North Slums

The sun had risen, casting its rays over the Imenso Mountains to the north. The night fog, after a night of hard work, was slowly retreating to the other side of the mountain to rest and prepare for the next cold night.

Two figures sat atop a horse-drawn carriage that looked more shabby than usual.

"I can only take you so far. Hardly anyone goes there by carriage. No one has enough money to travel anywhere." The driver said this to the two young people sitting in the back.

"That's all right. I don't want to trouble you anymore." The older one said it in a quiet voice.

"But be careful of that kid. We don't know what awaits us there." The driver mentioned the northern area with a hint of fear, as if it were a cursed and isolated place.

The two paid and got out in front of a macadam road. It was still part of the main road. But this was the worst part. If they weren't standing at this border, seeing the road stretching from north to south, they wouldn't believe it was the same road.

It was full of cracks, and the stone surface had become mushy because of the coal trucks that used to drive on this road. People didn't bother to maintain it, so the road deteriorated day by day.

Soil and rocks are mixed together to maintain the evenness of the road. Standing in front of this scene, he could see that the lives of the people here were divided into three different parts.

The two were approaching the northern slums, not only in distance but also in feeling. The pungent smell of smoke and coal mingled with the stench of garbage, following the light breeze into the lungs of the wanderers.

As if to mock them, at least on trains, people had ways of distracting their minds with scents. But here, no one bothered; no one cared if they were dirty or not. Everyone was consumed by hunger, cold, life, death, and disease before fearing the coming of old age.

He ventured deeper into the slums, where the buildings leaned like vultures over the narrow alleys.

The scraps of their lives hung from windows and roofs, creating a patchwork of colors and smells. He walked with ease as a Walaric, his feet accustomed to the uneven terrain, but the boy beside him stumbled and panted, trying to keep up.

They passed through different zones, each with its own kind of misery. He followed Winston's lead and headed for the area where the clang of metal echoed.

The heat assaulted their skin, making them sweat and itch. The boy's cheeks flushed, and his eyes watered. Voices assaulted their ears, from hushed whispers to loud curses.

They wandered the dusty road, feeling the eyes on them.

Some people lurked in the shadows of the houses; others sprawled on the doorsteps as if the air inside was unbearable. They averted their eyes or stared silently.

Some looked at him and Brahms with suspicion. Some gazed at him with greed. But all watched and waited, like predators ready to pounce on unwary prey. He felt their hostility and hunger, his Walaric instincts on alert.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by a small figure darting towards him.

He felt a tug on his leg and looked down to see a boy in rags clinging to him. But he saw no fear or innocence in those eyes, only cunning and desperation. He saw the scars on the boy's face and arms—the marks of a hard life.

"Please, Lord, have mercy. I'm starving." The boy whimpered.

"Help me, sir; I have a sick child at home." A woman's voice cried out, her face pale and thin.

"God bless you, sir, if you can spare a penny." A chorus of children's voices echoed, their hands outstretched.

"I'm blind, sir; I can't see a thing." A man's voice moaned, his eyes covered with bandages.

"Please, sir, don't ignore me; I'm a human being." A woman's voice pleaded, her legs missing.

Suddenly he was surrounded by a swarm of beggars, all clamoring for his attention and money. They pressed against him, touched him, and pulled him. He saw their faces, their bodies, and their wounds. He saw the results of the coal mines, the factories, and the slums. He saw the misery and suffering they endured every day.

They surrounded him like vultures, their stories of hunger and pain pounding his ears, threatening to tear him away from Brahms. He felt Brahms' grip tighten on his hand; his fear was palpable. He acted quickly.

He snapped at the children, his voice commanding. "Enough."

He snatched a child by the collar and lifted him up, catching him before he could reach his pockets. He found nothing but emptiness.

The child's fierceness and fearlessness terrified the onlookers, even those who had evil intentions. They realized they had met a ruthless and cruel person.

His voice silenced the chaos. Some scattered and ran away at once. The others shrank back from his presence, like wolves cowering before a lion.

He tossed the child to the ground, who whimpered and crawled away. He had not harmed him, but he had scared him. He was gentle but firm.

"Beasts, soulless creatures. May the devil take you." Some people muttered under their breath, but they could not escape Althur's sharp hearing.

"Scum, heartless bastards. Burn in hell." A woman with no legs glared at him, her eyes burning with hate. She did not look pitiful, but angry. Brahms noticed her and wondered what had made her so angry. But he did not voice his thoughts, nor did he bother Althur for an answer.

The people stared at Althur with contempt as he refused their pleas for a silver coin. But they dared not challenge him, for they saw his strength and courage. Some of them were vicious, others hopeless.

He saw the fear and respect in their eyes. They knew he was not someone to mess with. They cleared a path for him, like the sea parting. He took Brahms' hand and walked in.

Brahms looked back at the children, his eyes filled with pity. "They look so hungry," he said.

"They are," Althur said. "Everyone here is."

"Why are they here, Althur?"

"Can we choose where we were born?"

"There's nothing like it in the world."

He spoke with a cold tone, as if he had no sympathy for them.

He did not look back, but he could sense the scene behind him. The frantic movement in the background was like a mirage.

People were deceived by their own illusions. They did not notice the two strangers walking with a lit candle in their hands. They were like thirsty men in the desert, only paying attention to the tricks of their minds.

The candle was strange, burning slowly but leaving no trace. The drops of wax disappeared as soon as they touched the ground. The dirt and odors disappeared as well. The flame danced and flickered, but never went out.

It seemed to illuminate the path ahead, making it brighter and clearer.

"Do you know the house of the woman who was once haunted, Althur?" Brahms asked, his voice curious.

"I don't. But we can find out. Winston has given us some clues." Althur replied.

He scanned the horizon, searching for a place where metal and fire met. He smelled the acrid smell of molten iron and heard the sizzling sound of cooling metal. He felt the hot wind carry the information he needed.

He turned, letting go of Brahms' hand and pointing him in a specific direction. Blacksmiths and mechanics lived and worked in a tense balance, but people ignored it due to busyness or tiredness.

The chaotic scene behind them faded as the candle in his hand went out.