Another day like any other was born. David walked through the streets, muddied by the region’s usual morning rains. The smell of wet horse manure assaulted his nostrils, and the sound of people walking—engaged in every kind of conversation—filled his ears.

  The world felt tight and crowded, with everyone always moving in a hurry. The small fortress-city was ancient, its buildings crushed together one on top of another. The outer walls rose above it like colossi of stone and iron.

  His arms ached as he pulled a small cart the size of a one-meter basket.

  [I have to get there as fast as possible,] he thought, his legs striking the ground hard under the weight of the mundane weapons he was supposed to deliver to a guard.

  Fighting against the endless flow of people going back and forth, he finally reached his destination.

  [He said I should come here and knock,] he analyzed, panting, standing in front of a door in an alley not far from the garrison.

  With a bang, it opened, nearly slamming into his face.

  — Hey, kid, I was just about to go to that grumpy old man’s place and punch his face in — said the tall guard, whose arms were as thick as David’s legs, as he grabbed the basket of weapons.

  — What are you waiting for? Get lost! — the guard said irritably, his deep voice rumbling.

  — He said you’d give me the money right away, — the small boy replied weakly.

  — Tsk… — the guard complained, grabbing the pouch of coins tied at his waist and tossing it onto the ground.

  David picked it up silently and walked away as quickly as possible, trying to avoid drawing the unwanted attention of thieves and pickpockets.

  Walking with hurried steps down the market street and turning the corner, he saw a four-story wooden-and-stone building, slightly crooked, with vines climbing its walls.

  Passing through the door marked with a hammer sign, he entered. Soon the sound of steel clashing against steel swallowed his senses. The heat was scorching, making sweat run down his forehead within moments.

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  [How does he endure this every day?] David moved forward a little more.

  — Old man! I’m back. — he announced and waited. He knew he shouldn’t interrupt Godu when he was forging.

  The old blacksmith, veins bulging and muscles strong, continued smashing common steel between his hammer and the anvil with force for hours. Sparks flew through the air like a light show.

  When he finally stopped hammering and sharpening, it was almost night. He looked at the sword with a kind of disdain and pride—a rather strange mix.

  — Hand it over! — he ordered, not bothering with greetings.

  — 10, 20, 30, 40, 50… 65 copper Gends. This is yours. — after confirming and giving David his payment, he returned to his work.

  [I’ve never seen him say more than one sentence,] he thought as he turned and left. He had received 3 copper Gends. The copper coins bore a Corinthian helmet—the symbol of the imperial family—and some other writing on one side, with a number on the other. One was worth two, and one was worth one.

  [I have to make this money last so I can rest as much as possible.] He entered the market and walked to the familiar stall of Mrs. Fátima. She lived alone near the marketplace and sold vegetables and bread she made herself.

  Seeing him approach, she smiled with her missing teeth and wrinkled face that somehow managed to hide the perpetual pain in her back.

  — Little one, — she said — the usual?

  — Yes, please, — David replied.

  She then wrapped scraps of bread and a rather large potato in a bag.

  — Here, — she said, handing it over with trembling hands — take care, boy!

  — Thank you. — He left with the bag tucked under his worn coat and walked down toward the poorest part of the city. Jasmine Street, two streets below Market Street.

  He entered the brothel known as the Moulin Rouge. It was one of the best in the entire city, even though it wasn’t located in a noble district. He greeted the lazy old guard who was dozing off but was strangely efficient—considering that, in his presence, no trouble ever happened—and crossed the hallway, passing between foul-smelling drunken men, until he reached the back, exiting through an alley and entering a half-collapsed house.

  — Home, sweet home, — he said, pushing aside a plywood board to access his room.

  Far from the coziest place in the world, the room smelled of mold so old that his nose had already grown numb to it. On the right side there was a tallow candle he had stolen from the brothel and a pile of straw covered by a patched piece of burlap cloth. On the left, a badly worn bucket filled with water—very murky water, at that.

  He chewed a piece of bread that tasted like dirt, grimacing in disgust, and complained:

  — I don’t know what methods she uses to sell these blocks of dirt and still keep customers, but I need her to teach me.

  — Holy Emperor, why does this itch so much? — the words left his mouth before he collapsed onto the bed, the burlap scraping against his skin, and he fell into his usual dreamless sleep.