Ryan didn't know when he crossed the border. There were no gates, no guards, no signs. But he knew.
But he knew he was in a different environment than the one he had been in before.
Ryan sighed.
"It seems places like these never change."
He advanced and began to delve deeper into the Poor Quarters, or what people called "The Back".
The roads suddenly stopped being rose-pink sandstone. They became earth, then mud, then worn wooden planks beneath his feet. He felt every wooden plank groan under his boots, as if the ground itself was in pain.
The smells had changed too. No spices, no jasmine, no fresh bread. Just the smoke of damp coals, sweat and hunger, the musty smell of wood, and sometimes the smell of something rotten he couldn't identify.
The sounds changed. No children's laughter, no vendors' shouts, no brass instruments. There was silence... not true silence, but a broken silence filled with a distant child's cry, an angry man's grumbling, a hungry dog's bark, the creak of a door that hadn't been closed in years.
The lights were dim, yellow, barely dispelling the darkness. Small oil lamps placed on doorsteps, or hanging from low wooden ceilings. Some houses were completely dark, as if their inhabitants had either died or preferred darkness over seeing what surrounded them.
The houses were entirely wooden, but not beautiful wood. It was sick wood – thin planks, some pulled loose, some with holes, some supported by extra beams like crutches. The roofs were made of dry thatch or rusty iron sheets. The windows were small, most blocked with burlap sacks or wooden planks.
The alleys were very narrow, barely wide enough for two people. In some, Rayan had to turn sideways to pass between two opposing wooden walls. The ground beneath his feet was mud and dampness, and in some places puddles of stagnant water
The people he saw were few, and fast. An old woman quickly closing her door when she saw him. A bare-chested man sitting on a doorstep, smoking a pipe without lifting his eyes. A small child running barefoot through the mud, carrying a loaf of bread as if fleeing a thief.
He walked slowly, weaving through the narrow alleys, sometimes right, sometimes left, without a map or a goal
He passed by a public well – old and wooden, its rope torn, its bucket made of perforated tin. Beside it, a woman washed clothes in a wooden basin, her water almost black.
After that he passed by a small night market – not a real market, just a few ragged mats on the ground selling withered vegetables, dark bread loaves, patched pieces of cloth. The vendors did not shout; they whispered.
He passed by a group of children playing with a ball made of old cloth. They were barefoot, their bellies swollen with hunger, but they were laughing. Only children could laugh in this place.
Then he continued walking in this place even though it reminded him of painful memories.
*************
A few steps from the end of the alley, far from where Rayan was walking, there was a small girl standing behind the corner of a wooden wall, peeking toward the door of an old, rickety house.
She was no older than ten. Her hair was dirty blonde, tied with a faded red piece of cloth. Her green eyes were wide, filled with fear. She wore a thin cotton dress, torn at the hem, and her feet were bare and stained with mud.
She was watching the wooden door. Watching the crack from which a faint light emerged. She could hear the muttering from inside – a man's rough voice, and a girl's muffled crying.
She suddenly shuddered, as if she had heard something that frightened her even more. She pressed her hands to her chest and bit her lower lip.
Then she ran.
She ran barefoot across the muddy ground, without looking back, without knowing that a strange young man was approaching the same place from the opposite direction.
Then the sound of her footsteps disappeared in the dark alley.
***********
Ryan did not see the girl who ran away. He was still some distance away, walking slowly down another alley, when he heard a faint sound coming from somewhere nearby.
It wasn't a loud sound. It was a man's low, rough muttering, and muffled crying – a girl trying not to be heard.
Ryan stopped. He listened for a moment.
Then he saw a wooden door that wasn't fully closed. Faint light seeped through its cracks. The door was slightly off its hinges, as if someone had kicked it hard in the past and never fixed it.
He approached slowly. His footsteps were nearly silent on the muddy ground. He placed his hand on the rough wooden door and felt the damp coldness of the wood beneath his fingers.
He heard the man's voice more clearly now from inside:
"I'll teach you some manners, you... don't scream..."
Then the sound of a slap. Then something light falling onto the wooden floor.
Ryan pushed the door.
What he saw inside the house made his eyes widen with anger, and he involuntarily grabbed the sword hanging on his waist.