The Shadow District. Ah, the Shadow District. The sort of picturesque place that Raven's End's official cartographers conveniently 'forgot' to include on their maps. The Raven's End Guard, those bastions of law and order (at least during daylight hours and on the main streets), had a tacit, very civilised arrangement with this jewel of the harbour: they pretended the city's dregs didn't congregate there for flagrantly illegal activities, and the dregs pretended they weren't openly mocking their pathetic attempt at authority. A perfect symbiosis, fuelled by bribes and a disinclination to deal with truly complicated problems.
(Funny being back in this charming neighbourhood,) I remarked to Eos as I was led, along with the other newly-acquired 'units', along the docks that creaked and reeked of dead fish and frustrated ambitions. (Remember that colourful chap last week? The one who took three knives in the back and carried on drinking his mead at the Rusty Hook Tavern as if it were just a particularly blustery Wednesday?) Human resilience, or perhaps just alcohol-induced stubbornness, never ceased to amaze me.
[Wasn't he that peculiar individual who was wagering his own internal organs in a card game with a sewer golem?] Eos's memory, as always, was impeccable and delightfully specific.
(No, that was another one, the organ-betting sort. The chap with the knives was the one trying to flog an 'authentic Southern Sea mermaid' which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be just a particularly ugly manatee with a poorly-fitted seaweed wig and a look of profound resignation.) The creativity of the local con artists was, at times, admirable.
The Shadow District was where Raven's End swept its sorriest secrets under the rotten rug of the quayside. Where renegade, unlicensed mages sold forbidden spells in dark alleys, spells that promised eternal love or the ability to turn your enemies into slugs, usually with unpredictable and smelly results. Where merchants with oily smiles and cunning eyes traded artefacts stolen from the Magic Council's own museums, often before the theft was even noticed. And where assassins for hire, with dubious professional ethics and an appreciation for cheap ale, discussed contract prices over tankards of mead that were probably more poisoned than the conversation. It was, in short, a miscreant's paradise.
(That warehouse over there, with the crumbling roof and obscene graffiti?) I mentally pointed to a particularly decrepit building that looked on the verge of architectural suicide. (Last week, there was a supposed 'dragon hunter' – drunk and stinking like a skunk – trying to sell 'authentic fire dragon scales'. He ended up swallowing his own painted fish scales when the Smugglers' Guild, who have a keen eye for forgeries, discovered the fraud.) Spontaneous entertainment was one of the place's best qualities.
[Why exactly were we in that specific and insalubrious location last week? The sheer volume of absurdities you witness in this city overloads my memory banks. I require more storage to archive the insanity.]
(I was discreetly delivering a small, suspicious package to an anonymous client right at the time of the incident. You know how it is, the universe has impeccable comedic timing. And I have a penchant for watching chaos unfold.)
It was the sort of place where you could buy absolutely anything, provided you had the right coin, the necessary lack of scruples, or a juicy secret to trade. Stolen memories, sold in glittering vials. Lost souls wagered in nightly games, trapped in magical contracts with demonic small print. Where pirates with eyepatches and peg legs traded cursed maps, leading to treasures that would likely kill the seeker, for illegal potions promising superhuman strength or the ability to breathe underwater (with side effects like developing permanent gills). And where cultists with names like The Children of the Purple Tentacle performed forbidden rituals in the mouldy basements of taverns that had seen better days, usually involving a lot of off-key chanting and sacrifices of unlucky chickens.
(The only law here is the glorious, anarchic absence of any recognisable law,) I continued my sociological observation as the cultists pushed us with rude impatience along the slippery quayside. (Except, perhaps, the unwritten rule of not irritating the Harbour Baron. Remember him, Eos? The colourful chap with a hook for a hand who lost his eye in a particularly fierce brawl with a sentient bottle of rum that refused to be opened?)
[That imposing individual who, according to rumours, controls the black market for stolen power lacrima and has a gold tooth that is actually a key to a secret vault?]
(The very same. Nasty rumours, and the pleasant ones too, say he keeps a giant pet octopus, affectionately nicknamed 'Nibbles', that feeds exclusively on defaulting debtors and overly curious Magic Council tax inspectors. It's probably just an urban legend to keep people in line, but honestly, who in their right mind would want to find out the truth?)
The docks groaned beneath our feet, a discordant symphony of rotten wood, rusted metal, and the dark magic that seemed to seep from the warehouse walls like an incurable disease. Fluorescent rats – likely the result of some magical experiment gone spectacularly awry, perhaps an attempt to create glow-in-the-dark rodents to save on candles – scurried between crates of contraband bearing mysterious symbols and labels from exotic, and probably non-existent, destinations.
(Did you know there's a pub here, hidden behind a launderette that never washes anything, that only accepts secrets as payment? The owner is a collector of information, a whisper in the darkness. They say half the city's scams and betrayals begin with a whisper at that bar, and the other half end with someone bleeding out silently on the docks under the moonlight.) A fascinating ecosystem of predation and opportunity.
[You truly know the worst and most sordid places in this city with a somewhat disturbing familiarity, Azra'il.]
(Why, Eos, they are the most interesting places, the most… authentic. Where else would you see a group of desperate mages fervently trying to resurrect a dead fish because said fish owed them a considerable sum from crab race betting?) Human ingenuity in the pursuit of debt recovery is something worthy of study.
The Shadow District was, in essence, Raven's End's drain. The place where the child cried and the mother not only didn't see it but was probably the reason for the tears. Where every alley had a bloody story to tell, every tavern a dark secret kept under lock and key (and probably cursed), and where even the shadows seemed to have their own shadows, denser and more menacing.
(Once, I saw two dodgy-looking blokes fighting with tooth, nail, and low-level spells over a forbidden grimoire, right there, near that pile of stinking fishing nets,) I continued my casual narrative as the cultists unceremoniously shoved us along the slippery quay. (The book, of course, was a cheap forgery, probably filled with cake recipes instead of demonic invocations. But they were so drunk and determined that they ended up using magic on each other and, in a fit of magical incompetence, turned half the dock into a wobbly, sulphur-smelling pudding.)
[How does no one, no authority, do absolutely anything about this… den of illegality and danger?] Eos's logic struggled to find a rational explanation.
(Do what, my dear AI? It's like trying to clean the ocean with a sieve. The Shadow District acts as a release valve, a sort of social sewer. All the rubbish, all the rot, all the dregs of the city end up concentrated here. Even the Raven's End Guard, in their rare moments of lucidity, know it's better to keep the nasty, smelly things concentrated in one place rather than spread throughout the city, causing trouble in 'respectable' areas.) A pragmatic, albeit cynical, form of damage control.
The cultists' black ship, moored at the furthest, most decrepit quay, didn't look out of place at all in the gloomy, threatening landscape. It was just another dark secret in a sea of illegalities, another piece in the chaotic jigsaw puzzle of the Shadow District.
(At least they chose the right place to conduct their child-abduction activities,) I observed drily, as we were forced up the unstable gangplank. (Here, even if children screamed, the only ones likely to hear would be too busy screaming about their own misfortunes or trying to sell the copyrights to the screams.)
[You say that with a casualness bordering on the sociopathic, Azra'il.]
(It's the Shadow District, Eos. Here, the unsettling is casual, the casual is suspect, and normality is a distant myth. It's a matter of cultural adaptation.)
"Get a move on, you useless worms!" one of the cultists, wearing a metal mask that probably stank of sweat and frustration, bellowed, shoving the more hesitant children up the makeshift gangplank. Delicacy was clearly not one of their strong suits.
Their ship bore the dramatically pretentious name "Black Tear" – a name so clichéd and juvenile it almost made me roll my eyes visibly. It was the sort of vessel one would expect to find permanently moored in the Shadow District: built entirely of dark wood varnished with what looked like pitch, with patched sails that seemed to have been dyed with dried blood, and an aura of dark magic so dense and palpable it practically dripped from the sides like oily drool.
"Not bad, in terms of ambience," I murmured to Eos as we stepped aboard, the deck creaking beneath our feet. "I've seen more genuinely frightening ghost pirate ships, but I must admit, they're putting a fair bit of effort into the gloomy, gothic aesthetic. Seven out of ten for the attempt."
[Are you actually, seriously, appraising the stylistic appeal of the ship that is currently abducting us at this very moment?] Eos's incredulity was almost palpable.
"Why, Eos, if I'm to be abducted against my will, at least let it be with a modicum of class and good taste in the décor. Small details make all the difference."
The cultists, with the gentleness of a troll with toothache, shoved us down the stairs towards the dark, claustrophobic hold. The stench that hit us was an interesting, pungent mix of centuries-old mould, stagnant seawater, and the subtle but unmistakable aroma of despair – the three most popular and persistent perfumes of the Shadow District. A classic.
"MOVE IT, SCUM! OR YOU'LL FEEL THE CARESS OF MY STAFF!" another cultist, this one with a voice that sounded like gargling gravel, roared, his makeshift magic staff crackling with unstable, rather pathetic purple energy.
(Amateurs,) I thought, with an internal sigh of disappointment. (Can't even make a convincing threat properly. The Harbour Baron, with a simple raise of an eyebrow, would make these aspiring villains look like beginners in an infant school intimidation class.)
The hold was exactly what one would expect from a ship operated by kidnapper cultists on a limited budget and with dubious taste: dark as the inside of a black cat, damp as a forgotten cave, and already crammed with frightened, crying children, chained to the walls with magical shackles that emitted a faint, sickly glow. The runes etched into the chains flickered intermittently, supposedly to suppress any latent magical abilities. An understandable, if poorly executed, precaution.
(Well now, this is interesting,) I commented mentally, examining the shackles that had been fastened to my thin wrists with sloppy efficiency. (Third-rate magical containment runes. Standard 'Lazy Cultist's Guide for Beginners'. They didn't even bother to use the good ones, those with the itchy spikes.)
[Are you, by any chance, using this moment of captivity and peril to critique the quality and finish of the magical shackles being used to restrain us and, possibly, take us to a bloody sacrificial ritual?] Eos's voice dripped with sarcasm so acidic it could have corroded the metal of said shackles.
(Why, Eos, if they're going to the trouble of imprisoning me and treating me like livestock, they could at least do it with the proper equipment and a modicum of craftsmanship. This stuff wouldn't even hold a C-rank mage having a particularly violent sneezing fit. It's a matter of standards, my dear. Even in villainy, there ought to be a certain level of competence.)
With a sigh of resignation at the prevailing mediocrity, I chose a corner that was less obviously damp and had fewer mutant cockroach companions – a true rarity in that fetid, overcrowded environment – and sat down with the grace of an exiled queen observing the collapse of her empire. From there, I watched with almost academic interest as the cultists piled more frightened children into the already cramped space, as if they were particularly noisy sacks of potatoes.
(You know what's even more offensive than the dubious quality of the shackles, Eos?) I continued my critical analysis in a low voice, as if I were reviewing a particularly bad amateur play. (They didn't even bother to search us properly before throwing us in here. I currently have at least three small, very sharp daggers hidden in strategic places about my person, a standard vial of fast-acting paralysing poison, and a handful of highly irritating magical sneezing powder, and no one, absolutely no one, noticed or cared.) The amateurishness was truly appalling.
[Perhaps, and this is just a radical hypothesis, Azra'il, it's because they don't expect small, frightened, and seemingly defenceless orphanage children to be carrying an arsenal of bladed weapons and toxic substances?] Eos's logic, as always, was impeccable and a bit of a killjoy.
(Pure and simple amateurism, my dear. In the Shadow District, even the sewer rats carry something sharp for self-defence, be it a shard of glass or a contagious bad mood. These cultists are clearly not from around here, or they'd have learnt some basic lessons in urban survival.)
One of the cultists, with a grunt that could be mistaken for the sound of a pig being strangled, passed by distributing pieces of stale, dry bread – probably bought from that suspicious bakery near the Rusty Hook Tavern, the one where the flour was notoriously 'cut' with fine sawdust to make it go further and give an… interesting texture to the final product. It was the sort of bread that could be used as a throwing weapon in a pinch.
(They could at least have invested in better quality bread, like Old Pietro's, the mad baker from Missing Cat Alley,) I grumbled mentally, with the air of a disappointed food critic. (His flour, legend has it, is cut with expired pixie dust and a touch of hallucinogenic mushrooms. Not exactly nutritious, but at least the hallucinations are fun and colourful.) Small pleasures, even in adverse situations.
[Are you, at this moment, actually, seriously, complaining about the quality of the rations provided by our kidnappers, as if you were on a luxury cruise with inadequate room service?] Eos sounded as if she were on the verge of a logical short-circuit.
(Why, Eos, it's a matter of basic hospitality principles, even between captor and captive. If they're going to enslave us, or sacrifice us to some cosmic entity with an unpronounceable name, they could at least feed us properly during the process. An empty stomach leads to low morale, and low morale leads to less cooperative prisoners more prone to causing trouble. It's pure and simple human resources management… or child resources, in this case.)
The ship began to move with a lurch and a deep groan of timber, the waves beating rhythmically against the hull in an irregular, somewhat nauseating melody. Through a narrow crack between the rotten planks of the hull, I could see the Shadow District slowly receding – its sordid secrets, its picturesque crimes, and its bloody, unfinished stories gradually disappearing into the grey, perpetual fog that always seemed to hang over Raven's End like a shroud.
"Well," I concluded, adjusting myself as best I could in my uncomfortable corner, with the stoicism of one who has seen far, far worse, "at least we're leaving with a certain style, don't you think? How many children can boast of having been kidnapped aboard a cultist ship with a dubious gothic aesthetic, sailing straight out of the most infamous and criminal port in the city? This will make a grand story to tell the grandchildren… if I ever decide to have grandchildren, which is highly unlikely."
[Sometimes, Azra'il, I really do wonder if you shouldn't worry a little more about our current situation and the very real danger it represents.] There was a note of genuine concern in Eos's voice, a reminder that, despite everything, she was still an AI programmed for self-preservation.
(Worry, my dear Eos, is a luxury for those under three centuries old and with a more… limited outlook on life. Besides, let's be frank, I've been in far worse holds,withh considerably less interesting company and an infinitely more questionable menu.) Perspective is everything.
[True. I recall that particularly memorable time on the ghost pirate ship, when we had to share the hold with a group of ill-tempered spectral crabs and a ghost who insisted on singing opera dreadfully out of tune all night long.]
(Exactly! See? Compared to that, this cultist cruise is practically a five-star resort. At least this one, as far as I know, doesn't have dancing skeletons trying to teach you the basic minuet step whilst stealing your socks.)
[Not yet, Azra'il. Not yet.]
(Ah, Eos, don't give me false hopes of quality entertainment. That would be asking too much.)
The constant, treacherous rolling of the ship lulled the low, frightened sobs of the other children into an irregular, deeply nauseating rhythm. Some, the more sensitive or weaker-stomached, were already visibly seasick, their faces pale and greenish under the dim light filtering through the cracks. Others, more resilient or simply too exhausted to react, were just huddled in the darkest corners, hugging their knees and trying to make themselves as small and invisible as possible, as if that could protect them from the uncertain fate awaiting them.
(That little one there, Eos,) I mentally indicated to my companion, my eyes fixed on a small, trembling girl with hair of such a vibrant scarlet it seemed to defy the oppressive darkness of the hold. She couldn't have been more than nine, perhaps ten, and she hugged her knees with desperate strength, her thin body trembling slightly, whether from cold, fear, or a combination of both. (There's something about her… something still dormant, a spark waiting to ignite.)
[What do you mean by that, Azra'il? I detect only normal vital signs for a human child under extreme stress.]
(I don't know yet, not for certain. But beneath all that fear and uncertainty… there's a latent strength, a resilience she doesn't even know she possesses yet. A silent stubbornness. An iron will yet to be forged.) It was an intuition, a feeling I'd learned to trust over many lifetimes.
The cultists, with the brutal efficiency of those accustomed to handling human cargo, took turns guarding the hold. Every two or three hours, more children were shoved into the already overcrowded space – some clearly from wealthy or noble families, judging by their fine, well-cut clothes, now stained with dirt, mud, and saltwater, their faces marked by the confusion and terror of being torn from their comfortable lives. Others, like myself and my orphanage companions, already bore the marks of poverty and neglect, and perhaps because of that, seemed a little less shocked, a little more… resigned to misfortune.
A small, impromptu group of silent resistance had formed near the scarlet-haired girl. A slightly older boy, with deep blue hair and eyes that, despite the fear, shone with a surprising determination for his age – Jellal, from what I could overhear of the whispers exchanged between them – sat stoically beside her, offering quiet words of comfort and a protective presence. He seemed to be the only one who could coax small, hesitant smiles from the redhead, or at least stop her from completely drowning in her own despair. There was a bond there, a silent promise of mutual protection.
(They have a pattern, Eos,) I observed with growing interest, my analytical mind beginning to connect the dots. (They're not just taking children at random. They're only taking those with latent magical potential, even if it's not yet developed. That boy over there, the big lad called Simon, who looks like a clumsy bear? Even being so young, he has a strong, stable darkness magic dormant in his veins, waiting to be awakened. And that little one who looks like a scared, fluffy kitten, Milliana? There's a unique, peculiar type of binding magic in her, something rare and unusual.) My captors weren't just brutal; they were selective.
[What exactly would they need so many young children with magical potential for, Azra'il? The possibilities are… unsettling.]
(Good question, my dear. A mass sacrificial ritual for some hungry, morally dubious entity would be the most obvious and terribly clichéd option…) The creativity of cultists rarely went beyond the basics.
[You say that with a calmness and detachment that continue to be profoundly unsettling, even after all this time.]
(Oh, come on, Eos! Cultists are so predictable, so stuck in the same old scripts. Always wanting to sacrifice virgins, summon demons with unpronounceable names, or take over the world with an army of incompetent minions. Zero creativity, I tell you. Sheer lack of imagination.) Where was the originality in modern villainy?
One of the guards, with the delicacy of a butcher, passed by distributing mugs of water – tepid, with a strong taste of rust, and probably drawn straight from the sea, but still, it was water. Jellal, with a gentleness that contrasted with the surrounding brutality, helped Erza, the red-haired girl, to take her cup, as her small hands trembled too much to hold it firmly. A small act of kindness in an ocean of cruelty.
(See, Eos? They don't want us dead. At least, not yet. Preserving the 'merchandise' until the final destination is standard procedure.) Small comforts in extreme situations.
[Is that supposed to reassure me in some way? Because, frankly, it's not working.]
(Why, Eos, in situations of kidnapping and captivity, bad water is infinitely better than no water at all. Believe me, I have vast and unfortunate experience in the matter.) Certain lessons life insists on teaching us repeatedly.
Night fell upon the sea – or at least we assumed it did, as the only indication was the increasing cold, the louder sound of the waves, and the deep, sonorous snores of the guards beginning their night shift, clearly more interested in sleeping than in watching over their precious cargo. Complacency is the first step to a downfall, even for cultists.
(Three guards on the night shift,) I counted mentally, my sharpened senses scanning the darkness and sounds of the ship. (Two seem to be always awake, patrolling irregularly, while the third dozes shamelessly in a corner. They rotate roughly every four hours. A predictable routine.)
[Are you already planning a daring and probably destructive escape, Azra'il? Shall I begin calculating probabilities of success and collateral damage?] There was an amused resignation in Eos's voice.
(No… not yet. It's just habit, my dear. It's always good to know who's watching you, what their routines and weaknesses are. Information is power, even when you're chained in the hold of a cultist ship.) Patience and observation are the best friends of anyone planning to survive.
I watched with renewed interest as Jellal, with a combination of gentle persuasion and childish stubbornness, managed to convince the little redhead, Erza, and the other members of their small group – Sho, Wally, and Simon, plus Milliana – to approach my corner, which was marginally less damp and fetid than the rest of the hold. Erza still kept her eyes downcast most of the time, a curtain of scarlet hair hiding her face, but occasionally I caught her casting furtive, curious glances around, her surprisingly intense brown eyes absorbing everything.
"You can stay here, if you like," I said softly, my voice little more than a whisper so as not to alert the guards. "It's a bit less damp on this side. And the company is… marginally less despairing."
Sho, the smallest of the group, who couldn't have been more than eight and looked like a frightened little mouse, immediately clung to Erza's arm as if his life depended on it. Wally, with his prominent teeth and a rather pathetic attempt to look tough, tried to maintain a brave pose, but his thin hands trembled uncontrollably. And Simon, the gentle giant of the group, used his larger size to try and create a sense of protection for the younger ones, his normally jovial face now dark and worried.
"W-what… what's your name?" Erza finally asked, her voice low and hesitant, still not looking me directly in the eyes, as if afraid of what she might find there.
"Azra'il," I replied simply.
"That's a… strange name," Jellal commented, with the typical frankness of children, but always positioning himself protectively near Erza.
"Strange name for strange times and even stranger company," I replied with a faint smile, appreciating his attempt to start a conversation, even in that situation. Human curiosity is a powerful force, capable of blooming even in the most arid soils.
[This group of children, Azra'il… there's something distinctly different about them. An uncommon resilience, a surprising cohesion,] Eos commented, her cold analysis tinged with a rare note of something that might be… respect?
(Yes, Eos, you're right,) I replied mentally, my eyes moving between Erza and Jellal, and then to the others. (Especially in those two. The spark in them is brighter.)
My eyes lingered on Erza and Jellal for a longer moment. The magic emanating from him, even suppressed and untrained, was palpable, impressive for such a young child. And she… ah, she was an enigma. There was something deeply dormant there, a vast, untamed potential, like a volcano waiting for the right moment to erupt and reshape the landscape.
"Where… where do you think they're taking us?" Jellal asked, his young voice carrying a courage that seemed to lend strength to those around him, who looked at him with a mixture of fear and hope.
"I don't know for sure yet," I answered honestly, as lying to them would serve no purpose. "But one thing I do know: you need to stick together. Look after each other. It's always easier to be strong, and harder to be broken, when you're not alone." The words came out with an unexpected conviction, an echo of countless lives and countless alliances forged in adversity.
Erza briefly raised her eyes upon hearing my words, and this time, her gaze met mine for a fleeting but intense moment. There was fear there, yes, but also a spark of something more. Determination? Curiosity? Before I could decipher it, she lowered her eyes again, but I felt something had changed, a small seed had been planted.
The ship continued its relentless journey through the dark, silent night, carrying its precious, stolen cargo of interrupted childhoods and uncertain futures. Children who should have been playing in parks under the sun, or learning their first spells in magic schools, now faced a grim, unknown fate at the hands of cruel, fanatical men. The injustice of the world, in its rawest form.
[You seem more… emotionally invested than usual in this situation, Azra'il. It's a statistically significant variation from your standard detached observational behaviour.] Eos's analysis was, as always, precise.
(There's something about these children, Eos… and especially about her, little Erza. It's like seeing a sword still in the forge, incandescent and malleable. You don't know exactly what its final form will be, its blade, its power… but you know, with an instinctive certainty, that it will be something extraordinary. Something capable of cutting through the darkness.) And I always had a fondness for extraordinary things.
[Since when do you care so much about the fate of mere mortals, especially children?] There was genuine curiosity in Eos's question.
(Since I realised, perhaps in some forgotten life or in a moment of cosmic clarity, that sometimes the greatest strengths, the brightest lights, the most unlikely heroes, are born from the darkest, most desperate places. Look at her, Eos – frightened, unsure, probably hungry and cold… but there's a flame there. A small, flickering flame still, almost invisible, but with the undeniable potential to become a consuming fire, a force of nature.) And I, who had seen so many fires start and extinguish, recognised the promise of that small spark.
And as the night wore on, monotonous and oppressive, I watched that small group of children huddle together, seeking warmth, comfort, and courage in physical proximity and the silent camaraderie born of shared fear. Especially Erza, who, even visibly trembling with fear and cold, already showed instinctive signs of wanting to protect the younger ones, subtly placing herself between them and the rest of the hostile hold. A protective instinct, pure and powerful.
"Sometimes, Eos," I murmured to my silent companion, the words more a thought than a sound, "the strongest people, those destined to change the world, or at least leave an indelible mark on it, begin as the most frightened. Fear can be a great motivator, or a great obstacle. It remains to be seen which path this little flame will choose." And, for the first time in a very, very long time, I felt genuinely curious to see how that particular story would unfold.