It is raining, it always is in this forsaken town. My gramps used to say that Oblivis was often forgotten by the sun, and that was why we had to drown under the sky for days, sometimes weeks.

  I can handle the rain anyway, I am used to it, I like it even: it engulfs all the other noises, even the sounds of my thoughts, and when it stops everything is quiet for a few moments. What I despise is the mud that comes inevitably with it, whether it is thick enough to keep wagons' wheels from moving or slippery enough that even horses may slip and fall.

  This is the same mud I have been shoveling in front of my family's shop for the last few hours.

  As far as a family's enterprise goes, ours is modest but holds a good reputation. We mostly sell and repair fabric and clothes, but no silk, velvet or fancy attire, our deal is in workers’ clothes, we make them sturdy enough to handle years of dirty and hard labor. When my great-grandfather started his business, he only had a mobile stand and could do small repairs, but after years of pricking his fingers with sewing needles and straining his hands against leather he managed to put enough money aside to buy a small house.

  Same house we are still living in.

  Suddenly a voice booms over the sound of water drops on the ground:

  "Com'on son, stop daydreaming and shovel. I want the entrance clean for the next clients!”

  I stop and turn from the street to face my father looking at me through the entrance.

  "What clients?” I ask.

  “How can you believe anyone's coming with this rain? Why did you even open the shop in the first place?” I argue.

  My progenitor first stares at me and I can detect a sliver of irritation in his ever-indifferent eyes. He answers:

  "I open the shop whenever I please."

  He pauses and adds:

  "And someone placed an order for today."

  Knowing that I will not get any other answers from him I take one last glance at the house before going back to work while wondering who could be crazy enough to leave willingly their house under such heavy rain.

  Once I am done, I finally get shelter inside my home. With its stone walls covered by weeds and creaking wooden frames it is nevertheless better and sturdier than a simple hut. The shop takes up the part of the building facing the street while the room at the back acts as a dormitory, kitchen and diner room all in one.

  The workshop is filled with tools, length of clothes, tanned leather and half-finished clothes. On the contrary, the back is rather bear with very few utensils or belongings lying around.

  I enter the room and walk to my bed where my second and last set of clothes are. No-one else is here, my mother is probably washing laundry at the wash house while my two older brothers left yesterday to make a deal with a sheep herder for next season's wool. I change and set the soaked clothes next to the fire in the middle of the room.

  Just as I am setting a new log in the dying fire, I hear my father in the other room:

  "Welcome, miss Domicia, I suppose you are here to get your order, right?"

  "You suppose well Sir Orson"

  I approach the doorframe separating the two parts of the house and see my father holding on a small package and putting it on the counter in front of which two people stand.

  A tall brunette young lady and accompanying her a child that looks barely twelve, a slave judging by the rags he is wearing, and the clear lack of nourishment. His cheeks are hollow, part of his face is hidden behind locks of unkempt hair, and his head is kept forward as if perpetually bowing to everyone.

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  On the contrary the young woman, Antonia Domicia is her name, tries her best to look as elegant as possible. Wearing a simple but pristine white dress with silver lining, she also adorns herself with a pendant of Venus she received a few days ago for her sixteenth birthday, when she officially became a woman.

  Only a few days into adulthood but she already puts much effort into looking like a lady, with her hair attached and the obvious powder on her nose and cheekbones. As I am observing the trio, Antonia finally notices me and her mouth curls into a small smile.

  "Hello Scypion."

  "Hello Miss Domicia, what brings you here?" I ask politely, my hair still wet from being out.

  "Why such decorum? I believe I told you to call me Antonia numerous times already." She answers.

  "As for what I am doing here, I am simply here to buy gardening gloves for this one here." She gestures quickly toward the child.

  "He tends to my flower bed but lately he has been quite uncoordinated and received numerous cuts to the hands. My father deemed it necessary to get these gloves to avoid infections. He sent me with him because I contested his decision." As she talks, she throws a spiteful glance at the boy.

  " I believe it would be better to just let him work bare handed and replace him when he is no longer able to." She turns to me.

  " Don't you think so, Scypion?"

  I wince internally and respond with a neutral tone:

  " Whatever you think is best Miss"

  " Come on, you can do better than that, tell me what you really think." She says

  " Yes son, answer her" My father urges me, sensing unappealing consequences if I do not answer quickly.

  'Fuck! She won't let it go, will she?' I think.

  I take a deep breath in and lock eyes with Antonia, and I see the viciousness in them. She wants me to say things I do not agree with; it is her newfound game lately, and anyone who does not give a satisfying answer goes through unfortunate turns of events. No one is outrightly killed but her family is from Initium and has a lot of influence, they controls most of the town's economy and could run any enterprise to the ground through heavy taxes, fraudulent contracts or requisitions from passing armies.

  Anyone can be the target of these questions but for some reason she appears to like watching me answering those delicate questions and I often find myself subject to her inquiries. I think about what I will say for a few moments and speak:

  "Well, this boy is nothing but a slave, keep him working, if he gets cut, do not waste gold on medicine just cauterize them, he will probably learn to be more dexterous. And when his hands begin to be unsteady cut one of them, it could give him some more motivation for work. One could even cut his tongue; this way you wouldn't hear him complain."

  As I speak, I see the boy shivering from fear, but I try to be as nonchalant as possible, making it seem as if I believe every word I say.

  'That should scare her a bit, hopefully she leaves me alone for a bit after that' I tell myself as I observe her reaction. What I see creeps me out.

  ' Why the hell does she look pleased ??' I can feel cold sweat running down my neck, as Antonia giggles lightly.

  " I am so glad that we agree on this matter! By the way I am hosting a little banquet later this week to celebrate my coming of age, you can come if you'd like."

  She talks with a tone sweet like sugar but to me it tastes sour because I immediately feel like I fell into a trap, I do not know what she is planning but it cannot end well. I need to weasel my way out of this as fast as possible.

  " Miss Domicia, I wouldn't dare attend one of your famous parties. My status is way below yours and any of your guests."

  Still staring at me, her glare hardens for a second.

  " It would not be wise to refuse an invitation from a lady, Scypion. You will attend this banquet I believe."

  Right after finishing the sentence, she orders the boy to take the package and both walk towards the exit, leaving me no time to argue. A few moments later my father, who had been silent until now, finally speaks:

  " I hope you don't plan on not going, it would be catastrophic for the shop."

  ' Everything is about your damn shop old man.' I bite back in my head.

  " Of course I will father, for the sake of the shop." I add with a slight tone of irony.

  If my progenitor took notice he doesn't show it, he simply nods and returns to his workshop. In a way I understand my father's concern, this small place is almost a family heirloom and what allows us to live a somewhat decent life. However, if you are not part of it, you become background to him, and with my two older brothers, Oswine and Wigstan being already promising successors, he does not know what to do with me, and so he just ignores me most of the time. He does ask me to run errands every so often when my siblings are busy but we're almost strangers to each other at this point.

  My relationship with my brothers is similar, I was born about six years after them and while I do have some great memories of when we were younger, I struggle to deepen our bond since we've grown. While we share the same blue-grey eyes and long nose, heritage from my grandparents, their hair is medium brown like my father's, mine came out ashen brown, with a shade almost grey.

  Then there is my mother, she loves me of course and I love her back, but she became pregnant and gave birth to me a bit late in her life and she's never been the same since, she is slower as if constantly exhausted, her words come out slowly and every syllables seems to take a toll on her. Part of me believes that my father and my brothers hold me responsible for my mother's condition. However, if they do, they do not show it.