maybe. Someone… mentioned something like that."
"Hm." The old man leaned back. "Then you shouldn't throw yourself into the dirt, boy. Fire is proud. It listens only to those who stand — not to those who crawl."
Silence.
Then the old man tapped his staff against the floor.
"Take care of yourself, Marion. Parzipazio devours the weak. But sometimes… sometimes it spits someone back out who is stronger."
He rose slowly, leaning heavily on his staff.
"If you follow the road northwest, you'll see a tower. Perhaps you'll find what you're looking for there."
Marion wanted to press him further — but when he looked up, the old man was already making his way toward the door.
Silent, despite the staff.
When Marion blinked, he was gone.
No trace. No sound.
Only a cold shiver remained.
He sat at the table for a long time, head lowered. The old man's words echoed inside him.
No name is ever just a name.
Fire listens only to those who stand.
He didn't know why — but he felt it:
That had not been a chance encounter.
And somewhere deep inside him, between guilt and bitterness, a thought flickered:
Maybe… maybe I am more than just a nobody.
The Market of Chains
The sun stood high as Marion wandered deeper into the heart of Parzipazio. The streets grew narrower, the houses filthier. And yet more people crowded here than anywhere else. Voices echoed, whips cracked, bells rang at short intervals.
Marion followed the noise — until he stepped onto the square.
A shock went through him.
Before him rose the slave market. A wide platform framed by poles. Men and women, beastfolk of all kinds, stood upon it — chains on their wrists, iron collars around their necks. Their eyes were empty, dull, or smoldering silently with hatred.
In front of them crowded the buyers. Nobles in fine garments, merchants with greasy faces, soldiers with jingling purses.
"Fresh blood!" shouted an auctioneer with a red face, his voice piercing. "Straight from the forests, tamed and healthy!"
A young cat-woman was dragged forward. Her hair was disheveled, her gaze vacant. The auctioneer struck her across the face so she flinched.
"See how obedient she is!"
The crowd laughed. Hands shot up, coins clinked.
"Three silver!"
"Five!"
"Eight!"
The hammer fell. The woman was pulled from the platform, her chain rattling as she stumbled after her new owner.
Marion stood frozen. His heart pounded wildly, his hands trembled.
Everything inside him screamed: This is wrong.
And yet — no one else saw it that way. No one. For them, it was normal.
A second trader dragged forward a wolf-boy. Small, no older than ten. His fur was matted, his eyes full of tears.
"Still strong enough for field work!" the auctioneer called. "And if he dies — no loss! Cheap, cheap!"
Marion sucked in a sharp breath.
How… how can they…?
But the crowd cheered, bid, laughed. The boy was sold for less than a slab of meat.
A thick, red-faced man beside Marion nudged him with his elbow.
"What's wrong, lad? Don't want to bid? Cheap goods today. A young female for just a few silver."
Marion recoiled, gagging. "No… I…"
The man laughed crudely. "Too poor, eh? Then don't stand there gawking while your betters do business."
Marion turned away, blood rushing in his ears.
His gaze fell back on the platform.
A new "lot" was dragged out — a fox-woman. Younger than the others, slender, with tangled hair. A collar glowed faintly at her throat.
For a moment Marion thought it was the same one from the forest. His heart raced, the memory of her pleading crashing over him.
But this one was different — healthier, not marked by flight.
And yet… her eyes met his.
A look — pleading, sharp, everything at once.
Help me, those eyes said.
Marion staggered back.
No… not again. Not once more.
The auction continued, the shouts echoing across the square. For Marion, faces, voices, bodies blurred together. Only one thing remained clear:
This world lived on chains.
And he… he was nothing more than a nobody in the crowd.
But deep within him a thought flickered:
If I master magic… if I become strong… maybe I can change it.
Or at least survive it.
He left the square on unsteady legs, the cries of the traders behind him, the clinking of chains echoing in his head.
The Fire Pit
The streets grew narrower the deeper Marion moved into the belly of the city. The noise of the market faded, replaced by a heavy smell in the air — sweet, rotten, suffocating.
He followed the alleys until he reached a clearing.
Before him yawned a hole in the pavement, as large as a pond — but instead of water, flames roared within it. A constant fire, fed with wood, refuse — and bodies.
Two men pushed a cart forward. Upon it lay figures, motionless, curled together like livestock. Some were clearly dead; others still moved faintly.
Beastfolk — emaciated, too weak to work, sick, useless in the eyes of the city.
Without hesitation the men tipped the cart. Bodies rolled into the pit, falling into the flames. A shrill scream rose briefly — then the fire swallowed it.
The crowd on the square barely reacted. A few laughed. One tossed an apple core after them.
For the people of Parzipazio, it was routine.
Marion stood rigid. Smoke stung his eyes; his stomach twisted. He wanted to scream, to run, to do anything — but he could only stare.
This is this world, he thought. This is what order looks like here.
He heard the sermons of the Church of Light echoing in his mind:
"What bears no name is without order — and therefore dangerous."
Now he understood.
Beastfolk were trash. Fuel.
And no one questioned it.
A small body caught on the edge of the pit — a beastfolk child. He tried to pull himself up, fingers clawing at the stone.
A guard stepped forward and kicked him back down.
A scream — then the flames consumed him.
Marion tore his gaze away, staggering backward. The air felt suffocating, the ground unsteady.
If I stay, this world will burn me too, he thought. Sooner or later.
He moved away from the pit, step by step, until the stench grew weaker. The streets grew brighter again, filled with voices — but for him everything remained dark.
The old man's words echoed within him:
"If you take the road northwest, after an hour you'll see a tower."
At the city gate he paused briefly. Merchants pushed past, driving slaves ahead of them.
No one paid him attention — and that was good.
He drew a deep breath and looked back at the walls of Parzipazio.
Stench. Chains. Fire.
All he had found there was misery.
Then he stepped across the threshold.
Before him lay the open road — fields, forests, distant hills.
And somewhere beyond, if the old man had spoken true, he would see it:
The tower.
Marion pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders and lowered his gaze.
"Maybe… I'll find out there what I am."
And so he left Parzipazio — with the feeling that for the first time since his death, he was not merely fleeing,
but walking toward something.