Quintus plucked an old wooden doll from the remnants of a market stand and turned it over in his hands. Despite being exposed to the elements for gods knew how long, it had only lost one of its stone eyes. He tucked it into his pocket and continued through the ruins.

Or “ruins” rather. Of all the abandoned cities he’d visited, this one was in the best shape. The buildings were intact, just neglected. While a few of the stands in the market area lie on their backs, it looked as though some curious woodland creatures had passed through as opposed to rampaging netherborne. Some of the wares—textiles, pottery, and the like—were in decent condition.

 A different kind of Calamity had passed through here, one that didn’t screech or tear down structures or rip people limb from limb until only smudges of blood remained. No, this was a silent a killer, something that descended over a city at night and snatched souls while they slumbered. Something even Quintus was terrified of.

He imagined the clouds hanging over the horizon—not storm clouds, but something more sinister—a dark purple haze that churned and shifted like a living thing. He could see it rolling in from the west, descending on the town, the oblivious citizens still going about their day. Until people started collapsing. He could see a haze of ghostly people running into shelter in panic, but it was too late. One whiff of that cloud sealed their fate.

Quintus continued down the street, his footfalls kicking up little clouds of dust and echoing through empty alleyways. The late afternoon sun stretched his shadow behind him. He passed more abandoned buildings, one in particular with angular, gothic architecture—pointed arches, flying buttresses and a bell tower. 

Hello Divine City.

This dead city would be his resting place for the night. He just needed to choose a building to hole up in, but first, the real reason he trekked this far, the ocean. He followed the salt on the wind to the outskirts of the city where an old stone dock lay against the water. The salty surf lapped against the rocky shore flanking it on either side. Before him, the gulf stretched for miles and carried the murky, green-blue-grey of a storm cloud.

Quintus stretched his arm up and took in a deep breath of salty air. And he may have enjoyed that breath if it didn’t carry the faintest hint of pot-pourri.

“Mmm?” he hummed. Company? In his city? He hadn’t planned to spend the night with anyone, much less some filthy netherborne. He looked south and spotted a group of them crowded in the distance, jostling each other like children fighting over a swing on a playground.

Quintus strode their way, keeping his steps long enough to cover the distance quickly but light enough not to alert them. The moment he was within earshot, he put his thumb and forefinger between his teeth and released a whistle that pierced the ocean breeze. His power hummed through it and exploded above the monsters’ heads like a firework. The netherborne startled and scrambled away, disappearing down the beach.

“That’s right,” Quintus said. “Scatter you filthy roaches.” It was then he noticed the thing, or rather the person they’d been fighting over. Quintus sidled up to the limp body—a man. His dark brown hair was matted, tangled and covered in sand and his skin deathly pale. The white tunic he wore was torn in several places, and he’d lost a shoe. Poor thing.

Quintus closed his eyes, drowned out the waves, the breeze and the cackles of the gulls overhead to focus on the man at his feet. And he found a heartbeat. Faint but there. The poor sap lives. Which begged the question of what to do with him.

Quintus looked toward the sea. The tide was coming in, if he left the guy here, the sea would take him away, faraway where he’d a problem for the death god and his angels, not Quintus. But he’d never be able to tell Octavia and Celesta about it. Even now, he could hear them buzzing around his head like mosquitoes.

“Quintus, what are you doing? Help him!” Octavia would say.

“Have you no conscience?” Celesta would chime in.

No. The answer was no. Consciences were for people comfortable living with regret. He’d killed his conscience long ago and freed himself from all the emotional baggage it carried.

“Quintus!” they’d yell in unison.

He sighed. “Fine. I’ll be a hero. Just this once.” He peeled the guy from the sand and hoisted him onto his free shoulder. At least he wasn’t heavy.

Daylight faded to dusk as Quintus made his way back into the abandoned city. Now more than ever, he needed to find a place to hole-up, before this guy froze to death. He took an alleyway between two buildings and found the city’s residential district.

Several squat houses sat along the road, hewn from variegated stone with wood roofs. He scanned each one in turn and picked the one with the boarded up doors and windows. He liked a challenge. The wood was rotted, and pocked with holes when insects had made their homes in it, and the nails rusted.

Quintus dropped his cross and yanked the wood from the door. It gave with little effort, falling in a rain of dust and splinters at his feet. He tossed his cross in first and it raised a cloud of dust from the floor. It smelled of must and neglect, and if he attuned his ears, he could hear the scuffling of insects in the wall.

Beyond the door, he found furniture draped in knitted throws and covered in a layer of dust. He guessed whoever owned this place had moved out, possibly put it up for sale. Quintus peeled the throw back from the couch and laid the guy down. First thing, he needed to find firewood, get the hearth going, put some water to boil, find blankets and clothes. He pulled his dagger from his belt and cut the guy’s shirt free. He was better off with no clothes than wet clothes.

The guy looked young, but not much younger than Quintus—in the physical sense at least—and he wasn’t bad looking either. His features were on the softer side, thin nose, pouty lips. He was a little scrawny, but still fit, perhaps deft with a bow or a sword. Maybe even rich, if the fancy gold bracer on his forearm was any indication.

Quintus frowned at the inscriptions on its surface. He recognised that language. He traced his fingers along the inscriptions as he read.

Start at the edge of the desert eagle’s cry.
Pass through the serpent burrow.
Traverse the camel’s jagged back.
And follow the sandspire’s shadow to the sun goddess’ bosom.

Ishmaran. Quintus frowned. He knew this chant. It was directions to the heart of the desert, to Ishmar. That place had been overrun by the netherborne over forty years ago, yet this person was carrying a relic of its past. On top of that, this guy looked as though he hadn’t seen any sun since the ancients walked this realm.

“Hmm…” Quintus hummed. He should at least give the guy a name, or call him something other than a poor sap or unfortunate soul. He searched his name for something suitable.

Clint? No, he didn’t look like a Clint.

Gavrael? Yes, that was it. Perfect. Gavrael, or Gav for short.