Forced to Endure

Zmey's head swirled into consciousness. Through his eyelids, orange light filtered and danced, accompanied by an incessant buzzing. The foul stench hit him next, making his saliva thicken in his throat. He shifted, uncomfortable against whatever supported his arm.

Memory returned in fragments. Someone had taken him—interfered when everything had been perfect. His jaw clenched. Damned meddler.

Pain gripped his hips as he tried to rise. Then hands steadied his shoulders, the touch bringing both relief and revulsion. He opened his eyes carefully, only to have sunlight pierce through the nearby railings. He shifted left, away from the glare, and tried again.

"Are you a ghost?" he growled, fighting waves of pain. "Or the bastard who took me from there?"

The figure before him came into focus slowly. A young man crouched nearby, wearing an easy smile that defied Zmey's hostile stare.

"You're not fit to move," the stranger began. "Take a rest. I have—"

Zmey's leg shot out, shoving the man away. The stranger—young, perhaps in his twenties, with a rough, pale face—stumbled back against the wall. He let out a surprised laugh, glancing around before returning his attention to Zmey.

Pain radiated through Zmey's body, echoes of the villagers' beating. Still hurting, still alive—when that hadn't been the plan at all. He reached left for support, found purchase, then felt moisture seep through his fingers. One glance revealed his mistake.

"Shit!" He jerked his hand back, lost balance, and hit the ground. His back slammed against the wall, sending fresh agony through his body. "Curse it..."

The source of his disgust stood revealed: a waste bin surrounded by flies filled with rotting rice and sewage. He forced himself to look at his unwanted saviour instead.

The young man wore clothes that barely qualified as such—a torn earth-coloured top and black knickers. His pale face bore strange dark marks, and though his features suggested youth, something older lurked in his expression.

"What are you called?" Zmey forced out the words.

The stranger's face brightened. He shuffled closer, stopping a careful distance away. "I'm Nero, the finest informant in Frosthaven. My motto's simple—share what you know, spend what you have. Ask anything. One question cost two gold coins, boss."

Zmey's sigh ended in a grimace. "Do you understand what you've done? Who asked you to interfere? To ruin everything just to sell me your damned information?"

Pain wracked his body, making breathing difficult. If he still had the dragon's power, he'd make this meddler his first victim. The fool should never have come to this village, never had the chance to cause such havoc.

Nero chuckled, pointing to himself. "You think I wronged you? The villagers were beating you senseless—they're usually peaceful folk. Must've had a reason. I saved you out of mercy. Understand? I got you out of that mess."

"Shut it!" Zmey straightened, despite his screaming back. "Speak again and I might kill you." He clutched his stomach, forced to use the waste bin for support.

Arctic wind cut through his torn cloak as he limped toward the alley's end. Beyond lay a vast stretch of fenced, uncultivated land where livestock wandered. He didn't look back until he'd turned the corner.

Nero watched him go, shaking his head. "Never seen someone so ungrateful. Threatening to kill me? Please. You can barely walk." He brushed at his already-ruined shirt, sighed, and gazed upward. "Why save someone who can't even pay? Four questions asked, not a coin in sight. Ingrate. Criminal. Deserved that beating."

He shivered, stepping out of the alley. Once he'd gone, Zmey peered around the corner. Finding himself alone, he slid down the wall. Snow gathered on his shoes; his breath visible in the cold.

"You didn't understand," he whispered. "If you'd ignored me like that couple who killed me in my first rebirth, we'd both be better off. I'd have my death; you'd have your sales. Instead, you've forced this pitiful soul to endure more pain before the end."