Freaks

Raelus leaned against the wall for support. Ever since his release two weeks ago, his body had spasmed randomly throughout the day.

"Again? I told you we should get you checked," Cian complained, pulling him along as soon as he recovered. "You know we don't have all day. Lots of ground to cover."

Okay, okay, okay… Raelus relented, shaking his head in agreement.

At first, he thought the spasms were due to bodily trauma caused by the mage's failed spell. But as they worsened, he realized it was something else entirely. He had read about this back home—sudden or unnatural awakenings often had side effects.

He could feel the arcane within things. At first, he was only drawn to mana lamps that illuminated the wealthier boroughs. But recently, he had begun to feel it radiating from people—those whom Cian had termed as "Named."

He knew that drawing from the arcane required specific techniques, none of which he understood. He wasn't sure where to begin. He considered approaching Dara, but he knew he couldn't trust him. For now, he would wait it out.

Today, they wandered through the industrious eastern borough. The air was thick with smog from steel mills and other manufacturing houses. The clang of heavy gongs rang through the streets, as hungry workers hammered steel under the relentless afternoon heat.

Cian was busy locating their targets. He had been leveraging Raelus' mysterious nature to intimidate hard-working citizens into repaying their debts to Fat Freak Stan. Some days, it worked—Raelus only needed to rest his hand on the hilt of his sword while Cian did what he did best: play people like a fiddle. Just as he played him.

They arrived at a small woodworking shop specializing in ornate home decorations. The dark-skinned Nemedian inside looked shaken at the sight of Cian—for the second time that week. Raelus had never seen skin as dark as Mhueka's before coming here, but in this city, he had come across many people and things he had never imagined existed.

Cian stretched his usual grin, stepping forward to embrace Mhueka—and was met with a stiff one in return.

"My friend," Cian teased, "you're looking thinner by the day. What's the issue? I thought Nemedian food was the best?"

"It is," Mhueka stammered.

"I might have to come by your place then," Cian said, stepping closer. "To try the food, of course. I hope your wife is a great cook. Or is it your daughter?"

"Sifa is almost catching up to her mother," Mhueka replied, stalling.

Cian moved again, now standing directly before the shopkeeper, the table the only thing separating them. His gleam vanished, his eyes bearing down on the lanky man, forcing his beady eyes to well up.

"I thought we had an agreement, Mhueka?"

"We did, but I spoke to him," Mhueka winced. "I talked to His Freakiness—he said I could pay next week."

Cian shook his head disapprovingly and pulled a small, rolled-up black book from inside his jacket.

"That's not what my book says."

He flipped to a section with Mhueka's name. The shopkeeper's eyes bulged, threatening to jump from their sockets, as he read the note beside his accrued debt of 560 coppers: Break his fingers.

"Don't look so anguished," Cian said, placing a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder. "Think of it as motivation."

His grin remained, locked onto Mhueka.

"You know the drill. Hands on the table."

Mhueka stretched his bony fingers over the wooden surface. "You don't have to do this."

"Sorry, but I have to. Like you, I have children to feed. A lot more than you."

Mhueka barely managed another plea before Cian's grip tightened. The first snap came swiftly. Then the second. He went down each finger, one by one.

Raelus hated this. Hated the inhumane, ruthless nature Cian unearthed whenever he deemed it necessary. Hated the way he toyed with his victims, dragging them into a spiral of fear and despair before pulling them into a whirlpool of pain—only to placate them afterward with an illusion of mercy.

But it worked. The victims were grateful. To them, it was kindness. And after witnessing it a few times, Raelus realized Cian was right.

It was mercy.

Raelus shook his head. It was the only thing he could do for the poor man.

Does he even need me?

As they left, the thick smog thinned, and the sun melted into the horizon. Splashes of yellow and deep red fused into a stunning vermillion hue, forming a sensational sunset.

The air was no easier to breathe. The heavy scent of industrial fumes was replaced by the cloying perfumes of the city's red-light district.

The brothels were coming to life. Workers stopped for "pitstops" before heading home—if they had homes. Catcalls rang from every direction, but Raelus was used to it now. He no longer looked as he did when he first arrived. His long red hair was now short and dyed black, but the prostitutes called out to everyone regardless.

"Freaks." The second-largest brothel in the city. A home to Fat Freak Stan, but a lifeline for many women trying to carve out an existence in a world that didn't care about them.

Raelus was conflicted. He was grateful he never had to face the same struggles as those who worked here. But at the same time, he wondered: Had his father cast their people to the wolves so he could grow up safe? He was just a small boy from a small world, now thrown into one that barely seemed worth living in.

Soft hands brushed over his skin—his hands, his face, any exposed part of him. Coquettes whispered promises of pleasure, their boldest counterparts pressing their bare chests against him, teasing with rhythmic shakes. Raelus felt himself redden, his heart racing as it always did when coming here.

Unlike Cian, he would never get used to it.

Cian, as usual, flirted his way through, throwing compliments, bad jokes, and half-hearted excuses about "saving himself" for someone special.

They made their way to the top floor, where wealth was both tastefully displayed and obnoxiously flaunted. The blinding colors, the sickly-sweet perfumes, the soft music masking hushed conversations—it all reeked of excess.

Fat Freak Stan sat at a table across from Dara the Gravedigger, a map spread before them. Cian's eyes widened in recognition, his interest piqued.

They discussed something at length before sealing it with a handshake. Raelus sensed it now—the boundless reserves of violence emanating from Dara's aura.

I should be more careful around him.

"Young buck," Dara approached him. "What about that offer?"

"I think not," Cian stepped between them.

"You speak for him?"

"Apparently, I do."

"Dara! Leave my boys alone," Stan's rattling voice called out. He motioned lazily with his fat hand, his guards opening the door for the exiting Dara.

Cian pulled out his black book and slid it across the table. Stan's short lieutenant skimmed through the records, ensuring everything was in order.

Satisfied, he whispered something to Stan, who grinned before tossing a thick brown pouch of coins toward Cian.

Cian beamed, shaking the pouch excitedly. "Bonus for good work," Stan said. "Keep it up, and you might get promoted."

With that, they left.

Cian gripped Raelus' shoulder, shaking the pouch. "This calls for a celebration!"

He hurried toward a tavern nestled between two workshops. "Do you drink?"

Raelus' silence answered for him.

Cian grinned, pushing open the door. "Bask in my glory, you old bastards!"

A drunk muttered, "Who'd you rob today, Cian?"

"Your whore of a mother," Cian shot back. The tavern roared with laughter, even forcing a chuckle from Raelus.

They found a table among familiar faces, waiting for their drinks.