[A HUNT OF BLOOD & IRON] 01 — Grey

“Nothing comes without sacrifice.”

The words drifted up to the loft, shackling themselves around Grey’s wrists, lightly stained with charcoal. He ran the stick over the paper, shadows dancing with each movement in the orange glow of the setting sun. Flittering, torn sheets of off-black fabric hung over his little nest, framing crumbling buildings slowly sparking to life with candlelight.

“We know,” whined one of the children clustered past the dilapidated railing.

“What’s that got to do with the story?” piped up another.

The husky chuckle of the older man soothingly clung to Grey’s soul, like smoke on his clothes from the clove cigars the man enjoyed every morning. “Tonight’s tale begins with a brave knight from all the way back when the world first fell to the Wild Hunt.”

Silence descended, save the creak of the older man’s wooden chair and Grey’s pale hand dragging against parchment. Soft blades of grass climbed upward with each flick, filling in his imaginary landscape of someplace far from here where midnight hues wrapped themselves around stones and trees circling this clearing—the one from his dreams.

“She was a fledgling macharomancer—”

Grey quietly scoffed, shaking his head while he began smudging the shadows of his work. A bitter tang welled up from the back of his throat, and he swiped away a phantom twitch under his left eye.

“And her lover was a skilled austromancer princess, trapped by her own father, the king of their young little kingdom. Every few nights, the princess would travel via dreams to her dear knight, but every time she did this, it would leave her body weak and unrested. Eventually, the king became suspicious, and called upon his captive sciomancer to force his daughter into a deep, dreamless sleep.”

A little hand shot up, and Grey peered over the railing again.

“Yes?”

“Don’t sciomancers feed on dreams?”

“Ah, that they do.” He wagged a finger at the boy, a twinkle in his dark eyes. “And that was the king’s first mistake. He didn’t yet understand the true scope of his enemies’ powers, so he sat back, pleased he had solved his problem without realizing that he’d given his captive a wellspring of it.”

Grey wiped his hand on the knee of his pants and stood, wandering over to the large, metal lever. The crisscrossing bulbs drooping from the ceiling brightened in the wake of the fading sun, but the children were still glued to their storyteller like they were every night. He leaned over the railing, shaggy black hair dipping over his eyes as he let himself fall into the story as well.

“The princess, realizing something had gone horribly wrong, had suspected that the captive had been made to consume her dreams, and snuck down to the dungeons to bargain with him. She said that if he could allow her half of a night’s dream, he could have the other, and then they could both benefit. He agreed, and they plotted their escape with the aid of the knight.

“Every night, the princess taught the knight the layout of the castle, pointing out its weak spots when it came to enemy magic. And the knight gathered up a small army of mancers, who helped train her in exchange for a shot at looting the palace or taking revenge on the king from a past transgression.”

A shrill little voice cut in. “What kind of loot?”

“Yeah! Was it faerie treasure? Soul glass?”

“A sacrificial ruby? Oh! Oh! What about—”

The man laughed and brought his hands down in a placating gesture. “That’s not really important, but let’s say it was a lot of alchemist gold.”

The children broke into excited whispers, and Grey hummed a gentle sigh, his fingers curling around the lacquered wood. All anticipation was ripped away with the squeal of a door and an older woman stepped inside, dropping a bag in the entry with a clatter of goods tucked within. Every eye snapped to her and her prominent scowl.

“Atticus, shouldn’t these children be home by now? The sun’s gone down.”

A chorus of tiny pleas cried out, and Atticus softly clapped his palms together. “I suppose this tale will have to conclude tomorrow. Aunt Ingrid is right. I guess I let time get away from me.” He rose, and his audience of pouting children clamored to their feet, trying their hands at one last attempt to convince him otherwise before Ingrid nudged them out the door.

“Honestly, Atti, you really shouldn’t be filling the neighborhood kids’ heads with fluffy stories—”

“They’re not just fluffy stories,” he said, mirth creeping into his tone.

Ingrid’s eyes scaled the ladder, finally narrowing on Grey. “Is he lying?” Her tone flat.

Grey hesitated, pushing his hair to the side with a grimace. “I’m not sure, but… I don’t think it’s a great idea to be romanticizing other mancers…”

She shot Atticus a scowl, but the man simply rolled his eyes.

“I think you two are being too overly critical—”

“Overly critical?” Ingrid folded her arms over her chest. “Grey, come down here.”

He swallowed, pushing off the railing and sliding down the metal ladder’s frame. Dust stirred up at his feet the moment his shoes hit the floorboards, each following step a complaint on his way to stand next to them both.

Ingrid gripped his arm, shoving his hair away from his left eye for Atticus, who turned his head away like he’d been slapped—all lightheartedness gone from his expression, traded for a wince of pain. Pain because of the milky iris staring back at him, even though Grey couldn’t see through it. He felt his hair fall back into place, mostly obscuring it from view again.

“Do you really want to lure those kids into a false sense of security?” she asked, her forehead wrinkling. “Think about how so many of us have died at the hands of other mancers or tortured because they despise our abilities—us. This boy shouldn’t have had some sick, twisted individual cheer over beating his magic and robbing him of part of his sight.”

Grey’s head dipped, and he tugged his sleeves down over his hands, feeling awkwardly embarrassed about the entire situation. Ingrid sighed, Grey’s ear perking at the scrape of her boots against the floor just outside of his periphery. Her steps dampened as she moved further into the hovel of an apartment.

“Grey,” Atticus breathed. “You know I didn’t mean any harm—”

“I know.” He lifted his chin, locking gazes with those twinkling, hopeful eyes set into such a rugged frame of a face—rugged with spots from age and sun exposure instead of the many fights he used to tell Grey stories about.

A small smirk returned, and he reached for Grey’s shoulder. The warm, strong weight that followed anchored him in the midst of that deep, haunting ache. “I’m honestly surprised you haven’t up and left us by now. A bright young thing like you shouldn’t be hold up with a couple of old maids.”

Grey huffed a short laugh. “Forty-something isn’t that old—”

“Please, forty-nine is practically fifty. I’ve lived well over two of your lives.” His fingers pressed into his muscle. “When I was twenty-one, I was itching to see the world, and you’re just sitting up there night and day with your drawings and journaled musings.”

He pushed Atticus’s hand away, shaking his head. “And I’m fine with that.”

“What are you going to do when you finally feel your Calling?”

He snorted. “Ingrid said not everyone has a Calling. I think I would’ve run into it by now.”

“There’s still time, and I don’t want you to be afraid when it keeps you up at night and tries to drag you outside this wreck of a town.” Atticus waved his finger in front of Grey’s nose.

He bit back a bemused smirk. “I’m not nearly as adventurous as you, Uncle Atti.”

“You never know, my boy. You never know.”

Warmth settled in Grey’s belly as he sank into his mattress after dinner, curled up with his journal and a chewed-up pen. His drawing from earlier puffed up the prior pages from where he pasted it inside like a captured memory, where it pushed back with each word pressed into its conjoined piece.

Every inked letter soothed him closer toward sleep, along with the soft humming drifting from the neighbor’s window. He yawned and stretched as he set his flimsy, leather-bound notebook to the side and huddled into the blankets. His eyes closed, and the world vanished for a fraction of a second.

In a blink, the apartment was dark, the melodic notes climbing through the window had ceased, and pale light spilled over the floorboards, licking at the railing. He turned over, half-sitting up to bask in the presence of the moon’s waxing state. Grey’s head dropped back down to the pillow before he rolled over to his back, sucking in a deep, calming breath and closing his eyes.

But this time, sleep didn’t take him.

Instead, the image of his drawing seared into his eyelids, taunting him. Grimacing, he threw back the covers and sat up, rubbing at his face. Each movement turned into a jolt, demanding he keep going, like some restless creature had slunk under his skin. He pulled on his worn, faded hoodie over his rumpled black shirt. Muddied boots were tugged over slim, ripped, dark jeans. His hands absently shoved item after item into his bag—a lantern, a compass, a knife, a small collection of coins he’d saved from the artwork he’d been commissioned for. Then his fingers twitched as he reached for his journal, resting next to his small heap of art supplies.

That alarm pulsed through him, snapping at him to hurry like a rabid dog on his heels. Grey scooped it up, dumped it into his bag, and bundled up his supplies to tuck them inside as well. He scurried over to the ladder, quietly crawling down until a creak sounded at the bottom.

“No Calling, hm?”

Grey spun around, eyes wide as he caught Atticus lingering at the edge of the hall, leaning against the corner. A soft, tired smile tipped up the corner of his mouth. Grey swallowed.

But Atticus started for the kitchen, plucking open the cabinets and wrapping homemade protein bars and dried fruit in cheesecloth. “You should probably take some food with you just in case you’re traveling out of the way for a few days.” He slid the care package across the counter in offering as Grey finally moved from the other end of the small living room. The padded, quiet tap of cabinets closing again gave him pause with his bag dipping off his shoulder.

“I don’t want to inconvenience you two—”

“Please, Grey, like you’ve ever done that.” Atticus turned back around and rested his forearms against the smooth granite. “We had the choice to dump you in the arms of someone else, and we chose to keep you. You’ll always be our son—nephew, whatever you want to call it. Blood or no blood, you’re always welcome here. We will always take care of you.”

Grey fought against the pressure pricking at the backs of his eyes, opting for a nod instead of a thank you for fear of his voice cracking. He collected the dry goods as Atticus rounded the counter and pulled him into a hug. The faint notes of cloves made his heart squeeze before anticipating that final pat on the back.

And then Grey was out in the hallway of the complex, half the windows boarded up with the other half blown out and cleared away. He jogged down the stairs, goosebumps running up and down his arms the further he traveled alongside the cool night air. The propped open door at the end of the candle-lit lobby gave way to car-cluttered streets. Each one positioned to be a rusted, moss-covered, makeshift barricade to deter any mischievous fair folk from the nearby forest. He made his way through to the huddled group of insomniacs posted at the edge of town, always on watch like guards.

“Grey?” one of them asked, a trail of smoke pouring from his lips as his cigarette wafted to his side. “Going somewhere?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, slowing at the rim of rubble and rebar.

A couple of them shared hesitant glances and frowns. “Where?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“Ah,” the first replied with a knowing smirk. “Enjoy the ride then. We’ll look forward to the party once you get back. Safe Calling.”

A clap on the back, then another with a call for good luck, and Grey weaved his way past the makeshift wall into the sea of charred houses. Straight into the undulating shadows within the untamed woods in the early hours of the morning.