Eriksson's POV
"The worst part of forgetting is not even knowing something was ever there."
—Eriksson Lennard
I wander through the streets, cloaked in the hues of the cold and noble—the architects of this realm. The fog has lifted; the day is half-spent. The sun beats down on my brittle hair, threatening to scorch it away. Yet, everything feels dull. Perhaps it's just my imagination.
Families pass by—fathers carrying daughters on their shoulders, mothers trailing behind with vacant expressions. Their children mirror their coldness. I move past them, my arms still aching from hours of aimless wandering. My blood, once spilled, now circulates again, infused with magical energy. Or has it only been minutes? Time blurs.
I run my metallic hand through my warm hair and exhale deeply. What I wouldn't give for a Nigil cigar—one of the few ties that still bind me to this kingdom.
"Catch me!" a child's voice rings out, growing louder with each heartbeat. A little girl, smiling, runs without watching where she's going. She collides with my leg and falls. I look down; her smile fades. My heart skips a beat. My hands tremble, even the prosthetic one. I collapse.
Blood—green and orange—fills my vision. "Ella!" someone screams, but I can't focus. I try to rise but slip, my body unresponsive. Sweat pours from my brow, more than during the battle with the orange one. She looks at me, concern replacing her smile. She approaches, but I recoil. The blood is all I see.
"Ella!" the voice cries again. The woman grabs the child, pulling her away. "We have to help," the girl protests. "No means no!" the woman insists, dragging her off. As I gasp for air, they're gone.
My legs shake; my arms lie in the warm dirt of the asphalt. "Casandra..." I whisper. My eyes turn green, shimmering as tears fall. I pull myself together. The blood isn't real. It's been five decades. Not reality.
I rub my eyes, push off the ground, and scratch my head hard, digging my nails into my scalp until skin peels away. My eyes still flicker. It's worse now. I can't go on. Children scream, calling me. Casandra. The dark silhouette. I don't want this. The blood drips over me. I feel it on my fingers. Her orange eyes in my hands. I gasp, scratch harder, open my head, claw at my brain. I don't know if I'm truly doing this, but it feels real.
People avoid me, fear in their eyes, but I continue until I stop. I stand and walk on as if nothing happened.
But where is this guild?
I stroll through the streets, my prosthetic hand clutching my shoulder, surprised at how quickly my wound has healed. Why are my hands wet? Fresh blood? My gaze shifts. I hear robust voices—possibly orange ones. A familiar scent, but from where?
I approach a building on a wide street lined with shops selling gear. Ah, a guild. A guild... My mouth waters. Beer. Drafted from Avelor. Expensive, but worth the 8 Celi. Pricey, yet delicious.
I push open the saloon doors, running my warm fingers through my scratchy beard. I feel like the star of the show—or at least, that's how it seems when every eye turns to me. No exceptions. Everyone looks down. Some from the upper floor, perhaps sharing rooms with prostitutes or just lodging in this district like I often do. Even below, the bartender behind the left counter, the receptionist on the right. Guests, assassins—all stare.
Their gazes are cold, brows furrowed, jaws tense. I take a step, and each one averts their eyes. Some whistle unnaturally, mimicking morning birds; others pretend to sip from already empty mugs. Only the receptionist and bartender maintain their gaze. Professional, yet I can read the fear in their eyes. Their legs likely tremble behind the counter. Understandable, seeing someone drenched in orange blood.
"A draft beer," I say, glancing at the bartender, savoring the fearful looks. It's unsettling, yet oddly comforting. Almost forgettable. "Avelorian style," I add. The bartender appears unusually young, with slicked-back black hair and a light blue suit—uncommon attire. The receptionist, however, seems typically mature. Mid-80s. Despite her petite and uneven stature, her short side-swept hairstyle gives her a certain allure. It's her face. No wonder so many still glance her way despite my presence.
My steps echo on the usually silent floor, but it always squeaks when I enter a guild. Everyone remains silent. I stand before the woman with full blue lips and oceanic eyes. My blood-stained fingers reach into my pouch, dripping with viscous liquid. I place the tongue and two orange eyes on the counter. A rare sight for blues. These are valuable ingredients for various formulas or enhancing artifacts. Worth as much as their annual salary. I could earn three of their yearly wages in top form, but the fourth would be challenging. Five? Perhaps.
Everyone buries their noses in mugs as large as their heads. Others have stopped whistling, staring only at the street, where the highlight is a horse-drawn carriage every few minutes. The receptionist walks to a bulletin board filled with missions and wanted posters. Her eyes widen. Understandable; such events are rare here.
I turn and see two broad-shouldered blues choking on their drinks. I glance around. Upstairs on the interior balcony, several scarred men stand. Blues who believe they're strong just because they've defeated a few greens. In their arms are either half-naked or fully naked women.
Blue nipples, slender waists. They once danced, hips swaying against the trousers of men. Now, they stand motionless, as if rooted to the floor. The guild is vast—over a hundred men—but amidst the crowd, no one meets my gaze directly. I crack my stiff neck as the receptionist hands me a note. She waits, uncertain, as I unfold it. Perhaps she doesn't know what comes next.
"I'm currently not here. I'm only at the guild during the last five days of the week. Please visit me at the following address: Minsk Street 85.
Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
With warm regards,
Reggy."
Reggy. So, the boss works only half the week. I glance at the receptionist; her head hangs low. My eyes linger on the letter, bearing Reggy's signature and the guild's seal. I look toward the bartender, who pushes a beer toward me with trembling hands. I tuck the letter into the dry pocket at my hip and take a sip. The foam clings to my mouth; my nose dips into it as I drink greedily, as if before me lies the corpse of a yellow or higher-blooded. It's not as sweet as their blood, but the bitter, mushroom taste soothes my pain. I set the glass down, foam on my upper lip. My lips aren't green like most lower Greens—wannabe shapeshifters. I scoff at the thought.
I raise my fingers, a green drop falling onto the stained floor. Behind me, a trail lingers. What's happening to me? I push the thought aside, blaming my poor memory. I raise my hand, forgetting why. All eyes are on me. Silence. Their breaths are audible beneath mine. At that moment, the saloon door creaks open. A young man enters—very young, perhaps in his late twenties. He looks arrogant, nose held high, curly hair framing his face. His eyes resemble those of the red-bred Asians, narrowed in disdain. My gaze meets his—my green eyes into his ocean blue. His blond waves, reminiscent of a fairy-tale prince, cascade over his shoulders.
Silence.
He stops, eyes still haughty. Three seconds pass. My hand remains raised, and then he falls. His thick hair cushions his head as his eyes and mouth confront death. I stare down at him, about twenty large steps away. "I need a shower," I say, holding my hand up longer than intended. "And someone check on him." My steps echo over the beer-stained floor as men, both young and old, edge away when I approach. "There are rooms with showers on the second floor," the receptionist says hesitantly, her voice fluctuating. She scratches her unidentifiable Adam's apple, but I'm already ascending the stairs. First, second, or however many floors this guild has—of course, there's a room with showers. I reach into my back pocket, one of four around my waist. I flick two silver coins. "Keep the change," I say monotonously, the coins rolling over the counter and landing in both her palms. The gazes continue to shift away from me, while new ones fixate on me. I feel their cold stares from afar—greed. But nearby, it's different. Trembling legs. Sweaty hands. As I approach, my blood dripping nearby, they recoil. Fear. My metallic hand glides over the knife-scarred railing of the stairs. I glance at the men on the first floor. An inner balcony—a square. At least twenty women and men, half of them naked. Some have artificial nipples shaped like hearts—blue, naturally. They're not worthy of red. One doesn't consort with food. Especially not with pigs. But I take it back; with some perverts, you never know...
I stroll down the corridor, passing women who try to hide behind their night buyers, but instead, these men push their prostitutes forward. I click my tongue, and they shrink back further. I walk with a wide gait, turn right, and continue up the stairs.
Blurgh!
Someone falls down the stairs, vomiting. I step back and watch the fall of a naked, plump blue. Plump is an understatement; it's self-endangerment to stuff one's body with so much fat. He lands face-first in his own orange-green vomit, then at the feet of a prostitute. He reaches for her. Her buyer steps aside. The fat man sticks out his tongue, trying to reach her bluish toes. I move on. Disgusting, but there are worse things. I take another large step over another puddle of vomit, seeing the silent crowd three to five meters below. Again, they look at me, then avert their gaze. You're lucky I'm who I am. I know people who would rip out your blue tongue for a second glance and eat it. I think of Alex—a creepy fellow. Wilson would wait until the third glance before cutting out the tongue, but he wouldn't eat it. I daydream out of boredom until I finally stand before one of the rooms. I choose the first door. Conveniently, the wenge wooden door is slightly ajar. My flesh-and-blood hand pushes it open further, and blue light streams in through the open window. The wind carries an unpleasant stench—death-like, but not death. A naked man stands before a simple, soiled mattress. I see the dark hair on his plump backside, and beneath him, a child. A girl. I step closer, my brows furrowing. There are worse fetishes... The fat man turns around, and I see the small, delicate girl, also naked. Her eyes are closed. He has his thumb, resembling a sausage, in her mouth. I prepare to extend my claw to draw blood, but I stop. My vision blurs. My knees tremble. The girl. Orange hair. Like hers.
In the color of burnt sienna.
My hands begin to sweat, and blood floods my eyes. My breath grows shallow, ragged. I see him again—the bald, fat man walking away from Casandra. His thumb slips from her small mouth. My daughter. I see her. I see her in orange and green. Blood. Eyes cupped in my palms. Gouged out. Those ghastly silhouettes. That wide grin. The fat man becomes that silhouette. I stagger back, clutching my head. I'm shaking. Voices echo in my skull.
"I–I bought her! I–I don't share!"
That black silhouette in the dead of night, walking from the fire—the fire.
"There's no sharing. Get your own red one."
The voice distorts, reverberating through my mind like a curse. I dig my nails into my scalp, desperate to make it stop. But even the silhouette recoils.
"Shit… are you shifting?"
It sways as I sway, vomiting memories. Past and present blur into one. I can't. I won't.
"Casandra," I murmur.
"I'm sorry," I whisper as I hold her—her body half the size of mine—in my arms. I stare at her mauled face, her battered body lying beside me, and feel the blood running down my arm. But everything fades. I see Casandra again. Her hair the color of burnt sienna.
Casandra.
I see her from the corner of my eye.
"Casandra!" I scream.
My legs move on their own, unsteady but determined. I'm still shaking. I see the silhouette in the periphery and hunch low as I run, afraid but moving forward. Toward Casandra. What I couldn't do back then, I do now.
"Casandra!" I cry, tears pouring from my emerald eyes, tinged with hints of amber. My voice cracks—half-sob, half-laugh—but it's only grief. Real, raw grief. My voice quivers.
"Casandra…" I breathe her name in and out, thick mucus burning across my upper lip.
I'm above the mattress now. Standing over the delicate, naked girl. Over Casandra. My daughter.
My hands tremble as I touch her bony shoulders. I could crush her if I squeeze. I let go.
I rip the filthy shirt from my back and lay it gently over her scarred body. It's enough to cover her from neck to knees. My eyes flicker as I watch her blood recede.
I turn.
There—the grinning silhouette.
But in the next breath, it's just the fat man.
I don't even bother to open a wound. In a single motion, I leap forward and strike his face—once, twice—until his brain, his eyes, his blood, all spray through the open window.
The wall behind him turns blue, soaked in gore.
But I don't stop.
Three more hits—chest, stomach, groin. Until there's nothing left of him but legs dangling below the knees. The room reeks of blue viscera, drenched in the grotesque remains of what was once a man.
I turn again. Slowly.
My green eyes, now flecked with orange, rest on the small girl beneath my shredded shirt.
I run my blood-soaked hand through my coarse beard, dragging the monster's essence across my face.
Then, I slide down the wall. My back against the blood-painted wood.
Her eyelids flutter.
Amber eyes. The same amber I lost inside me long ago.
"Casandra… my little one…" I whisper, one last time.
And then I slip into the quiet, repeating grief that has become my curse.
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