The Red of the Writing

Seven | Rani

The tri-color bunting hanging from nearly every lamppost mocks me.

Coming back to Zesa was a strategic move; the Kaval would likely expect me to run away from the capital city, which is swarming with guards, Kaval, and loyalists, especially so close to the Freedom Day festivities. After two years on the run, I've learnt that the unexpected can be a valuable friend.

The one thing I failed to consider in my strategy, though, was how much coming back to my hometown would hurt.

Everything about it is wrong. The red, white, and green of the bunting is wrong. The red, white, and green flag flying from the highest spire of the palace is wrong. The fact that anyone could possibly be celebrating the day I lost everything is so wrong, so unfair. How can anybody smile when all I want to do is cry?

It's hard to grasp, how the people who made up my entire world were mere blips in other people's lives. That the world keeps spinning on, even though it feels like my entire world has stopped.

But I see the evidence of it everywhere, in the way people smile and laugh, their worlds still intact. In the way people cry out as they discover their wallets or purses are missing, likely stolen by a pickpocket, who doesn't care which family might go hungry tonight. And in so many other ways, ways that humans hurt each other without hesitation.

I wander through the streets aimlessly, feeling incredibly lost in the city that I grew up in. I'll have to find a place to sleep for the night soon. An inn would probably be the best choice, but I don't have enough mirra left for that. I'd prefer to avoid sleeping on the streets, though; that option leaves me uncomfortable and far too exposed. Unsavory characters, or, even worse, Kaval, could sneak up on me, and I'd be none the wiser.

And getting a job will be even tougher, since I don't have any legal documentation. It's easier to get a job in rural, or even semi-rural towns, like Soria. Often, the people there don't ask for papers, just happy that there's anyone willing to work for them at all. But in cities, especially large ones, it's near impossible to get a job without proper documentation.

Well, near impossible to get a respectable job.

I heave a sigh. I'll have to scout out some not-so-legal bars later. Honestly, I'd take a job any of them, as long as they don't try to put me in some short dress.

I'm doing what I have to to survive, but there are some lines I refuse to cross.

It took me a while, at first, to get used to that concept. Survival, and the lengths I would have to go to to ensure it. The thought of working in illegal bars used to repulse me. Sleeping in alleyways? Forget it.

It's astonishing, how fast we can adapt when we're forced to.

There's a tug on my dress. My heart jumps, and I swiftly spin around, hands balled into fists.

If it's someone looking to turn me in, they'll have to drag back my dead body.

But there's nobody there. I pause, hands drooping from their positions in a sloppy fighting stance.

There's another tug, and a small voice. "Excuse me, miss?"

I look down, and my eyes lock with the culprit's. It's a little boy, no older than five or six, with black hair, tan skin, and deep brown eyes. Although he's speaking Ayeran, his accent is distinctly Azovi.

I can feel my own features soften as I take his appearance in. Children have always been my weakness.

I crouch down until I'm at eye level with him, noting the numerous rips and patches in his outfit. I make an effort to smile. "Hey there, bud. Where are your parents?"