Erica kept her distance from the man, afraid that she’d toyed with him for too long. He inspected the wounds she’d done to him, then cast his gaze upward. His amber eyes were sharp and fixed; fixed upon the cretin that dared to play.

The man stood, brushing aside his long dark hair. His grey-brown leather jerkin straightened and dirt fell. It was simple act, yet it evoked a feeling of grace of which Erica was not familiar with.

The ground between Erica and him was twisted and curled, like ripples from a stone thrown in a pond. It was magic and the sight of it stunned Erica. She had never encountered a wizard in her time in Cragstead, and that thought frightened her. There was a time when she had sneaked around the Orphanage, evading the wizards, and stole what she could; forcibly when she got too hungry.

She ran, knowing now that she’d angered him by the dark visage he made with his eyes. The earth cracked and slid, and Erica tripped. She stared at the coiling earth, flabbergast at the way it shifted like water under ice.

“Apologise,” he said, voice dripping with a cold venom that sent chills down Erica’s spine.

“I …” she began, “Your mum’s a whore!” she blurted instead.

Erica reached into her rags and felt a stone spoon fall into her hand. It wasn’t the greatest weapon, but it was still better than the twig she’d once used to stab a man’s eye after he had tried to lay his hands on her. She threw it forward with the same wild desperation she’d always shown when she was backed into a corner. The man stood still, not attempting to move away from the projectile’s path. The spoon crumbled in the air.

Erica fell to her knees, her confidence draining away. She’d seen a wizard demolish a boulder by looking at it, the same as this one had done with the spoon. Suffering broken bones had tortured her enough; shattering her body was something else. She was powerless against magic.

By now Erica knew the nature of wizards all too well. And she shuddered to be drowned by one again. But her legs had forgotten how to move; the memory of gasping for breath, of her chest burning from within were as clear now as it was then.

His piercing eyes bore down on her. He stood tall and imposing. Unforgiving, the same as the wizard who had drowned her. She remembered his face well, lined and wrinkled with no eyebrows or hair and dark grey eyes that were almost the colour of midnight. He wore a heavy, black-red robe with fur linings and granite buttons. And his soft, lying smile that would always reassure her that she wouldn’t hurt, that she would forget the next time she woke. She always remembered.

Erica gasped in fright, not knowing what would come next as she gazed at his stone-like face. The same stoniness that all wizards had shown her.

“Don’t bother me anymore,” he said, eyes drilling deep.

Erica nodded.

He strode past her with footfalls of the men she once knew; dark and light. Footfalls that took care not to disturb the agonised lest they scream and cause a ruckus.

The man disappeared into the cellar of foodstuffs.

Relieved of her tension, Erica let go of a breath, thankful that nothing more had happened. That she hadn’t been lit aflame the same way Gavin had been, whom the wizards watched burn, noting every bit of suffering on their parchments. They had given him a potion prior, telling him that it would protect him from the flames. It didn’t and his screams filled the dark corridors and flowed through the airducts where Erica had hidden herself.

She should have taken the opportunity to run far away, but her scheming side returned. She couldn’t ignore it. Her schemes had kept her alive for fifteen years. It’d taught her her limits. It’d been how she had avoided the worst of the wizards.

The man hadn’t killed her. Rather, he hadn’t even scratched her.

What the heck was I so scared of?! she thought, flushing.

He had every chance to torture her how he wanted, but he hadn’t. He could have strung her up, fed her all the water she needed, then let the sun sweat her all over. She’d be boiled to death in the heat. Like what happened to Neri.

She waited for the wizard to come out of the cellar. She had no reason to fear a man who would let her go so easily.

After a while, he came out, frowning at her sight. “What do you want now?”

“You use cheap magic! You can’t actually hurt me!” Erica said, pointing confidently.

His expression soured, then chose to ignore her. He hoisted his filled sack of foodstuffs over his shoulder and turned away.

Although Erica hadn’t known the man’s entire magical prowess, she couldn’t stop herself from poking the hornet’s nest further, so she followed after him, confident in herself enough to believe that he was a weak wizard.

“I bet the reason you’re in this backwater town is because you’re not talented enough to get into the Academy,” she said, dancing around the man.

“Impressive that a rat like you even knows that the Academy exists,” he said.

Erica had heard of the Academy from the wizards that took her and other children. She would hear them whispering, reminiscing about their days studying at the Academy.

“I know everything because I’m smart,” Erica said.

“Then do you know how to read?”

“Of course, I know how,” she answered, the knowledge coming to her with ease.

He paused. “How do you spell ‘Cragstead?’”

She spelt it. “Are you so dumb that you can’t spell the name of this place?”

He scowled and Erica backed away on impulse.

“Where did you come from?” he asked with a hint of irritation.

“My mum.”

He sighed. “Why are you in rags?”

“Do I look rich, dumbass?” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Why are you a bitch?”

“Your dad would know.”

The man quieted, no longer wanting to deal with the prancing girl. On the other hand, Erica was all too eager to be a nuisance. She used to taunt the other kids, telling them how free she was even when her skin stuck to her bones.

“Why do you wizards like little kids so much?” Erica asked.

He eyed her peculiarly.

“All the wizards I know,” Erica began, “would always grab a kid when he could. Then they’d diddle with them, poking them with their rods and stuff. I remember when Tommy got skewered with one. It went right up his bum and out his mouth. He was squealing like a pig the whole while.

“And there was Gorgeous. She was called that because of all the gems they stuck to her. She was always bleeding, and Kendrick kept putting more on her and then she just stopped moving one day for some reason. She was a good friend and never once complained.”

She didn’t like living at the Orphanage, but it had entertained her more than the mundane town she was in now.

“You have an interesting history,” he said.

“Nah, it was pretty normal,” Erica said. “The wizards were always moaning about how the nobles had it better.”

“I see why you’re so twisted,” he said.

“Twisted? How am I twisted?”

“You enjoy the pain of others.”

“Yeah, because it’s funny,” Erica said. “I just hate it when it happens to me.”

“You don’t think they hate it, too?” he questioned.

Erica shrugged. “Who cares? Their problem, not mine.”

“Doesn’t that make you a coward?”

Erica grimaced. She picked up a plank of wood and threw it.

He dodged, moving his body lithely.

Erica blinked a few times, confused. She picked up another plank of wooden debris and threw that, too.

He dodged again. “Stop that.”

“Why aren’t you turning it to dust?” she asked.

He paused.

Erica’s lips curled. She picked up another plank.

“Don’t you dare,” he warned.

She ran her fingers on the plank mischievously. “Now why can’t you turn this wood to dust?”

“Do you really want to do this again?” he said, frowning.

She flung the wood, grinning like a child that had found a new toy.

The man’s hair bristled. A breeze blew against Erica. He held his arm in front and his hair whipped forward. A gust kicked from behind Erica. She fell forward. The plank of wood hurtled its way back towards her. She raised her arms to catch her fall. Wind whistled in her ears and the wood bit in, splitting and splintering into her flesh.

Erica drew in a sharp breath and cursed. Glistening red blood bubbled upon her forearms.

“Stay away or be hurt again,” he said, parting his blown hair away from his eyes.

Blood oozed out her arms. Erica bit her lips, holding back tears. She was reminded of Jonny who’d cut his arms because he saw spiders crawling underneath his skin.

Pain turned into anger. Erica wanted to hit back at the wizard, to make him squeal. But her time at the Orphanage had taught her much. She’d flirted with the wrath of wizards many times, and she’d gotten away with it most of the time, albeit with bruises. When a wizard made her whimper, that was when she learnt that her play had overstepped.

Erica glared at the wizard. She committed the act to her memory. She turned and fled, and if they met again, she’d punch him at the earliest opportunity.

Her bare feet slapped the dirt. She was running from a wizard again. Wizards always hated when she ran. She wanted to find a dark and quiet place, as she always did when she was hurt. To curl up and hide away.

A child’s dress lay on the ground. Erica grabbed it and ducked under a wall of debris, shading herself from the sun.

She examined her arms for the largest splinters; blood made getting the smaller ones out impossible. She picked at the splinters, wincing as they came out. The blood dripped, mixing with the dirt. She gritted her teeth, tore the child’s dress in two and wrapped her arms, using her teeth to help tie the knot.

She leaned back against the wall and drew deep breaths. Messing with wizards was always a bad idea and she cursed herself for it. But it’d been a long while since she’d teased danger, and that brought her mood up a bit.

Two pairs of footsteps thumped the ground. Erica strained her ears. It came from behind her.

“Have we enough food?” a man said.

“It’s a day’s walk south. Water is enough,” another man replied.

“What will we do when we get there? Are we even welcomed? We’ve nothing.”

“And what good will staying here do us?”

Their heavy steps faded to the distance and their voices, too.

South. It wasn’t the best descriptor, but it provided a direction. Like the other townspeople, Erica’s time here was limited. She would need to leave or face starvation.

Erica ventured to the place where she had seen campfires the night before, thinking she might find something of use. As luck would have it, the place was deserted, save for a few abandoned pieces of travel equipment.

A kettle sat on charcoal. She peered into it. There was still water inside. She drank from it. A rusted knife lay nearby; it was obvious why it had been left behind. She took it anyway, wrapping it in shredded linen that laid about so that it wouldn’t nick her skin. And she took the kettle as well; it would be useful to catch rain.

She felt her stomach would growl soon and headed for the cellar again. Luck wouldn’t have her this time. The cellar had been sacked. Even the barrels had few drops left. It made sense now why those mens’ footsteps were so heavy.

Yesterday’s storm had passed and the sky drifted with white clouds. A gentle breeze blew, and it was silent. The town was empty.

Erica counted her things – her rusted knife, kettle and bruised apple that she had forgotten about – and placed them in a sack that’d been left in the cellar. She tied the sack around her shoulders and swung it around her back. It would irritate her arm if she carried it.

The girl, who was shorter than most her age, sauntered her way south, remarking the position of the sun in the sky. She took in her sights, although there was nothing of note. And while she had never seen such destruction before, she had to admit that she was uncaring. All around her were debris and the occasional puddle of mud. It made for a terrible landscape, but she’d seen worse things before. It would make for a good journey south, with the wizard out of the way. Finally, she reached the perimeter of town. She turned to the husk of a town that was Cragstead and gave it final parting.

The road was bare, and the mud mushed between her toes. Erica didn’t know where her forward march would take her, but she had been on unknown roads before and would find her way. The storm had come and passed, and Erica wondered why the town was ill-prepared.

They were probably just stupid, she thought.

An eagle screeched in the sky. It reminded her of the emblems etched in the door handles of the Orphanage. Of the eagle-faced nobleman. The one who everyone else submitted to.

Erica, his voice echoed.

She shook her head, pushing the memory away. But the corridors were dark and terrifying.

“Why do I have to do this?” she asked.

“You are the only one who can,” he replied. “You are small and lithe.” He pushed a cookie in her palms. “Can you do this for me, please?” his voice supple and sweet. “Bring them to me and you may have another.”

It was the hunger that made her do it. She led them back, two of her friends first. Garvin and Merry. And she heard their terrors. She needed to bring them; her stomach would ache otherwise. But sometimes, her stomach would ache even when there was food. She’d been punch. The kid had realised where he was. He was in the place where his friends had gone and never returned. He fled. But Erica was small and lithe. She chased him down and mauled his face when he fought back. She begged him to stay. She needed to fill her stomach.

That was her first kill. That was when the eagle-faced man struck her for the first time.

“Erica,” his voice echoed, “you need to bring them to me alive. I won’t give you a cookie otherwise.”

“Erica,” he called again, supple and sweet. “What are you doing here?”

There he sat upon a grey rock by the side of the road. It was the wizard who had bled her arms.

“Are you crying?” He surveyed her.

“I’m not crying.” She raised her arms and rubbed her face, smearing blood.

“I learnt my lesson,” Erica submitted, “I won’t bother you again.”

The man considered for a moment, his demeanour calm and collected. His long, dark hair fluttered against the gentle wind. He reached into his sack and produced an apple. He held it forward. “It’s yours if you want it.”

Erica eyed the apple. Her stomach growled. She shook her head. “I already have an apple.”

“An apple you stole, no doubt,” he said, “But this apple is given freely.” He continued to hold the apple forward.

Erica, his voice echoed, supple and sweet.

Damnit, she thought. Damnit. Damnit.

She crept closer and placed her palm upon the apple. He gave a nod and a small smile.

The apple was in her hands.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he said. “To not have to steal.”

Erica shook her head. “No, not at all.”

On all sides were open field. The horizon stretched as far as the eye could see in a sea of green grass and blotches of brown to mark the road.

Erica gripped the brown-red apple. She turned it to its red half and she saw blood of the children she’d murdered. She turned it to its brown half and saw the autumn wither, the shedding of an old life.

She bit into the brown side, sweet juice flooding her palate and tongue like a tsunami. And from the corner of her eyes, she saw the wizard for what he was: a youthful man who had recently started to grow his stubble. He was thin but he held his airs well, an aura stronger than a street urchin but not quite noble.

“Why?” Erica said.

He blinked and his eyes sullied. “We’re not fortunate enough to have homes of our own. The least we can do is look out for each other.”

“Even after everything I’ve done?”

He looked long and hard into the girl who was shorter than most her age. “Do you regret being born?”

The red of the apple stared at Erica. “You’re stupid and dumb. I hate you.” She tossed the rest of the apple back and made to leave.

“Erica,” he called.

She drew breath and turned reluctantly to the wizard. A rolled parchment was held out for her.

“I want you to look it over for me. Tell me how it reads,” he said.

She considered and thought it unwise to play tricks. Erica snatched the light brown parchment and unfurled it. Words were written in black ink clear as day.

I, Vilein of the renowned house, wish to make inquiry to corruption against Grand Warlock Hendry who heralds from Central Capital for fraudulence and negligence in providing a duty of care to the townspeople of Cragstead for which resulted in the deaths of thousands and utter annihilation of said town.

Erica’s eyes hovered over the words: renowned, fraudulence, and negligence. She almost let her thoughts delve deeper when she recalled the person who wrote the letter was a wizard, and she knew them all to be liars.

She held out the parchment in return. “It reads like you had a stick up your ass.”

The man – Vilein – nodded, taking the parchment. “Good.”

Erica moved onward, down the road that led south, to a place she didn’t know. And she wouldn’t let the caring of the world have its way. Erica had escaped the Orphanage. That was what mattered.