Alley of the Vials

Woof... Woof... Hounds. The dogs in the Alley of the Vials never bark for ghosts. You are running. *Shhh-tk.* Your worn leather soles strike the damp cobblestones, kicking up sprays of brackish water. The stench of tar and burnt tallow chokes the narrow passage, clinging to the back of your throat like soot. «...Lungs are burning... my chest is a furnace...» *Thud!* You trip. Your body hits the unyielding ground, and a sudden, biting chill seeps into your knees. You look down. A corpse. The face is a mask of wax, eyes wide and staring into the void of a Godless sky. A jagged slit across the throat still sluggishly weeps red. «...Not now. Not on my wretched shift...» Your hand reaches out, trembling, toward the dead man’s chest. Your fingers brush something foreign beneath the coarse linen tunic. Rough parchment. *Crinkle.* You pull it free. A Sultanic Decree. The purple wax seal glints under the anemic moonlight, regal and terrible. A fresh, tacky bloodstain smears the recipient’s name with suspicious precision. «...This paper is a palace in the capital... or a noose in the public square...» *Skreeeeee.* The sound of iron grinding against stone. — Hands off the flo…