Chapter 24: The Abandoned
The streets of the town stretched wide, a maze of tiled paths slick with grime, and Avin found himself overwhelmed by the sheer press of life. People surged in every direction, weaving through the disorganized chaos of carts, stands, and cloth-draped containers stacked along the road. It was less a town square and more a writhing creature made of vendors and voices.
The sound was deafening—merchants crying their wares, children shrieking, boots clattering against the stone. Spices stung the air, mingling with smoke from cookfires, with the sharper tang of sweat and sewage.
Yet what caught Avin wasn’t the noise, but the stillness.
A long line of people sat along the edges of the road. Not shoppers, not guards, not workers—just husks. Men, women, children, all reduced to frail silhouettes. Their bodies were emaciated, bones cutting sharp lines through their paper-thin skin. They slumped against walls or lay sprawled across the filthy ground, too weak to even lift their heads. Small clay bowls or dented tins sat before them, begging silently for coin, but every vessel lay empty.
The sight made Avin’s stomach twist.
And it only worsened as they pressed deeper into the town’s center.
The streets grew darker with stains. Blood streaked across the stone tiles in thick, half-dried smears. A man lay slumped against a wall, a knife buried in his stomach, his chest rising shallow, eyes glassy with the nearness of death. Flies already circled.
What froze Avin wasn’t just the gore. It was the indifference.
People walked past the dying man as though he were a stone, stepping carefully around his legs without even glancing down. Mothers pulled their children by the hand, not to protect them, but simply to hurry past, their eyes fixed forward.
No one spoke. No one cared.
The thought gripped Avin’s mind like an iron clamp: Is death really that common here, to be brushed off that easily?
His gaze fell to his arm—Miranda’s hand still looped through his sleeve.
"Is it always like this?" he asked, voice low.
She looked back at him, confusion in her eyes. "The crowd? Not really, I think it is some sort of festivity."
"No, not the crowd," Avin pressed, his eyes flicking back to the people on the ground. "The people. On the floor."
Miranda’s expression faltered. She glanced around at the husks, at the dying, then lowered her gaze.
"You mean the Abandoned?"
"Abandoned?" Avin echoed.
She gave a soft, bitter scoff. "You don’t listen to anything in your lessons..."
"Yes. The Abandoned. Abandoned by their gods." Her words carried the weight of rehearsed history, but her voice quivered at the end. "They are deemed useless. Less than human. Because eventually... they will turn into—"
Her words trailed off. Her lips pressed tight, trembling.
Avin didn’t need her to finish. His throat went dry as the realization slid into place. "...Abyss creatures."
Her silence was answer enough.
"Like Gloria," he whispered.
The name struck the air like a stone tossed in water. Miranda’s body stiffened, her hand tightening on his arm, but she said nothing.
They walked on. For a long time, neither spoke. The noise of the market swallowed them again.
Then, suddenly, Miranda’s head snapped toward a stall. Her eyes lit with childish delight, her voice breaking through the heavy air. "Ice cream!"
She tugged at his arm, pulling him toward it before he could react.
"Ice cream?" Avin repeated, half stunned.
"They have ice cream here?" His thought flickered through him like disbelief, but he let himself be dragged along anyway.
The shop’s entrance spilled warm light onto the filthy street. Inside was another world. The chaos of the market fell away, replaced with quiet, the air cooled by enchanted vents that hummed softly. The scent of sugar and vanilla clung to the air.
They sat at a small wooden table by the window. A maid in a neat apron set down two bowls, the pale swirls of frozen cream stacked into delicate peaks. The spoons clinked against the porcelain as Miranda eagerly dug in, her eyes bright in a way Avin hadn’t seen in years—or perhaps ever.
For a moment, he just watched her. She looked younger like this, her grief set aside by the simple joy of something sweet.
He tasted his own, the cold shock spreading across his tongue. It was good. Too good. For a moment, he let himself almost forget the starving eyes outside.
They laughed faintly over nothing, Miranda insisting her portion was larger, Avin half-heartedly arguing before giving in. For a few minutes, the horror outside didn’t exist.
Then reality struck again.
"Oh—I have to pay." The thought jolted Avin like a spark. He stood, making his way to the counter.
He fished into his pocket and pulled out a single coin. Without ceremony, he placed it on the counter.
The shopkeeper’s eyes widened. She recoiled slightly, then leaned forward, staring at the coin as though it were a holy relic. Her hands trembled as she took it in both palms, her voice hushed and reverent. "Thank you for your purchase..."
Her eyes didn’t leave the coin. She was almost drooling.
"I guess that is a lot of money," Avin thought, uneasy.
The thought barely settled before it was shattered.
A scream split the air, shrill and sharp.
Avin’s head snapped toward the window.
Outside—Miranda.
Two guards in the armor of the mansion gripped her arms, dragging her as she kicked and thrashed, her legs kicking high, her voice raw with resistance.
Avin’s chest clenched. He bolted for the door, the bell above it jingling furiously as he burst outside.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!" he roared.
The crowd turned. The same crowd that had ignored the dying, the starving, the bleeding—now they stared. Dozens of eyes locked on the girl struggling in armored hands, and on the brown-haired man screaming with fury.
One guard stepped forward. He unrolled a scroll with deliberate calm, his voice booming with authority.
"THIS WOMAN IS BEING ARRESTED BY ORDER OF THE HOLY CONGREGATION"
The words hit Avin like fire. Rage ignited in his chest, hot and blinding.
"What?" His voice cracked into a snarl. His vision blurred red. Without thinking, his legs launched forward, his body rushing at the guard.
But then—
"Don’t make a fool of yourself, brother."
The voice froze him mid-stride. Familiar. Deep. Heavy with disdain.
His body went rigid. A cold dread surged through his blood even before the blow landed.
THUD!
Pain exploded at the back of his skull. It wasn’t sharp — it was heavy, suffocating. A blunt, crushing force that reverberated through his whole head. His vision spun, doubling, tripling, colors bleeding into one another. His stomach lurched as if the ground itself had given way.
The world tilted. His knees buckled. His body hit the ground, but he barely felt it through the ringing in his ears.
Every heartbeat was a hammer. Every breath came ragged, shallow. His eyelids sagged, his body betraying him, pulling him down into darkness.
The last thing he saw, as his vision narrowed into a shrinking tunnel, was Ashborn.
Standing above him. Looking down with cold, unwavering eyes.
Then—blackness.