Chapter 45: 45 The arrival in the human realm

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45: The arrival in the human realm 45: The arrival in the human realm London, 2034 A crack opened in midair at the end of a Whitechapel alley, thin as a blade, and hung suspended for three seconds before a hand emerged.

Kairan fell onto the wet pavement, got up on his own, and didn’t look around as one would in an unfamiliar place.

He looked around as one would on a battlefield.

The crack closed silently behind him.

He looked up.

Tall buildings rose above the low roofs of the alley, dotted with lights he didn’t understand, surfaces as smooth as glass reflecting a dirty, orange sky.

He didn’t recognize anything he saw.

He didn’t know what those towers were, nor what purpose the pulsating lights behind the windows served, nor why the air smelled of metal and rain.

He knew only one thing, and it had been repeated so many times it became a certainty: the human kingdom was made of cities like this.

Enormous.

Dense.

Built with materials nonexistent in the Abyss, illuminated by a light that didn’t come from fire.

No one had ever revealed the name of that city to him.

No one had ever told him how to behave once he reached his destination.

He only knew that it was a different world, and that different worlds had to be observed before crossing them.

At least the language wasn’t a problem.

In the Dark Tower’s library, among the volumes no one else had ever touched, there was a single book dedicated to the language of men: yellowed pages, bound in black leather, that someone before him had brought from the human realm and never returned.

Kairan had read it over and over, not out of curiosity, but because every knowledge he accumulated was an additional weapon.

Now that weapon, useless until an hour earlier, revealed itself to be the first truly useful thing in that unfamiliar place.

He walked for ten minutes before hearing footsteps.

“Hey.

What are you doing here, alone, at this hour?” The man in front of him had a gray mustache and a flashlight shining directly into his face.

Behind him, a second, younger policeman held his hand near his belt.

Kairan didn’t blink at the light.

It was then, with the flashlight shining directly into his face, that they both truly saw him.

His skin was dark, almost brown under the yellow light.

And above that skin, two crystalline blue eyes, with something inside them that seemed hand-drawn: thin petals, outlined by fine black lines that radiated from the pupils like the patterns of a flower etched into the iris.

The older policeman abruptly lowered the flashlight, as if burned.

“Good heavens,” muttered Reilly, the younger one, taking a half step back.

“Look at his eyes, Carrow.” “I see them,” Carrow said, his voice suddenly lower and more attentive.

He didn’t look away.

“I’ve never seen anything like it.

Are they…

contact lenses?

Some kind of eye tattoo?” “They’re not lenses,” Kairan said.

“Then what are they?” “My eyes.” Carrow looked at him more closely, searching for any trace of makeup, illness, any plausible explanation.

He found none.

He decided, for now, to let it go.

“I came,” Kairan said.

“From where?” “From far away.” “What’s your name?” “Kairan.” “Just Kairan?” “Just Kairan.” Reilly took a step forward, trying to speak softly, his eyes constantly returning to the boy’s face as if he couldn’t stop looking at him.

“Did you run away from an orphanage?

Is anyone looking for you?” “I have no relatives here.” “Here?” Reilly frowned.

“What do you mean?” Kairan didn’t answer.

Carrow motioned him to silence with a small wave of his hand, as if he’d already realized that insisting wouldn’t get him anywhere.

“Are you hungry?” he asked instead.

“Yes.” “Then come.

We’ll find you a place to stay tonight, and in the morning someone will find out who you are and where you really come from.” Kairan followed him.

Not because she trusted him.

Because right now, shelter, food, and information were worth more than any suspicion.

They walked in silence for a while, then Reilly broke the silence, his voice still a little uncertain.

“Aren’t you afraid?” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“No.” “You should.

You’re a child, at night, with two strangers.” Reilly laughed, a nervous laugh that died in his throat when he realized Kairan wasn’t joking.

Carrow turned slightly.

Neither of them knew what to say.

They turned into a wider street.

A kiosk smoked from a nearby window, and Carrow stopped there, exchanged a few words with the man inside, and returned with a glass of hot broth, which he placed in Kairan’s hands without asking.

“Drink.

It’s good for you.” Kairan drank.

The warmth spread through him.

was Carrow, this time, who asked the question that really mattered.

“Have you hurt anyone, boy?

Before tonight, I mean.” Kairan looked him straight in the eyes, the black petals frozen in the blue, and for a moment Carrow felt that shiver from before again.

“Yes.” “A who?” “To those who attacked me.

Not to those who didn’t.” Reilly He remained where he was, and looked at Kairan no longer as a lost child, but as someone who needed understanding.

“It’s a good rule,” Carrow said finally.

“Better than most of the ones adults I know follow.” They arrived in front of a low, dark brick building with an iron gate and a brass plaque: ASHFORD INSTITUTE FOR JUVENILES.

Carrow knocked three times.

A light flickered on inside, and an elderly woman in a dressing gown appeared in the doorway, the kerosene lamp trembling in her hand.

Her eyes narrowed as she saw the boy—the dark skin, the blue eyes, and those black petals carved into them, her gaze too steady for his age.

“What are you bringing me this time?” she asked, in a tone that promised no kindness.

“A new one,” Carrow said.

“His name is Kairan.” “I’m Mrs.

Hargrove,” the woman said, her voice not rising a bit.

“And there are rules in here.” Kairan looked at her for a long moment, silent.

And Kairan, without looking back, crossed the threshold.