He had never learned love, only fear. Love was a phantom; a press of a gentle hand against his cheek that had long since lost its warmth. But his wounds were opened afresh each day. He had nothing but the white rat who stayed even when the world had abandoned him.
The ones who had hurt him were within his sight. The boy curled his hands into fists; his nails bit into his palms. The Outsider’s mark seared his skin as he raised its magic.
Rats roiled up from black smoke, writhing and squealing in their conjured frenzy. Hundreds of eyes, dozens of noses, and innumerable rows of teeth—it was as if they had clawed up from the darkness of the boy’s own heart.
What was dull now erupted into color. Blood spilled out, and soon blue and purple viscera, yellow fat. The hard white of their bones as the vermin bit down into their victims. Screams slipped away to gurgled pleading, then silence.
His tormenters were strewn across the dirty cobbles. Two rats fought over a piece of bloody flesh. The boy reached out to stroke one—the creature turned and sank its grinning jaws into his hand.