Forgotten Histories

The night in the slums was not like the night in the city. In the city, night was a time of laughter, of golden lights spilling from windows, of warmth and safety.

Here, night was a predator. It crept in on silent feet, swallowing the narrow alleyways and crooked shacks in its suffocating embrace. The air grew colder, sharper, cutting through threadbare clothes like a knife. The wind carried whispers—of pain, of fear, of things best left unseen.

Rowan and Elias found shelter in the hollowed-out remains of an old cart, its wooden frame splintered and rotting. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep the worst of the wind at bay. 

They huddled together, their bodies pressed close for warmth. Elias shivered violently, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Rowan wrapped his arms around his brother, trying to shield him from the cold. But the cold wasn't the only thing to fear.

The slums came alive at night. The scavengers retreated, but worse things took their place. Shadows moved where they shouldn't, and the air was thick with the sounds of scuttling feet and low, guttural growls. 

Rowan's heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of how fragile their lives were. He kept his eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the cart, his body tense and ready. He didn't know what lurked out there, but he knew it was hungry.

"Rowan," Elias whispered, his voice trembling. "Do you think… do you think the beasts will come?"

Rowan hesitated. He didn't want to lie to his brother, but the truth was too terrifying to speak aloud. The beasts were real. Everyone in the slums knew that. They were the reason the city walls were so high, the reason the slums were left to rot.

The beasts didn't often venture into the slums—there was little here to interest them—but when they did, they left nothing but death in their wake.

"They won't come," Rowan said finally, his voice low and steady. "We're safe here."

Elias nodded, but his eyes were wide with fear. He didn't believe Rowan. Neither of them did.

The hours dragged on, each one longer than the last. The wind howled through the alleyways, carrying with it the scent of decay and the faint, metallic tang of blood. Somewhere in the distance, a scream pierced the night, sharp and sudden. It was a woman's scream, raw and full of terror. It was cut off almost immediately, leaving only silence in its wake.

Rowan's breath hitched. His grip on Elias tightened, his knuckles whitening. The scream echoed in his mind, pulling him back to a night he had tried so hard to forget.

It had been years ago, but the memory was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. Rowan was just a boy then, small and helpless.

He had been hiding under the bed, clutching his knees to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible. His mother's screams filled the house, tearing through the thin walls like a storm. 

The men had come in the night, their faces hidden, their voices rough and cruel. They had kicked down the door, and his father had tried to fight them off, but there were too many. They beat him down, and then they turned to her.

Rowan had watched from the shadows as they dragged her across the floor, her nails scraping against the wood, her cries muffled by their hands. He wanted to scream, to run out and stop them, but his body wouldn't move. He was frozen, paralyzed by fear. He could only listen as they hurt her, as they laughed, as they took everything from her.

When they were done, they left her broken on the floor. His father was already dead, his body crumpled in the corner. Rowan crawled out from under the bed, his hands shaking as he reached for her. She was still breathing, but her eyes were empty, staring at nothing. She didn't speak. She didn't even look at him. She just lay there, broken.

Rowan had sworn that night, as he held her lifeless body, that he would make them pay. Every last one of them. He didn't know how, but he would find them. He would kill them.

The memory hit him like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath. Rowan's chest tightened, his hands trembling as he clutched Elias closer. The woman's scream still echoed in his ears, mingling with his mother's. He could feel the rage bubbling up inside him, hot and sharp, but he forced it down. Now wasn't the time. He couldn't afford to lose control. Not here. Not now.

"Rowan?" Elias whispered, his voice small and scared. "What was that?"

Rowan swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Nothing," he lied, his voice rough. "Just the wind."

Elias didn't believe him, but he didn't press. He just curled closer, his small body trembling against Rowan's.

The night stretched on, endless and suffocating. Rowan's mind kept drifting back to that night, to his mother's screams, to the men who had taken everything from him. He could still see their faces, twisted with cruelty, their laughter ringing in his ears. He wanted to find them. He wanted to make them suffer. But he knew he couldn't. Not yet. He had to survive. For Elias.

The first light of dawn was a weak, pale thing, barely piercing the thick haze that hung over the slums. Rowan blinked against the light, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. He hadn't slept. He didn't think he could. The night had left him raw, his nerves frayed and his body aching. But the day brought its own dangers.

Elias stirred beside him, his eyes fluttering open. He looked even paler than before, his skin almost translucent in the dim light. Rowan's chest tightened. They needed food. Soon. But the slums offered no easy answers.

"We'll find something today," Rowan said, his voice hoarse. "I promise."

Elias nodded, but his eyes were empty. He had learnt that these promises often didn't hold

They moved through the slums slowly, their steps cautious and deliberate. The morning brought a strange kind of stillness, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

The scavengers were out again, their eyes sharp and calculating as they picked through the waste. Rowan avoided their gaze, keeping Elias close. He didn't trust anyone here. Not even the children.

As they turned a corner, Rowan froze. Ahead of them, a crowd had gathered, their voices low and urgent. Rowan's heart skipped a beat. Crowds were dangerous.They drew attention.

But something about this one felt different. There was a tension in the air, a kind of electric anticipation that made Rowan's skin crawl.

He pulled Elias into the shadow of a crumbling wall, peering out cautiously. The crowd was gathered around a man—a stranger. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his face hidden beneath a hood. But there was something about him that set him apart from the others. His clothes were too clean, his posture too confident. He didn't belong here.

The man was speaking, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd. Rowan couldn't make out the words, but he didn't need to. The tone was enough. It was a tone of authority, of power. It was a tone that promised something.

Rowan's heart pounded in his chest. He didn't know what was happening, but he knew it was important. He glanced at Elias, his mind racing. They needed food. They needed shelter. But more than that, they needed a way out. And this man—whoever he was—might be their only chance.

"Stay close," Rowan whispered, his voice barely audible. "And don't say a word."

Elias nodded, his eyes wide with fear and curiosity. Together, they slipped into the crowd, their movements careful and deliberate. The man's voice grew louder as they approached, his words sharp and commanding.

"...a new dawn," the man was saying. "A chance to rise above the filth, to claim what is rightfully yours. The city has forgotten you, but I have not. Join me, and together, we will tear down the walls that keep us in chains."

The crowd murmured, their voices a mix of hope and scepticism. Rowan's chest tightened. He didn't know if the man's words were true, but they were the closest thing to hope he had heard in a long time.

And yet, as he stood there, listening, the memory of his mother's screams still echoed in his mind. The rage simmered beneath the surface, a dark, unrelenting force. He would survive. He would find a way out. And when he did, he would make them pay. Every last one of them.

The slums were a place where hope went to die, but Rowan had learned to cling to the smallest shreds of it. He had to. For Elias. For himself. The man's words stirred something in him, something he hadn't felt in years—a flicker of possibility. But it was dangerous. Hope could get you killed in a place like this. It made you reckless. It made you believe in things that didn't exist.

Rowan's fingers twitched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He could still feel the weight of his mother's body in his arms, the way her blood had soaked into his clothes.

He could still hear her voice, soft and broken, telling him to run, to hide, to survive. He had done that. He had survived. But survival wasn't enough. Not anymore.

The man in the hood continued to speak, his voice rising with passion. Rowan's eyes narrowed as he studied him. There was something about the way he carried himself, the way he commanded the crowd, that reminded Rowan of the men who had destroyed his family. They had been confident too, full of promises and lies. But this man was different. There was a fire in his words, a determination that Rowan couldn't ignore.

Elias tugged at his sleeve, pulling him back to the present. "Rowan," he whispered, his voice trembling. "What do we do?"

Rowan hesitated. He didn't know. But he knew one thing—they couldn't stay here. The slums were a death sentence. If this man offered even the slightest chance of escape, they had to take it.

"We listen," Rowan said quietly, his eyes never leaving the man in the hood. "And we wait."