Chapter 2
Lex
Freezing rain pelted the top of the lean-to in the alley just outside a tavern.
The fabric that comprised the roof and walls of my shelter was worn and threadbare, with holes of various sizes scattered throughout.
Whether due to old age or the consumption of bugs and other animals, I wasn’t sure.
But I also wasn’t in any place to complain.
I’d scavenged the ratty and torn cloth from the waste bin left outside of the washing house in the lower district.
Clothes, no matter how disintegrated or filthy, were a hot commodity for street rats like myself, and I felt no remorse when I elbowed another dirt-encrusted, feral child in the nose to reach the basket first.
What a ways I’ve fallen.
Before my mother turned me out, I would never have hurt another person, much less a child. I knew, from ample personal experience, what physical pain felt like, and tried my godsdamned hardest to make sure I never inflicted that same pain on another.
But months homeless on the streets, scrounging together scraps of food or a bit of coin from odd jobs, changed my perspective on certain things.
Like minor violence in the face of an impending winter.
While barely held together, the long cloths created a thin barrier between me and the harsh elements that plagued Vespera from late fall through early spring. We’d just entered the rainy season, and the temperature was dropping rapidly.
A steady plink sounded as the small holes in the oversaturated fabric let the rain inside my small structure.
At first, I’d simply let the drops fall until they coated the ground beneath me, soaking my only pair of pants completely until I felt the cold all the way through my skin and into my bones.
It settled there, deep and unrelenting, each night that I returned to my tent.
Though the effort was rather futile, I now kept a cracked wooden bowl I’d pilfered from the tavern my shanty leaned against under the worst of the holes in the ceiling.
The water was pure and relatively clean, so I saved it for drinking and, on rare occasions, washing.
I was sure I stank like the trash that framed the other side of my tent—I hadn’t bathed properly since even before I’d left the pleasure house and my home.
My poor hygiene habits, coupled with the location of my shelter, left little room for clean and enticing scents—other than the smell currently wafting through the open door of the tavern’s kitchens.
My stomach growled in low protest, cinching tight until I was sure I felt my organs pressed against my back.
When was the last time I ate?
My brow furrowed in thought.
An apple I nicked from the fruit cart two days ago. I’d needed something to sustain me, and found that my morals and scruples relaxed the hungrier I became.
It was just one apple, I surmised. The fruit seller had an entire cart full of them. He wouldn’t miss one.
The joke was on me, apparently, because he sent the local Mage guard chasing me through alleys after he discovered my dirt-covered hand touching his precious wares.
By the way he screamed, you’d think I killed his cat.
Or bedded his daughter.
Neither was the case, obviously.
I was just a hungry man in need of sustenance.
The Mages chased me through the streets for what felt like hours until I eventually outsmarted them and ducked in and out of a slew of less reputable businesses this side of town.
Eventually, I made my way back to my shelter, content to wait them out.
They’d never find me here, I was too far away from the initial scene of the crime.
Even if they did, I was certain they’d take one look at my shelter and deem it part of the garbage that often piled up alongside the refuse from the tavern.
That was another advantage to living next to garbage—the other orphans and street dwellers never took my things or invaded my space. We’d all been chased out of trash bins enough times to know to leave them alone.
At least until the hunger became too much to bear.
My stomach growled loudly in protest, again, and I stuck my head through the small flap of fabric separating me from the outside world.
Instantly, my hair became soaked, plastering to the sides of my head and my face.
Rivulets of freezing water ran like tears into my unkept beard, and I scratched my face absentmindedly.
I felt a hard lump on the right side of my cheek and scratched at it with my nail until it came loose, leaving a wet feeling behind.
A maggot was wriggling against the point of my nail, and I flung my hand in disgust, nearly retching at the sight.
How did I not notice a maggot attached to my face? Had I really sunk that low?
The answer was undoubtedly yes.
On more than one occasion, I thought about returning to the place I once called home.
Seeing if Red or one of the other girls would take me in.
I could avoid my mother long enough to get a bath and some food.
Rest in warmth and comfort for a few nights before venturing out again, but each time my resolve weakened, I thought of the woman I called my mother.
The memories of her striking me, words coated with hate, instantly had the thought of Red and the brothel dying in my head.
I wonder how my siblings are doing . . . if Lena is okay.
I rubbed my sternum before resting my body back inside my tent. I’d made a promise to find work and send back as much as I could for them, but so far, I couldn’t even take care of myself.
I chuffed a dry laugh that quickly turned into a cough.
Fuck.
If I fell sick, there was little chance I’d survive.
There was no medicinal care for people on the streets.
Fuck, there was barely medicinal care for those who could pay for it.
The sickness itself wouldn’t kill me, but it would be the tipping point.
Months of malnourishment left my body weak and frail, a shadow of what I once was.
At this point, most employers would turn me away on the spot. Even if I were groomed and dressed in something other than torn and tattered pants and a shirt with colors so dingy their original hues were indecipherable, I still would find work impossible.
I was too skinny, my bones too brittle to work manual labor.
Tavern barkeeps were older, and the barmaids were all, well, girls.
Even the pleasure houses would turn me out; either because word spread of my exile or because no person—woman or man—would find my body attractive in this state.
My condition eliminated all but a few jobs, and those generally required someone who was Awakened. I still had six years—if I lasted that long—before I was legally Awakened.
I could get someone to illegally Awaken me, but that costs coin I didn’t have, and I wasn’t willing to risk indentured servitude to whatever master agreed to Awaken me. I shuddered at the thought.
Rubbing my calloused hands together to expel some of the cold, I thought about a plan. There had to be something I could do, some job I could occupy.
Another rattling cough set my chest aflame.
At this rate, I might not make it through the night.
Darkness fell as quickly as the rain pelting my sorry excuse for a home, and my body wracked with shivers. Knees pressed to my chest, head bent down, I curled myself into the smallest form possible. Slowly, my eyes grew heavy, and I slipped into a fitful sleep.
“Are you awake?” a low, smooth voice called to me from somewhere in the dark, pulling me reluctantly from the embrace of darkness and death.
Am I awake? Where am I?
A large hand palmed my shoulder, oblivious or uncaring of my abject filth, and gently shook my body.
I groaned in pain, my bones aching, before my groan transformed into another soul-racking cough. The burning in my chest was unbearable, spreading from the middle of my sternum and throughout my chest cavity.
It felt as if my very lungs were on fire.
I heard a variety of crackling as I breathed, sticky spittle covering my cold and chapped lips as I tried to take as shallow breaths as possible.
I’m not going to make it through the day.
“I know, Lex. I know,” the voice answered.
Had I said that out loud? Am I dreaming?
“You’re not dreaming, but you do need help. Can I touch you?”
I cracked my eyes open enough to see a hulking form squatting in front of me. He was young, probably not much older than me, and his skin was a deep olive. Thick brows so dark they were almost black framed worried emerald-green eyes.
His face was without blemishes or wrinkles, and I could instantly tell he wasn’t from here, or at least not this part of town. My eyes scanned his form—muscular and imposing—and my gaze snagged on the glinting gold on each of his shoulders.
Two thick bars on each.
A general.
Even with my current limited mental capacity and my lack of education growing up in the pleasure house, I still would recognize a ranked Mage in Vespera.
Lord d’Refan, the youngest ruler in a century, outfitted all of his Mages in the same garb, no matter their station.
Each wore black fitted pants and a matching tunic with black leather boots.
The only identifying factor was the denoting of rank on a Mage’s shoulder.
No adornments for a low-ranked foot soldier, a singular gold bar for team leads, two bars for his general, and three for Lord d’Refan.
It dawned on me, finally, that I was in the presence of the only general in the Mage army, and he was regarding me with brows furrowed, something akin to pain and sympathy in his gaze.
Not wanting to dissect that look any further than necessary—letting people care about me was dangerous—I hastily tried to push myself to a seated position, but I found I could barely control my limbs.
My hands and arms flopped uselessly against the cold ground.
The rain from last night turned to sleet at some point, which left a slight icy sheen over everything in sight.
The temperature felt blissfully cool against my overheated skin, however, and I dropped my head to the ground, moaning slightly at the feeling.
I was hesitantly aware of what was happening around me, but couldn’t find the motivation to care or even understand.
There were the typical noises from the adjacent street that indicated early morning on this side of Vespera—the clank of wooden carts and the soft whicker of overworked donkeys accompanied the light chatter of vendors as they set their wares out for the day.
The tavern inside was just waking up, a few drunk men stumbling out of the main entrance, catcalling the women in the streets who bit back with just as much vitriol.
This area of Vespera made the women just as hardened as the men.
I could smell the gruel in the tavern as it mixed with the aroma of weak coffee from the vendor a few feet outside the alley.
Usually, the sounds and smells roused me from sleep, acting as my birdsong to start yet another day of agony and despair. But today they all blended together, and I had difficulty distinguishing one from the other.
I found I couldn’t care.
Through the haze of illness and fever, I heard the low voice of the general as he muttered something just above my head. His large palm never left my shoulder, absently squeezing every few seconds, as if reassuring himself that I was still there.
His tone changed abruptly, however, as he barked something down the alley. I shuddered involuntarily, whether from the tone of his voice or the fever, I wasn’t sure.
“Hold on just a bit longer, Lex. Just a bit longer.”
How did he know my name?
“That’s a story for another time,” the General placated smoothly, an undercurrent of worry in his voice.
Judging by his answer to the question in my head, I was unknowingly talking out loud again. Either that or he was a mind reader. That would be a first.
“Not a mind reader, Lex. You’re just delirious with fever. I’m going to pick you up now. Just hang on,” he cajoled soothingly, and I leaned into his voice.
So much tender care from a man whose legendary status was known and idolized in Vespera. For all his accolades and accomplishments, you’d assume he was a god.
Strong arms wedged underneath my head and bent legs, hoisting me from the cold ground with an efficient ease. The General carefully tucked my body against his own, and I smelled the soap used to launder his clothes mixed with the distinct scent of ash.
What an interesting combination.
How long had it been since I’d smelled soap?
I tried to push myself away from the General, not wanting to infect him with my sickness or the filth that clung to me like a second skin.
Gods, I hope I don’t infest him with the maggots growing in my hair and beard.
He only gripped me tighter as he rose from the ground, taking careful, measured strides away from the home that would have become my grave. I tried to open my eyes to see where he was taking me, but I found I didn’t have the strength.
The General walked for a much shorter time than I would have thought possible, though time was an abstract concept to me at the moment. Minutes felt like hours.
I heard the click of a door opening, and the General climbed two short steps before laying my body on something plush and comfortable.
“With haste,” the General barked before there was an audible snick, and the sounds from the street outside were muffled almost completely. Wherever I currently existed was the warmest I’d been in months. Maybe even ever.
In moments, whatever I was lying on began to sway and bump.
A carriage?
I’d seen carriages before, but they were usually the public ones anyone could hire if they had coin. They, like everything else in this part of Vespera, were rickety and old. Nothing like this.
“We’ll be at the Academy soon. Just hold on. Please.” The General’s words were a whispered balm as the carriage swayed and bumped.
Soon, I felt my eyelids grow heavy, even with my eyes closed. A bone-deep weariness settled in my body that I couldn’t shake even if I wanted to.
The warmth surrounding me was all-encompassing as I faded into oblivion.