"Master Bermuda. The fugitives escaped through the western marshes. I confirm that our old acquaintances took part in the escape and gave them shelter. They spent two nights with those marsh sluts. Afterwards they headed to the nearest settlement on the border." — Nestgrade Spy Network

  Spring came to Nedermarsh as it always did — like a brazen bitch. First it whispered something tender, then trampled the last of the snow and turned the whole town into a thick brown slurry. The mud squelched underfoot so loudly it seemed the earth itself had come alive and was greedily devouring boots.

  Palzma was beginning — the first real festival after winter. On this day the townsfolk wove white and red ribbons on the bare branches of the trees: white so Winter would release their souls from its icy embrace, red so the Spring Maiden would spill her blood and bring the land back to life. Even those who had spent the winter stealing each other’s chickens and trying to warm a neighbor’s wife under the same blanket suddenly set their mugs side by side and pretended to be the best of friends.

  The roads had turned to mush, so no decent alcohol arrived. The locals, long used to such shit, drank what they had brewed themselves: thick mead, sour beer, and braga that made you want to puke up not just your soul but the last scraps of your conscience by morning. Yet the air still carried the scent of fresh baking and pine resin from the nearby forest, and somewhere in the distance a cheap lute was already twanging, promising that by night someone would be lying in a puddle with a broken face, and someone else would be sporting a fresh bruise in the shape of a woman’s hand.

  The town wasn’t a complete shithole: carved shutters, decent shops, a small but majestic temple with peeling gilt on the statue of Father Kenshin. The statue gazed upon its inheritance with the weary indulgence of an old god who had long since stopped giving a damn. But at its core this was still the borderlands. A wretched place where raw, captivating beauty and filth always walked hand in hand, and you could never tell which one was leading.

  The tavern "Soul-Eater" stood on the edge of town, neither the dirtiest nor the noisiest. But Aunt Marla’s cooking did strange things to people. One spoonful of her thick soup and even the most hardened drunk would suddenly remember how his mother used to stroke his head — before his father came home drunk and ruined what little domestic comfort there was. Marla was a plump woman with a perpetual smile that never left her face, even when she was yelling at her son so loudly the windows rattled in complaint.

  Her son, Yakov, was a gift of an entirely different kind — broad-boned, with a noticeable soft belly that had appeared here in Nedermarsh. Once he had been a handsome man: tall, well-built, with sharp features that made girls blush. Now his face had grown gaunt, his shoulders remained broad, but his belly had treacherously rounded. The whole town used to pour out to greet him as a hero, even an idol: they honored him until morning, drinking themselves senseless, hanging on his every word about royal service. Then one day he returned for good. His face turned gray, his eyes empty. Not a word. Not a single story. And only from the way his mother cried did everyone understand that something truly terrible had happened. No one dared ask. Since then Yakov had become a permanent grumbler. Though sometimes Marla caught herself in a quiet, almost forbidden hope: if her son left with that strange youth, perhaps he would become the handsome man he once was again.

  In the shed behind the tavern, on a fresh stack of hay, lay a youth whose appearance had nothing in common with these parts. A sunbeam slipped through a crack in the roof and fell directly on his face, illuminating high cheekbones, skin the color of old parchment, narrow eyes, and hair black and glossy as the fur of the cat curled up by his boots. The cat purred softly; its warm fur contrasted gently with the cold air, and in this wretched shed something almost beautiful appeared. Even Death herself could have lain down here for a rest and stroked the cat’s back.

  The youth was not sleeping. He simply lay there, enjoying the silence, waiting for dinner. Because even a prince sometimes wants nothing more than to eat and not think about his homeland or the knives waiting in his back.

  The door burst open with a crash, nearly flying off its hinges. Two men barged in.

  The first was a fellow with sharp, angry features and a face covered in red pimples, as if puberty had simply refused to let him go. His name was Moksha. He immediately kicked the youth in the leg, finally dislodging the cat from its warm spot.

  "Is that you — the very Idzanami Enma?"

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The youth barely opened his eyes.

  "You’re mistaken, friend. I’m just warming the hay. Maybe you should lie down too?"

  Moksha spat. The spit landed squarely on the boot.

  "Stop playing the fool, outsider. Your eyes give you away. I wonder how an imperial bastard ended up here."

  Next to him the huge oaf Borko laughed, his fists the size of cabbages.

  "Ha-ha, right on target, Moksha! Fucking hilarious, you cunt!"

  The youth slowly sat up. He smiled — a wicked, mocking smile.

  "You know, yesterday a sweet girl spent the whole evening treating me to buns. Said she baked them with her own hands. Then we went down to the river… and she was so… affectionate. We had a very good time together."

  Moksha turned crimson.

  "You’re lying, you fuck! She’d never do that with a freak like you! Stay away from Elinka — she’s mine! You’re ruining our girls just by existing!"

  He jerked his head at Borko.

  "You asked for it."

  At that moment Yakov entered the shed. Silently, as always. In one hand — a bucket of ice water, in the other — slops. Not a word. He simply kicked Borko hard in the ass. The man flew half a meter into the air and crashed into the straw with a loud thud.

  "Oh, fuck," Yakov chuckled, staring at Borko’s enormous ass. "I thought my leg was going to get stuck in there forever. You’ve got an ass like a good mare after winter, lad."

  Moksha opened his mouth, but Yakov swung the second bucket and said calmly:

  "What the hell are you pups doing? This is my customer. While he pays — he’s sacred. Now get out before I decide to feed your ugly mugs the slops."

  The lads backed away and bolted like scalded rats.

  Yakov turned to the youth. His grin was mocking, but old, deep anger flickered in his eyes.

  "Oh, the aristocrat deigns to sleep till noon… Maybe breakfast in bed? With a spoon? Or should I send the local girls over in batches, Your Highness?"

  The youth stood up and brushed himself off. "In these parts I’m no lord, Yakov. Just a traveler by necessity."

  Yakov narrowed his eyes. His voice dropped, but real venom boiled in it:

  "I’ve seen your eyes, lad. That cursed violet color… Like those royal bastards who think we’re dirt beneath their feet. Locals don’t know it. But I remember. I remember very well."

  And without warning he hurled the entire bucket of ice water straight into the youth’s face.

  The cold burned his skin like a slap from winter itself. Water streamed down his black hair, running down his back and burning disgustingly.

  The youth straightened to his full height. Wet, furious, he towered over Yakov, though Yakov himself was far from short. In that moment nothing remained of the weary youth. Only pure, cold rage — the kind that made him seem even taller and more terrifying.

  In his head the imps screamed.

  Kill him, gut him, make him eat his own balls and regret he was ever born! — shrieked Bishu.

  No, let’s go upstairs and make him watch while we have fun with his dear mommy. Slowly. With a smile, — purred Biza.

  The youth clenched his fists until the knuckles turned white. Almost. He almost gave in. But he exhaled through his teeth and forced his voice to sound even:

  "Fine. Let’s go eat. I’ll just clean myself up first."

  In the common room it was warm and noisy. Several drunks were hiding from their wives behind their mugs, the bar gleaming with spilled beer. The air smelled of roasted chicken and fresh bread — a scent that could make even a hangman forget for a second that tomorrow the noose awaited him again. The youth sat down at the counter. Marla immediately bustled over and placed the fattest drumstick in front of him.

  "Why so gloomy, my dear?" she sang, smiling so widely it seemed the sun had peeked out from her face. "My food will fix everything right up. Here, the tastiest drumstick for the handsomest guest."

  Yakov snorted from behind the counter:

  "Because he almost started a fight in the shed, I’d feed him nothing but chicken assholes."

  "Shut your mouth, son!" Marla snapped. "You were worse at his age!"

  Marla gently pushed the plate closer:

  "It’s Palzma today, love. Go and have a look. People are having fun. Elinka stopped by this morning asking if you’d come…"

  Yakov immediately butted in:

  "Because of pretty, flighty girls like her and this idiot who can’t keep his pants on, we’re going to have big problems. And your brother won’t have enough money to buy everyone off. So sit quiet, pretty boy, and don’t ruin my business."

  Enma finished eating and wiped his mouth.

  "When’s your brother coming back?"

  "Today. The next settlement is a stone’s throw away. He should be here by evening. Unless he decided to leave you here like a pimple on his ass — then you’ll be in my service forever."

  Marla slapped him with the towel. Yakov stepped away, chuckling.

  The youth stood up.

  "Thanks for the food. I’ll go have a look at the festival."

  "Leave your weapons," Yakov called after him. "I don’t make money off dead townsfolk."

  The youth silently walked over to the box and took out two sickles — elegant, with a reverse edge, like the blades of Death herself. The metal gleamed dully in the half-light.

  Yakov reached out to take them and put them away, but Enma sharply pulled them back.

  "You won’t be able to hold them," Enma said quietly. "They’re special. From my homeland."

  Yakov snarled.

  "Fine. Put them away yourself, Your Highness…"

  The youth chuckled and walked out.

  The sun struck his eyes so brightly it blinded him for a moment. The mud under his feet still squelched loudly, as if mocking him. And the scents of the festival hit his nose — there it was, the tang of Palzma.

  He walked and thought, almost whispering through his teeth:

  "Brother… come back faster. I need to go home. I need to kill our damn uncle… for everything he did to me..."