The market buzzed with noise—vendors shouting, animals braying, children darting between stalls. The scent of spices, sweat, and roasted meat filled the air. Henry moved through the crowd like a shadow. Older now, leaner, sharper. The boy who had once wandered through burned ruins was gone. In his place stood a teenager with sharp eyes and even sharper instincts.
He slipped between two stalls, fingers grazing a plump sack of coins hanging from a merchant's belt. His breath slowed. Time stretched. With practiced ease, he unhooked the pouch and slid it into his tunic.
But the merchant turned.
"Hey!"
Henry's heart stopped. He bolted.
People shouted as he shoved through the crowd. A hand grabbed at his shoulder—he twisted away. Another stall blocked his path. He leapt over it, sending baskets of fruit flying. Behind him, angry footsteps closed in.
Just when he thought he'd be caught, a blur stepped in between him and the pursuers.
The man.
"Easy, easy," the man said, grinning as he raised his hands. "Is this about my son? He's always getting into trouble."
The guards hesitated. "He stole from a merchant!"
The man sighed and placed a hand on Henry's shoulder. "He's new to the village. And doesn't know the rules yet. I'll handle it. No need to cause a scene."
The merchant grumbled but waved them off. "Keep him away from my stall."
Once the crowd dispersed, the man turned to Henry with a smirk.
"You nearly got yourself gutted, kid."
Henry was still panting, adrenaline pumping. "But I got the pouch."
The man's grin widened. "That's the spirit."
He ruffled Henry's hair roughly. "Fast hands. But you've got to learn the exits too. Now let's see how much we made."
The man and Henry sat under a canopy behind their rundown shack, counting the stolen coins.
"Not bad," the man muttered. "Enough for a few days."
Henry leaned back, trying to catch his breath. "Did I do good?"
The man gave a sideways glance, a rare flicker of approval in his eyes. "You didn't die. That's a good start."
Henry smirked. It was the closest thing to praise he ever got.
The sun had long dipped behind the hills, casting the village in a warm, dusky glow. Henry, now older—broad-shouldered, with a cold intensity behind his eyes—was sharpening a blade by the doorway when he noticed a cloaked figure approaching their shack.
The man answered the knock, said nothing, and stepped aside to let the visitor in. They moved to the back room, shutting the wooden door behind them.
Henry didn't think much of it until he heard his name.
Curious, he crept past the hallway and leaned near the door. Their voices were hushed but intense.
"…the boss is calling in a favor," the visitor said. "It's a big job." High risk, but the payout is massive. We need all hands.
Henry's master grunted. "The boss, huh? Haven't heard from him since… what? The village?"
"Exactly like the village," the man confirmed. Same type of raid. Same type of fire. We go in, clean the house, disappear.
There was a pause.
"…and the brat?"
"You mean Henry?" his master asked.
"The one who survived that night," the visitor clarified, his voice dropping lower. The boss remembers. He thinks it's poetic. Bring the brat. He wants him in.
Henry's eyes widened.
The village… my village?
The blade in his hand trembled slightly.
Inside the room, the visitor added, "The job's two months from now. That gives you time to prepare. And for the boy to be ready."
"Understood," Henry's master said with a low nod. "We'll be there."
Henry backed away from the door before they could hear his breath catch. His face was blank as he returned to his sharpening stone, resuming the motion with calm precision.
But inside… he was burning.
The village. My village.
They were the ones… They did it.
His hands trembled just slightly, and he pressed his thumb hard against the edge of the blade, letting the sting bring him back to focus.
He would say nothing. Not yet. He'd spent years becoming faster, stronger, colder—because survival demanded it. But now? Now it had a purpose.
He would train harder. Stay alert. Watch every move the man made.
And when the time came—when they returned to burn another home down—
He would be ready.
This time, he wouldn't run.
Henry sat alone that night, the whispers of the conversation still ringing in his ears.
"Like the village those years ago."
"Yes. And we need all the help we can get… bring the brat that survived that day."
The words clawed at him. He stared at the flickering candlelight, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The room was silent, but inside his chest, his heart thundered like war drums.
He had always wondered why his mentor had taken him in. Why would someone care for a broken, angry child? Now he knew.
It wasn't kindness. It was guilt. Or worse… convenience.
Henry pretended he'd heard nothing when they emerged from the room. He nodded, smiled, even offered to prepare the evening stew.
But deep down, something had shifted. His trust. His loyalty. All of it had cracked.
Two months. That's how long he had.
Two months to figure out the truth.
Two months to remember every face that smiled at his pain.
Two months… to make them pay.
In the days that followed, Henry moved like nothing had changed.
He still trained. Still ran errands. Still listened when his mentor gave orders. But behind his eyes, a storm brewed.
He watched more closely now. Noticed the way his mentor's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. The way he looked at him—not as a son, not even as a partner, but as a tool. A pawn.
Late at night, when the house was quiet, Henry would sketch maps in the dirt behind the shed. Marking places, escape routes, hidden corners of the village. He scavenged extra rations, stashed small weapons—daggers, smoke bombs, anything he could get his hands on without raising suspicion.
He trained harder. Pushed his body to the edge. All the while, rehearsing the day it would come.
His mentor noticed the shift.
"You've gotten sharper," the man said one morning, tossing him a piece of fruit. "Focused."
Henry caught it. A bit into it without a word.
The man chuckled. "There is a big job in two months… you'll finally prove yourself."
Henry nodded slowly. "Yeah… I will."
The man clapped him on the back. "Good. I always knew there was something dark in you. That's what this world needs."
Henry forced a smile. "You were right."
But in his mind, the only darkness he felt was the one he planned to unleash on him.
The morning air was still when the knock came. Henry was already awake, silently sitting near the window, watching the light creep over the rooftops. He didn't move when the familiar boots stepped through the doorway.
It was the same man from before.
Henry's master stood and nodded, leading the visitor into the back room. Henry followed quietly, stopping near the door—just close enough to hear.
"The boss has placed you in charge of surveying the next target," the man said in a low tone. You leave in three days. We want everything in place before the raid.
Henry's master gave a slow nod. "Another village?"
"Yes," the man replied. "Smaller than the last." Hidden trade routes, enough resources to make it worth the trouble. It shouldn't be hard.
There was a pause before the man added, "We'll need extra hands. Bring the brat."
Henry froze.
From the other room came the quiet scrape of a chair and his master's voice—calm, unconcerned. "He's ready."
They spoke a little longer, but Henry heard none of it. His mind had already drifted far away.
This time, he wouldn't run.
This time, he would be ready.
He turned away from the door, jaw tight, eyes cold.
And at that moment, Henry began to plan.
The sun hadn't even broken the horizon when the group set out. Clad in cloaks and armed with steel and silence, they moved like shadows—unseen, unnoticed. Henry rode near the back, his eyes alert, face unreadable.
His master rode beside him.
"Today's the day," the older man said casually, unaware of the fire simmering just beneath Henry's skin. "You've come a long way."
Henry nodded once. "I have."
They arrived at the outskirts of the target village just after noon. From the hills above, the homes looked peaceful, untouched by the chaos that approached. The others began to set up their positions for the raid—marking escape routes, identifying choke points, mapping out where the flames would start.
But Henry had a different map in mind.
He had watched. Waited. Counted their numbers. Studied their routines. Over the past few weeks, he had memorized their patterns, their weaknesses, the moments they let their guard down.
And now, his plan began.
The first one died that evening—an "accident," a tripwire in the wrong place. No one suspected a thing.
The second went missing after a scouting run. His body was found in the forest, his throat slashed clean. The others assumed it was a wild beast.
One by one, the crew began to thin.
Henry said little, but his eyes never missed a movement.
This raid wasn't about loot. Not for him.
It was the beginning of retribution.