Soot crusted the little boy's window-sill, a charcoal cluster of barnacles that lingered on his fingertips as he brushed them. Silken, smooth. He glanced upwards. Flakes of ash drifted through the air and settled on the ground in a soft pitter-patter, dusting the patio outside the boy's house and his flutter of eyelashes.

He tried to imagine what it was like. Before. He'd heard from his father how the Cailleach used to sprinkle divine snow from the heavens over Caeltanican lands. Not snow like dirty Slavskani frost—that's a cold with bite, with venom—this was snow. A blissful chill, a faded crunch underfoot; this was snow you could lie back in and lick crystals from the air.

No footprint trails peppered through the soot. It lay, unblemished, a blanket over everything. Maybe, even, over the world. The little boy didn't know. He clamped his lips together, no desire for this to touch his tongue.

He was just there to watch.

Something caught his eye. A flicker, a pin-prick of light in the darkness. He couldn't hear it, but he could smell. Burning wood and smoking metal, plumes wafting into the sky... The skitter, the tap-dance, of flames. That tip-toed in the distance.

'Troy!'

The boy's head pricked up, his fingers tensing on the window frame.

'Troy!'

There it was again; that tone of urgency he couldn't ignore. With a sigh, he hopped down from the window, wiping sooty hands on his thread-bare shirt. Holes had become habit. What was once white now grey.

The whole world gone grey.

'Coming, Ma.'

The silence of the town was offset by the racket of his mother in the kitchen; the woman hummed as she kneaded dough, sweat glistening from her brow, elbows deep in that sticky mulch that warmed Troy's nostrils with the stench of yeast, rich and pungent.

'Is that the last of the flour, Ma?'

'No. Might have a week's left.'

'S'pose we don't?'

'Then I suppose we won't.'

Troy huffed, and ambled over to one of the kitchen drawers. It was the stiff one; he eased it open, careful not to disturb the delicate silver slumbering inside. People weren't supposed to have silver; if President Crannach discovered their stash, there would be trouble. Although, perhaps not. Crannach had a soft spot for Troy's father. Perhaps life bound to the military would have benefits, after all.

Troy unearthed the tin-ware instead. It felt cheap, too light in his hands, but it would do. He arranged it with care on the table: knife on the right for Ma, fork on the left. Precision straight, standing to attention. Knife on the right for Troy, fork on the left. Precision straight, standing to attention.

He padded to the sink and plucked two glasses from the drying rack. He twisted the tap, leaving faint prints of soot behind, and watched the glug of water blob into the basin below. His nose scrunched. A smell wafted upwards.

'Ma. It's rottin' eggs again.'

'What do you want me to do, Troy?'

Troy paused. 'Nothin'.' He placed a glass under the flow and watched it fill, murky purple swirled with grey.

It wasn't the colour water should be.

Water never used to have a colour. Before.

When Troy's father was around, they would eat their dinner in front of the TV. Archer enjoyed races—racing drones were relatively new, and new teams sprouted from the woodwork almost every day. His mother, Felicity, liked dramas, full of angst-ridden social dilemmas like what would happen if a Slavskani fell in love with a Caeltanican, heaven forbid. The inevitable descent into chaos; she enjoyed screeching at the TV screen: 'But look! There's a handsome lad living just across the street! You don't need that trash, Helene!'

Troy liked cartoons best. His favourite was Captain Canine and his bone-crunching, crime-fighting band of mongrel-misfits from the Caeltanican Islands forced into a life of adventure as they travelled Tellus in search of the evil villain Polinksa, through luscious jungles of Huŏ, treacherous wastelands of Slavskanistan, and the golden paradise of the Eternal Desert.

Now, they ate their dinner the two of them. Troy's mother and Troy. Side by side, facing the door that never opened, not anymore. They ate in silence.

Silence was safe. No good ever came from noise nowadays.

After dinner, Troy helped with the washing up. His mother washed, he dried, the familiar routine. He rubbed his rag over the cutlery as the last rounded edge of the soap vanished with his mother's hands into the suds, bubbles floating and popping on the tip of Troy's nose, bursting into amethyst spots that stung his eyes. He felt glad to be drying. The skin of his mother's arms was raw from fingertips to elbows. It wept with every dunk of dish into water, with every splash of sponge against ceramic.

Water was not kind. Not anymore.

Then it was time for bed. Troy let his mother tuck him up, wrapping his blanket around the curves of his small frame, cocooning him inside. She stroked the hair off his forehead, preparing for a story; her stories, however, didn't hold a candle to Troy's Pa. Epic tales of fighter drones plunging into battle, brave Caeltanicans bursting through fields, trees cleaved from roots to crash upon their enemies. Pirates of the Coral Sea—the "Sea Turned Red", as though it too bled. Tales of Courage, Friendship, Strength against Greater Foes. Troy lapped them up, heart greedy, yearning. To be that pirate. To sail that red sea.

Felicity's tales were a little different.

'Once upon a time. . .'

'Good stories don't start like that, Ma.'

'Hush.' Felicity prodded Troy in the cheek. She blew out his candle and Troy's room faded into darkness, but not too dark. The pinpricks from outside had grown, large enough to be Troy's nightlight. He'd never liked the dark.

'Once upon a time, there was a boy named Troy. He lived with his Ma and Pa in the beautiful village of Lochvar under the watchful eyes of the Cailleach—the gods, may they be blessed, who watch over us all.'

'I don't believe in no gods no more, Ma. I 'aint no baby.'

'Mind your manners, Troy. We aren't commoners. You must talk proper.'

''Aight, Ma. Sorry, Ma.'

'So. Troy wanted to—'

Boom. The pinprick, that sparkler through the window, burned, catching hold of the old village library and consuming it, gobbling it whole, jaws wide and belly empty, always craving more. Troy visited that library last week on his last day of school. Before.

Felicity placed a gentle hand, over Troy's eyes. The world disappeared, but he could still make out flashes of light seeping through the black.

'—Troy wanted to live in peace with all his friends. They played games, like tag, your it! in the park behind the courthouse—'

Boom. Something cracked the sky, like eggs breaking over a bowl. More flashes glowed through the darkness. Maybe shooting stars.

'—the children made daisy chains, padding bare-foot through the grass—'

Boom. The house shuddered and tipped; Troy's hands scrabbled wildly and found his mother's, firm and true. They smoothed him back down. Back, safe, into bed.

'—and the parents watched their babies. The air smelt honey-sweet, thick like sticky fingers—'

Saliva filled Troy's mouth with dreams of honey, that sweet silk. Boom. Glass shattered the silence, killing it dead. Troy dreamed of honey. It trickled through his fingers. Delicious on his tongue.

'—and parents took their young to bed. They tucked them up, held them tight, and kissed their brows goodnight.'

Soft lips brushed Troy's cheek. A faint wetness left behind. A relic.

'Sleep tight, sweet baby.'

Boom.

'Sleep tight.'