The Heir and the Thief
CHAPTER 1
Volya
The darkness calls
To all the thieves,
Sleeping in their beds,
Their dreams are dark,
They hear the hark,
Of demons in their heads.
Poems from the Deep, verse 127
Volya crouched on the parapet of an old ruined library overlooking Thessola City. His pockets rattled with stolen coins and an apple bulged out of a burlap sack hanging on his left. Though he was only fourteen, his feet were quick and his hands were light.
Thessola was striking as the sun began to set, rays of light glittering off the tall spires and lighting the buildings with color. Located on a far western peninsula in Akkadia, the city remained unaffected by the ongoing wars with Sudonia to the East.
But Volya didn’t worry about war. He was still young and foolhardy, regardless of the horrors he’d witnessed.
Juices ran down his chin as he bit into the crisp apple. The sweetness thrilled him. There could hardly be anything better in the whole world.
“Volya!” His name echoed off the ruined walls. Sighing wearily, he rolled his eyes.
He ate the remainder of the apple, core and all before hopping down the walls artfully. He dropped softly onto the crumbled street.
“What do you want?” Volya asked his older band brother, not masking his annoyance.
The response was a fist to the stomach.
Volya bent over coughing.
“You little tooca,” Puntar spat at Volya. “Where is my money?”
“Gods, Puntar. That hurt.” Volya straightened only to be punched in the stomach again, this time causing him to fall on the rough cut stone.
“Is that an apple I smell?” Puntar growled.
Volya winked in return.
That earned him a nice kick in the shin.
“Tooc, Puntar. Here,” Volya snarled, handing the leader of their band a fistful of coins, “now leave me alone.”
Volya wiped the dirt from his torn clothing. He learned long ago everything could be taken from him - but not the freedom to decide. That he had for himself. It wasn’t always easy to decide to be unbothered, but at least it was his decision and belonged to him alone.
Puntar growled, pocketing the money with one hand and yanking Volya by the sleeve with the other. Volya stumbled forward, following the gang.
“Here,” Mara, handed him a small torn piece of bread, “we already ate back at the den.”
Volya grabbed the small piece shoving it in his mouth before Puntar could snatch it away.
“Thanks,” Volya replied, smiling at Mara.
Mara escaped The Great Purge with Volya when he was only four. But he didn’t like dwelling on those times.
By the time they got back to the den, it was dark. The boarded up warehouse they called home lay on the outskirts of Thessola, near the docks. Their band of brothers consisted mainly of the forgotten - street urchins, pickpockets, orphans - an odd assortment of the city’s next generation of poor.
After they entered the den, Volya went to his spot tucked in the back corner. He had fought hard for this spot, where the boards opened up to a little nook of its own. Volya barely squeezed into it, but it was comfortable enough.
A small shelf was nailed roughly into the boards where he kept his knife at night while he was sleeping. He didn’t have many other possessions, and those he did, he would never trust to leave out around the rest of the group. Instead he kept them in his small burlap sack, which he used as a pillow while he slept.
The pouch contained nothing to remind him of his past. Of the home that had been burned to the ground eight years ago. His parents' faces were a blur to him, their memory fading with each passing year.
He sighed and looked around. Most of the children were asleep knowing they had to be up early to hit the morning markets.
Puntar lounged in the opposite corner by the fire, taking up too much heat and space, already snoring. Volya scowled.
Puntar was not only ugly but corpulent, a characteristic none of the other urchins shared.
He reminded himself of the apple he ate, putting thoughts of Puntar out of his mind. He decided to dwell on the juicy crunch of his favorite fruit as his eyes grew heavy, and he faded into sleep.