Soren
'Eat,' Soren thought, his mind a frayed wire. 'Or you'll die.'
He tried to roll onto his stomach, but his shoulder screamed where he'd hit the stairs during his escape. The small, ice-rusted icebox was only four feet away, but it might as well have been across the ocean. He dragged his lower body forward, fingernails digging into the packed earth of the shack's floor.
Drag. Breathe. Drag.
Pip trotted beside him, whining low in his throat and nudging Soren's elbow with a cold, wet nose.
He reached the box. His hands shook so violently that he had to use both to pry the heavy latch open. Inside sat a wedge of gray, hard cheese and a scrap of meat he'd bought three days ago. He pushed himself against the wall, clutching the food to his chest. He managed one desperate bite.
It tasted like nothing. Like cold ash.
His jaw locked. His vision began to swim, the dark corners of the shack stretching into long, violet shadows. The cheese slipped from his numb fingers, rolling into the dirt.
Just a minute, he thought, his head lolling back against the rusted metal. "I'll... rest."
The darkness rushed in, cold and absolute, pulling him down into the quiet.
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Eira
The docks smelled like wet coal, rusted iron, and the sharp, metallic tang of the river. Eira stood at the base of the Great Stair, her lemon-yellow lantern piercing through the soot-stained gloom.
She moved through the maze of groaning pipes and leaning shacks. The water-wheels nearby created a constant, low-frequency thrum that vibrated in her very teeth.
"Excuse me," she said, stopping a man layered in grease who was hauling a coil of frozen rope. "I'm looking for a boy. Dark hair, very sick."
The man didn't even look up. He spat a dark glob of tobacco into the snow. "Everyone's sick down here, little lady. Go back to your flowers."
Eira gritted her teeth and turned to an old woman sitting on a crate. "I saw a boy yesterday. Near the bridge. He had... a different kind of light."
The woman's eyes narrowed, flickering to the bruise on Eira's arm and the fine wool of her cloak. "You looking for that river-boy?"
Eira's heart leaped. "Where is he?"
The woman pointed a stubby finger toward a cluster of shacks clinging to the edge of the cliff, where the spray from the wheels turned the world into a jagged forest of icicles. "The last door. The one that smells like fox-piss."
Eira didn't wait. She sprinted, her lantern swinging wildly as she headed toward the roar of the churning water.
The shack smelled of stagnant water, wet fur, and old grease. She pushed the door. It groaned open, protesting the intrusion. Eira stepped inside, holding her lantern high. The light cut through the dark, and her breath hitched. The room was tiny. Inside lay a single mat, an icebox, and walls covered in damp, peeling newspaper.
Then she saw the heap on the floor.
"Oh, no," she breathed.
She rushed forward, her boots clattering on the wood. The boy was slumped against the icebox, his head lolled to the side. The fox stood over him, baring its teeth and snarling.
"It's okay," Eira said, her voice trembling as she knelt. "I'm a healer. I'm here to help."
The fox didn't move, but it stopped hissing, watching her with wary eyes. Eira reached for her satchel, but as she moved her lantern, the light spilled into the far corner, hitting a small wooden crate.
Eira froze.
Inside the crate sat a lantern. It wasn't lit, but the glass was stained with a deep, bruised colour she knew better than her own name. Even in the dark, the metal seemed to hum with a sick, rhythmic energy.
It was the violet light. The thing that had turned her father into a statue.
Eira scooted back, her stomach turning. The thing that ruined her life wasn't a monster. It was a boy, pale and dying in the dirt.
A dark temptation flared in her chest. She could take the lantern right now. She could run back to the Mid-Tier, show it to the doctors, and demand they find a cure for her father. She could leave the boy in the shadows; after all, he was the one who had run away.
But then she looked at his face. He looked so small. She saw the jagged scar on his jaw and the way his chest barely moved as he struggled for air.
True strength is found in holding a lamp for those others have left in the cold. Her father's words echoed in the cramped space.
The anger in her chest shifted. It became a sharp, stubborn resolve. She wouldn't let the violet light claim another person. Not until she got what she needed.
"Not today," she snapped.
She grabbed the violet lantern, unhooking her own yellow one and setting it aside. She knew what she had to do, even if it was forbidden. She pressed the cold metal of the violet lantern against the boy's chest and began to rub his frozen hands with a desperate strength.
"Wake up," she commanded, her voice echoing in the small shack. "Wake up and tell me how to fix this!"