Prologue

An eye for an eye and the world goes blind.

That is the old warning from the weathered and wise folk, the ones who have lived well beyond the usual life expectancy of the slums. They have felt unimaginable hunger, suffered unthinkable loss and seen more blood than more fortunate folk could ever imagine. Still, the advice they give is that revenge is never worth the trouble. “It consumes you”, they say, “eats away at you until you are reduced to nothing. Either you die trying to exact your revenge, or you succeed, and live the rest of your life as a shell of your former self.”

How they could reason like that, people who had every right to be burning with anger at the injustices of the world, none could tell; it is probably the very same thing that kept them alive for so long. A clever person would listen to them, but the thing is, there are different kinds of vengeance. There is petty revenge that prickles your skin like ants: a slight against your honour, a theft, a swindler taking your money, even crippling injury; everything that is annoyances at best and a right nuisance at worst. Everyday is a disappointment when you live on the streets in the poor outskirts of the city, you either learn to live with the ants or you itch until your skin festers and rots.

But the other kind, the white-hot vengeance that blazes through bone, is a different matter. It is reserved for acts of inhumanity that break souls and scar hearts. When it hits you, it doesn’t just eat away at you. You are consumed, instantly. What is the use of dedicating your life to anything else than to spread that fire?

The only comfort is that if petty revenge is supposed to be sweet, then white-hot vengeance surely must taste like wine and food enjoyed by gods.

And I thoroughly look forward to that feast.