EZEKIEL BROSSEAU SHIVERS in the January cold that comes with the rise of the moon. His fingers are tucked into his pockets as deep as they can be, shoulders slumped, hat pulled all the way down his ears, and his legs look out of place when he crosses the distance of two normal steps in one. Whether the shadows he sees behind the windows in the passing are people or merely an ill-fated product of his anxiety over what's to come, he doesn't know.

Zeke thinks they're real. He's not that scared.

Snow creaks beneath his feet and produces the only sound he can hear – even the birds seem to have gone to a safer place. It's dry snow, having stopped falling just as he packed the last of his possessions nearly two hours ago, and it squeaks without any respect to his attempts of trying to move as silently as humanly possible.

A grunt escapes his lips. He adjusts the strap on his shoulders, pushing the bag behind his back.

The snow continues to creak.

Scraffet becomes a ghost town when the sun falls. People lock their families inside their houses and others hurry to get back before the daylight dies out and the moon rises, turning the washed-out colours of buildings into a pale silver, seemingly shimmering if you look at it for too long. Any sound disappears and even the animals find shelter far from the humongous streets unwelcoming without a crowd of people in them.

It's not the first time Zeke wonders about what happens after dark. At least once per week, there is a body of a known criminal mangled and left to rot somewhere in the city, and people talk of angels of wrath who come upon the sinners to take them away. Those people pray to a god who cares about the people of Scraffet and give him the name of Nikkołai, believing he awakes during the night and devours the evil.

Zeke does not believe in Nikkołai. He doesn't know what's killing the criminals, either, but he's bloody thankful for it as one of them had tried to get his little sister years ago and ended up dead not even a month later.

He's not a criminal. If it's Nikkołai, he'll know Zeke's innocent. If it's something else – well, then he hopes he doesn't encounter it.

When he enters a street with the kerosene lamps flicked off, Zeke realizes he's taken a wrong turn somewhere along the road. He looks around; street's full of houses, that much he can see, but it gives an ominous feeling he can't deny.

He doesn't feel alone.

Zeke backtracks and curses the snow that creaks louder with each step; he doesn't turn around. The strap on his shoulder is carving itself into his flesh, his shoe is untied and his hat is halfway down his head, but he doesn't notice any of that.

Don't. Make. A sound.

Ezekiel Brosseau is not brave when faced with darkness and the unknown inside it. He is shaking and not in control of his body, his breathing shallow and uneven. The phrase 'blood runs cold' is a state he experiences that night for the first time. As soon as his feet touch the snow illuminated by a kerosene lamp, he turns and runs back where he came from until his lungs are empty.

He crouches. He leans against a house, unbothered by the cold, catching his breath. His eyes flicker to the dark street, now not much bigger than his thumb.

"Condemn the states and the skies above them," the curse rolls off his tongue with a bittersweet taste. Zeke runs a hand through his half an inch-long hair and covers it with the hat, stretching his legs once he stands up. "I'm not fucking dying today."

It takes him about five minutes and a map to figure out where he is, where he needs to go and how long it'll take him to get there. The answers are: block eight in northeast Scraffet, block three in northeast Scraffet and about thirty minutes, if he walks fast. He has exactly forty minutes until midnight, his clock shows, and the recalls something his friend's mother once said.

"There is no Nikkołai to guard us. There are only witches who slaughter the evil and at midnight they are at their most powerful. Evil kills evil at the witching hour. That's the way it has always been."

She might've been referring to the Great War, or perhaps something entirely else – but the term the witching hour has stayed with him long after he heard her say it.

Zeke puts the map back into the bag, careful not to ruin the markings. He spent nearly two entire days making it and if the need is dire, he could sell it at a good price.

Besides, he still needs it. Scraffet is unrecognizable without the sun and the people.

Kerosene light follows him for thirty-five minutes it takes him to get to the warehouse. Throwing occasional glances behind his back, Zeke feels it's not the only thing following him. Few times, he saw someone at the end of the street, or walking in distance when he turned a corner; the shadowy figures that could just be the criminals who'll be devoured by a god or something entirely different.

Or, Zeke thinks, they could be nothing at all.

He's scared, he concludes when he stands in front of the warehouse. Ahead of him is a massive building that looks nothing like the safety it promises – thirty feet tall, it's one of the few buildings still holding its own against nature, time and war. They've tried dying it a few times in the past, Zeke researched, but the colours would never last for long. It's grey and copper red, last remains of steel that's worthless with all its poisoning rust. He can't see an entrance under the pale light, but he knows it's situated several feet behind the fence.

Milo is supposed to meet him there.

There's no such thing as too much caution, so Zeke looks around several times before he reaches into his bag and takes out the letter he's received several days ago.

Ezekiel Brosseau,

Your submission has been reviewed. You qualify for the Skóroi recruitment program. On January 8th, at one o'clock, meet me in front of the old Skóroi warehouse. I will be your mentor.

Milo Angiotti

Since receiving it, Zeke has read it over a dozen times. He knew where the warehouse is, and he knew it was used by the faction until the 2150's when one of the heat waves resulted in a fire that devoured the entire northern part of the city. The warehouse survived with severe damages, so the Skóroi's Scraffet branch relocated to the northern outskirts, few miles from where Scraffet meets Varzyn, the nearest town. Allegedly, it belongs to the government now, but he doubts it – a government facility would have some surveillance. This is just abandoned.

And empty, if you ask Zeke.

Since the location of the faction is not secret, he figures meeting at the old warehouse is a part of the initiation. It would take a good hour or more to get to the new location, meaning the Milo person would need to walk an hour to the warehouse, then an hour back.

Impractical. Risky.

Zeke puts the letter back into the bag. He tries to sit on the ground, but everything is covered in snow and it has turned into ice long before he arrived. So he stands, with his back leaning against the wall of the house on the other side of the street, watching the warehouse. His bag is on the ground – he believes it won't get damaged, since it's ice, and he has nothing warm inside it.

Warm. Zeke thinks of his parents and his little sister, and wonders if they've noticed yet. It warm in their house, since they can afford decent wood and have a good fireplace, and rooms strategically placed so one fireplace could heat all of them. His aunt made all their covers, so they're warm and fluffy and there is a lot he would give at this moment just to curl under them, knowing everyone he cares about is safe and sound.

But they aren't. Someone is killing people on the streets and he asked for more stories than any fifteen year-old boy should hear. Some were brutal and some victimized the criminals, and some spoke of monsters with razor-sharp teeth sinking into flesh and tearing the bones.

Ezekiel Brosseau knows the stories, but they don't stop him from looking for answers.

He thinks the Skóroi have some answers. Even if they don't, he has a greater chance of finding them on his own with their help than what he could be offered as a part of the common people.

A month from now, he'll turn sixteen. His next choice in September will be to enter a trade, or school himself for two years more and become a historian. With the Skóroi, he'll be the one writing history.

The sand in the clock shows it's nearly one o'clock.

Zeke closes his eyes and tells himself not to worry, over and over again until he can't think of anything else. He checks the letter and the details are the same as before; it's January 8, one o'clock and Milo Angiotti isn't here.

He thinks he sees something about half an hour later. There's a shadow at the other end of the street and he's too tired to tell if belongs to a human of a wild animal. He thinks of the shadows he's seen on his way here, and of the feeling of being observed, and thinks it may not be a shadow after all.

I'm alone, Zeke thinks. Then says it out loud and it echoes.

He waits. Milo doesn't show up until two, and then it's the Devil's hour and Zeke isn't sure anyone is coming anymore.

The cold is starting to nag at him, clawing onto his nose and his cheeks. It's like a scavenger, finding the sore spots and nipping and nipping until they're swallowed whole. He recalls a Greek myth he's once heard of from a storyteller, where a man—Prometheus—was punished for bringing fire to humanity. An eagle eats his liver day by day and it regrows by night, for all eternity – it's not far from how Zeke feels.

He's trying to save the world. If a sacrifice of a few limbs is what it takes, Zeke thinks he would gladly give them away.

He's sitting on the ice, by the time the clock shows four o'clock. His body heat is melting it and the cold water is soaking his clothes, but his legs can't hold him any longer. He's tired and he's weak, and the hopelessness is starting to mix with the anxiety at the core of his being.

His fingers are blue; the kerosene light doesn't glow anymore and it's only the moonlight that's making his fingers and veins look like poisonous shimmers. He's been coughing more and more, and there's a heaviness in his chest weighing down his lungs, hardening with every breath he takes. Even his chilled skin has gone cold – or perhaps he doesn't feel anything, at all. His eyes vigorously scan the street for the shadows, but his eyes can barely see.

Minute by minute, Ezekiel Brosseau is losing hope and freezing to death.

Is he foolish to keep waiting, even though it's more than obvious nobody's coming? He knows there's danger in spending this amount of time in the cold, with only a woollen coat to warm him. He doesn't leave, he can't leave, but he needs to get his blood to circulate again. He's ready to lose his limbs for his cause, but this would be just stupidity. When he tries to get up, his knees give in to his weight and he falls onto the ground with a loud thud, mouthing the curse from earlier with as much anger as he can muster. His right ankle twisted unnaturally and pain starts eating him from the inside. Zeke tries to grip it with his fingers but he can't move them, either.

The shadow on the other end of the street appears again, or so he thinks. Could it be someone has been here, watching him all along? Is there still chance for him?

"Hey!" Zeke cries out. If he remains cautious, the person might not get to him before he freezes. As much as he loves caution, there's no time for it now – he was cold and tired, and he was angrier than ever in his entire life. "Is anybody there? I've been waiting for hours!"

He waits, jaw clenched tight and fingers holding his ankle the tightest they can. His eyes, now completely fixed onto the shadow, can tell it's moving. He doesn't know whether that's away or towards him, but when the shape begins clearing, he feels the hairs on the back of his head stand upright.

No.

He pulls his legs to his chest in a reflex, knowing he's in no state to run from whoever—or whatever—that is. He does what every fifteen-year-old boy would do in this situation – he closes his eyes and waits for something to happen.

The modern Prometheus never gets even close to stealing that fire.

Ezekiel Brosseau's death is the first domino to fall.