‘We’re nearly there,’ I whisper as I clutch Kyor to my chest, praying it’s my imagination that is telling me his body has grown cold. That’s all it is. My imagination. Maybe that’s also why his skin looks grey. Because my eyes are too tired to see properly.
Unlike Wrohelm, Galreck is not built in rings. Within its city walls rise four towers of black rock, jutting starkly from the earth. Each marks a point of the compass – north, south, east, and west – though, like Wrohelm, the true wealth of the city lies at its heart, or so I’ve heard.
I’ve never left Wrohelm to journey to other cities. Never had the desire before, nor the means since we were stripped. Austere black walls loom above me, intimidating and fierce. It looksstrong,and that’s something all Morathkians can appreciate.
While the structure is unlike Wrohelm, the presence of slums outside the city walls is depressingly similar. For some reason, I convinced myself that the dark underbelly of Morathka was unique to Wrohelm. After all, it’s not something Benny ever mentioned about the Isles. But it appears that crippling poverty is a language spoken everywhere, and knowing that breaks something in me.
Strangely, though, the sight of the feeble lean-tos brings me comfort. Slums, I know. Streets like these shaped me. Honed me. I do not fear them.
We’re within walking distance of the ramshackle shanties of makeshift homes when I carefully lower myself from the wolf’s back, boots crunching softly against grit and mud. Once my feet are firmly on the earth, I manoeuvre Kyor until he’s lying flat on Elska’s back. His weight is heavy and unresponsive as I ease him down, and the wolf shifts beneath him with a low, uneasy rumble, but she holds steady. Her fur is thick and warm under my palms, her breath steaming in the cold air.
The roll of the drums and the stench of the slums hit as soon as wecross an unseen threshold. Smoke, rot, damp wood, old piss, and desperation are all layered together so thick it coats the back of my throat. Fires burn low in broken barrels, casting jittery orange light over leaning buildings and narrow alleys choked with shadow. Eyes follow us from doorways and half-collapsed stoops. No one approaches, but no one looks away either.
I walk beside Elska, one hand gripping Kyor to keep him in place, the other resting against her flank as I murmur directions under my breath. She moves with surprising care, massive paws placing themselves delicately between debris and sleeping bodies.
That’s when I spot him: a man planted on a corner like a sentinel. Broad shoulders, thick arms, belly filled out in a way that marks him as someone who eats far better than most. His eyes are sharp, constantly moving, weighing every passerby.
Muscle like that comes from privilege here. Or power.
I don’t know him, but I know his type. An enforcer standing watch. Either to stop trouble or to wade into it.
Either way, he’ll know exactly who I need to speak to.
‘Oi,’ I say, because manners are weakness here. ‘Who do I need to see to get shit done?’
He grunts, his eyes running over me, taking in the blood that clings to my hair and clothes, to the weapons at my side. When he’s finished his inspection of me, his gaze drifts over the unconscious Kyor, swiftly dismissing him, and then he grimaces at Elska and the rings around her eyes that mark her as bonded.
‘The wolf’s going to attract attention.’
‘No shit,’ I say flatly. ‘So get me out of the street and where I need to be.’
He pushes off from his street corner. ‘You got coin?’
‘Enough for what I need.’ I reach into my coin purse and produce a few silvers as proof before tucking them away again and drawing my sword. ‘And I’ll be keeping it, too.’
‘Didn’t mean nothing by it, little girl.’
I bare my teeth at him. ‘Call me that again and see what happens,’ I growl.
He smiles faintly. ‘Follow me then,’ he instructs,and we do.
I can feel the prickle of wary gazes tracking me as I follow him down one turn and the next. It’s a coin flip. Heads, he takes us into a trap to try to rob us and steal Elska. Tails, he takes us to this slum’s equivalent of Rula.
If time wasn’t of the essence, I’d be curious to see what happened if he tried to so much as speak to the wolf, but as it turns out, it’s tails. He bangs on a door and pops his head in politely. ‘Got a woman here asking for you. She’s got coin.’
I appreciate the upgrade fromlittle girl.
‘Show her in, Gret,’ a quiet voice grunts from inside.
‘She’s got a dire wolf.’
‘Does she now?’ The voice is speculative. ‘Well then, show them both in, I suppose.’
For a slum house, this one is positively decadent. It has a single window and a door wide enough that Elska can get inside. There’s a table and a bed, and a fire burning that kicks out enough heat that the warmth is noticeable as I cross the threshold.
The man inside is almost as great a shock as the fact that Sannings are real, and I struggle not to show it. Because the truth is he’s no man at all, but a kid. He can’t be much older than William. Fifteen, maybe – sixteen, tops.
‘Name’s Lofty,’ he introduces himself with a smirk, showing he clearly read my initial surprise. ‘On account of me having lofty aspirations.’
