The blows ceased suddenly.
Something burned inside Nwyn, an uncomfortable fever that made his skin ache, sweat rising in suffocating waves. The pain continued to throb, spreading throughout his body, but the assault had stopped without warning. He tried to blink, but his eyelids were as heavy as lead. Only his left eye responded, letting the light invade his iris.
A wet, viscous sound spread through the alley—something had hit the walls, the floor... and him. He felt the warm impact on his skin, the thick texture soaking his clothes. The unmistakable smell of iron filled his nostrils. Blood. He already tasted it in his mouth before confirming the obvious.
The man's knees gave way, bending without resistance. His body collapsed into the crimson pool spreading in every direction. But whose blood was it? There was so much that the alley seemed like a slaughterhouse. It was then that Nwyn noticed—no, felt—the absence. Something was missing from the aggressor.
The head.
Or at least, most of it. The explosion had started from the inside out, like a grotesque watermelon crushed by a war hammer. The remaining skin hung in flaps, remnants of beaten leather thrown over a clothesline. There was no skull. No eyes. No brain. Only the emptiness of an organic implosion.
The blood slithered between the cracks in the stones, forming small scarlet streams that slid toward him. Nwyn tried to dig his fingers into the ground, searching for some support to lift himself. But the pain tore through his torso in a blinding flash. His elbow gave way, and his face sank into the crimson puddle.
Something sticky clung to his hair as he tried to lift his face. He ignored the impulse to know what it was. He preferred to believe it was just dirt accumulated in the alley—and not a piece of that man.
His arm slid through the viscous liquid as he tried to rise again. He couldn't lift himself there. Forcing his legs, he propelled himself forward, dragging himself across the cold floor, spreading more of the hot, thick red wherever he went.
When his eyes lifted, he saw a figure standing in front of him. The being was cloaked in black, now covered in the dead man's blood. A thick piece of flesh slowly descended along the side of the cloak, falling to the ground with a slurping sound. Then a solid sound followed the fall. The figure had dropped a stone from its hand, which rolled a few inches beside him. That didn't matter. The smell, yes, was impossible to ignore, still lingering in the air between the iron scent.
Tobacco and cinnamon.
Nwyn, trying to gather his strength, slowly raised his arm, as if he wanted to explain, to say he hadn't done it, that he was just another victim. But he had no strength for anything else, and his words stuck in his throat, as if being absorbed by the darkness. The figure, impassive, didn't pay him any attention. It turned with a cutting coldness and disappeared quickly into the alleyways, its presence vanishing into the night like a fleeting shadow.
Nwyn's mind still spun, a whirlwind of confusion and pain. His chest rose and fell erratically, as if each breath was an impossible effort. The smell of tobacco and cinnamon lingered in the air, strange and unsettling. Something inside him screamed to move, a visceral urgency pushing him to continue, to escape that filthy, oppressive alley.
He swallowed dryly, his throat rough and dry, as if he were swallowing glass. His hands trembled, but his senses were still sharp, his instinct intact, even though it was impossible to tell how much of it was real and how much was a product of pain and desperation. As he fumbled on the ground, he found the dirty cloth, the fragment. Quickly, he tucked it into his pants, as if it could protect whatever was left of himself. Each movement made the pain worsen, but his mind was burning with alertness, guiding him, forcing him to act.
He leaned against the nearby wall, feeling the texture of the cold stones scrape his back, but it was almost a welcome sensation amidst the chaos he was living through. The blood spread across his body, staining everything around him, but that no longer seemed to matter. His legs wavered, his body heavy and sore, but fear pushed him forward.
He took his first steps, unsteady, but driven by the need to escape, to disappear into the vastness of the alleys.
The streets were suffocated by darkness and the smoke rising from makeshift bonfires. The shadows were thick, threatening, and the figures there seemed not to care about his presence, but the hostility in the air was palpable. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he realized the streets were full of figures, hunched bodies, men and women crouching near the warmth of bonfires or leaning against the dirty walls of buildings. Some whispered incomprehensible words, others simply watched, but all had one thing in common: they were there, immersed in the same misery.
As he passed a group of men beside an overturned cart, one of them shoved him roughly, without even looking at him. It was as if it were a reflex, an automatic reaction to what was around. Another, farther away, didn't even bother to look away. The indifference in the air was suffocating, but Nwyn had no time to stop, no more energy to react.
He just kept going, his steps dragging, risking being swallowed by the darkness.
Time seemed to stretch until it became something distorted, as if the very universe had decided to leave him there, lost in the city's shadows. Nwyn didn't know how long he had been walking, maybe hours, maybe minutes. What he knew was that the world around him was enveloped in an almost tangible darkness. The night was deep, and the lights of the few lanterns in the alleys flickered like distant, imprecise stars. Each step he took made him weaker, more disoriented. His feet dragged across the ground, mixing with the blood that kept flowing and staining the street, leaving a visible trail of his agony.
The people in the alleys seemed to avoid him, as if the mere fact of his presence was a threat, something to be pushed away. He could see furtive glances, expressions of disgust and fear, but no one dared to approach. The smell of blood, mixed with tobacco and cinnamon, made faces contort, mouths shut, and legs move away. In every face that crossed his path, he could feel the distance, the repulsion. The streets were as filthy as his soul at that moment, and everything felt like an endless nightmare.
It was when he heard a distant voice. Someone whispering and pointing in his direction. A man, with curious eyes and a cynical face, looked at him and, with a tone of someone who already knew what was about to happen, called for a guard. The sound cut through the darkness, echoing off the nearby walls. Nwyn's heart raced. Confusion took over his senses. He didn't know what to do, didn't know where to go, but fear paralyzed him, and at the same time, something inside him screamed for freedom.
The guard appeared quickly, emerging from the shadows with the speed of a predator. The shine of his armor reflected the lantern light in a distorted way, but the movement was clear: he was chasing him. Adrenaline flooded Nwyn's body, and in an instant, he was moving again. Without thinking, without looking back, he ran. Every step felt like an extreme effort, his muscles screaming in pain, but the escape kept him alive, driven by an instinct he didn't understand, but that pushed him to keep going. The street seemed to stretch infinitely before his eyes, the alleys becoming labyrinths, and the shadows turning into walls chasing him.
The city was against him, but he had no choice. Disoriented, confused, he ran, fleeing from something he didn't know, but with the feeling that if he stopped, he would be swallowed.
The impact of Nwyn's body against the woman was brutal and immediate. The sound of a small scream of surprise, a mix of shock and indignation, was muffled by the noise of his feet dragging across the ground, the adrenaline pulsing through his veins. For a brief second, everything seemed to stop. His eyes caught something, a fleeting vision — blonde hair, like strands of gold illuminated by the flickering light of a distant lantern. Something in those shimmering locks fixed in his mind, something he couldn't understand or process in the moment, but that stayed etched there, in the back of his mind, like an echo.
The woman turned her head slightly, perhaps to protest, perhaps to apologize, but before Nwyn could perceive anything else, she pulled the hood over her face, hiding features that might have been familiar, but that hadn't had time to reveal themselves fully. In the blink of an eye, she disappeared into the shadows, dissolving into the darkness of the alley with a lightness that seemed almost supernatural, as if she were a part of the very darkness.
But what truly cut the air was the sudden grip on his wrist. A firm, relentless touch that made him stop immediately. The pain in his arm seemed to confirm what he had already feared: the guard. The voice that cut through the silence was cold, harsh as steel, carrying a load of disdain that almost made Nwyn feel small, insignificant.
— I found you. — The words were like blades, sharp and direct. — The dirty little rat walking through the neighborhood.
Nwyn's throat tightened, panic spreading through his body with desperate speed. He tried to pull his arm, but the grip was too strong. The presence of the guard seemed to expand, a threatening shadow closing in on him, and in his mind, a single word echoed: escape. But the strength he still had was fading, and the fear of being caught now was almost as strong as the pain coursing through his body.
Nwyn didn't think, he just acted. Instinct, that primal scream for survival, took over his body. He needed to escape, and fear was the only thing driving him. Without time to rationalize, he broke free from the guard's grip with a desperate move, feeling the man's fingers slip from his hand. In the blink of an eye, he lunged forward, running with all the strength left in his legs, diving into the narrow, dark alleys, as if the very darkness were his only chance of escape. He didn't dare look back, didn't have the courage to see the guard coming after him, ready to catch him.
But the escape, no matter how desperate, wasn't enough.
Suddenly, the weight of the world hit him in the back. The impact was brutal, as if the ground itself had swallowed him. The air was expelled from his lungs in a grunt, and before he could react, the guard's knee slammed into his ribs, pinning him with immense force against the cold stone of the ground. The pain erupted like a violent wave, tearing through his body, making him lose his breath. There were already broken ribs there, marks of his internal struggle, and now, the pain of a new fracture added to those still echoing in his skin.
He tried to resist, tried to get up, but the weight was unbearable. The ground beneath him seemed to move, his hands slipping on the stones, trying to find something to hold onto. The guard's strength, overwhelming, was a continuous, relentless pressure, and fear was now a constant entwined with the pain, making escape impossible.
— What the hell happened to you, kid? — The guard spat the words with contempt, his eyes sweeping over Nwyn's blood-covered body, completely stripped of clothing. He pulled Nwyn by the neck, lifting him off the ground with a rough motion. Blood was still dripping from his back, and the guard no longer seemed willing to listen to any explanation.
Nwyn tried to speak, his tongue heavy as if it were being crushed by the pressure of fear. He tried to defend himself, tried, but the words tangled in his throat. He didn't know how to tell the truth, didn't know how to justify what had happened. His mind was a mess, and panic kept him from forming coherent sentences.
— You're covered in blood, and you still try to run? — The guard growled with disdain, pressing him against a stone wall. — What kind of shit did you do, huh?
Nwyn tried to open his mouth, but couldn't. His chest rose and fell with difficulty, his vision blurring. The guard didn't have patience. He shoved Nwyn toward the main street, ignoring any protests. The people around just watched, some with curious looks, others quickly turning their eyes away.
The cart was just ahead, the old wood creaking as the other prisoners crowded inside. The smell of sweat and exhaustion lingered in the air, mixed with the smell of fear and the impending prison. The guard shoved him inside, and Nwyn fell to his knees on the dirty, rough floor. His body still burned, muscles contracting in pain. He couldn't think, only feel. The weight of the situation pressed down on him like a shadow, and the cart began to move slowly, taking him away from what could have been his last chance to escape.
The rocking of the cart made every pain in his body pulse with unbearable intensity. Nwyn could barely keep his head up, feeling the weight of exhaustion and pain in his overloaded muscles. The nauseating smell of sweat and blood surrounded him, mixed with the scent of the cart's wood. He tried to focus, but his mind was cloudy, as if he were trapped in a nightmare.
Suddenly, the voices of the guards reached his ears, clear in the cold and stifling night.
— They found a body on Sal Street. — The new guard's voice was tense, discomfort in every word. — Head was smashed, a lot of blood. The guy was unrecognizable.
— What a coincidence... — The other guard responded with a dark, barely concealed laugh. — And this one's covered in blood. If it's not him, it's a miracle.
There was a pause, the sound of wheels creaking as the cart moved forward, breaking the heavy silence that had formed between them. Nwyn felt the air around him closing in, as if the world was shrinking, compressing him with the same pressure of an invisible hand on his chest.
— It could've been him. — The first guard continued, his voice now deeper, more confident. — The dead guy was a small-time thug, all he wanted was trouble. Was it a "thief who robs a thief"? If it was him, at least this one's done his part, right?
Nwyn felt panic consume his chest. The words were like sharp knives, each one more cutting than the last. He tried to move, but his body was paralyzed, the pain and exhaustion holding him trapped in this unbearable reality. He couldn't be guilty, not like this. He didn't know what had happened, didn't even know how he ended up in this situation. But he couldn't fight the weight of the accusation that already seemed to hang over him.
His chest heaved, struggling to breathe, trying to process the guards' words. They didn't care about the truth. They had a story, and they were ready to accept it. And he... He was stuck there, unable to defend himself.
Nwyn's heart raced, pounding against his chest as if it wanted to break free of his tight body. He opened his mouth to protest, to scream the truth, but the words simply didn't come. He knew he hadn't done anything, that he was being dragged by a wave of senseless accusation. Yet, in the eyes of those men, there was no room for doubt, only a fierce, relentless judgment. They saw a criminal where there was none.
The second guard slapped the side of the cart with his palm, the sound echoing loudly like a sharp command.
— Let's see what this bastard has in his pockets. — The guard's voice was gruff, a dry laugh slipping between his words. — I thought it'd be some butcher's crazy son, but things just got better!
Panic flared up in Nwyn like a wild flame. He felt the weight of what he carried, the fragment, the cloth... they couldn't touch them. They couldn't steal it again. But the pressure at his temples and the lack of air became a thick cloud, smothering his thoughts.
The soldier approached with a latch in hand, unlocking the cage with a metallic clink. He shouted at the other prisoners, pushing them away. Nwyn was pulled out of the cell, his awkward feet dragging across the rough ground, the door slamming shut behind him, trapping the others inside the makeshift prison.
Nwyn moved before even thinking. His arm shot out quickly, his hand finding the shoulder of the approaching guard, attempting to search him. It wasn't a strong blow, but enough to destabilize the man, surprise and anger mixing in his expression.
— Damn kid! — The guard growled, his voice dripping with venom.
His fist came fast, faster than Nwyn could react. The impact was brutal, striking him in the face with a dull sound. Pain exploded in his vision, a white flash that blinded him momentarily. Before he could process what was happening, another blow came, hitting his stomach, making him bend forward as if his insides had been ripped out. The air was forced out of his lungs, and his mouth filled with a metallic taste.
The voices of the guards, once so clear, began to distance, as if a cotton curtain had fallen over his ears. The taste of blood flooded his mouth, mixing with the scent of sweat and iron. The world spun, a spiral of colors dissolving into shadows. Each movement dragged on, his body refusing the previous wounds, as new ones added themselves, tearing at his skin and invading his mind with a deafening hum.
The last thing he felt was the pain of his body being thrown onto the ground, a heavy creak of iron, the impact of concrete against his fragile flesh. And then, his old friend — darkness. It enveloped him, swallowed him, taking him far away from that nightmare. He had reached his limit.