The slaver leaned against the railing of the ship, his flask hanging loosely in his hand. The ocean stretched out around him, a dark and featureless expanse under a thin crescent moon. The stars were faint, dimmed by the haze of the day's storm, leaving the sky as bleak and heavy as the air clinging to the ship.
Above deck, the crew moved in quiet efficiency, their silhouettes passing like shadows across the faint lantern light. A few men gathered near the bow, sharing scraps of food and muttered stories, but their voices were low, careful not to carry too far.
The slaver tilted the flask to his lips, the harsh burn of ale cutting through the stale taste in his mouth. His muscles ached, a dull, constant reminder of the day's labor. Though the captives were shackled and beaten, their mere existence felt like a weight on his shoulders—a weight he relished, in his way.
As the ship rocked gently, he heard it: the faint, rhythmic clinking of chains from the hold below.
It wasn't unusual to hear noise from the captives—they whimpered and moaned often enough, especially after a whipping—but this was different. The slaver frowned, cocking his head to listen. The murmur of voices reached his ears, faint but insistent, like the hum of insects just out of sight.
His jaw tightened.
The man hated noise. It reminded him of the chaos of his childhood, of the constant yelling that echoed through the cramped, filthy tenements where he'd grown up. His father's bellowing rages, his mother's sharp retorts, the jeers of the older boys who took everything from him—all of it had etched itself into the grooves of his memory, a cacophony of humiliation and helplessness.
He hadn't been strong then. He'd been small, skinny, an easy target. The older boys had enjoyed knocking him down, kicking him until he cried, stealing the few coins he'd managed to scavenge. For years, he had lived at the bottom of the world, the punching bag of men and fate alike.
But that had changed. He had grown, his lean frame hardening with time and labor. He had learned to fight back, to wield a club with the same savage efficiency as the boys who had tormented him. And when he had joined the raiders, he'd discovered something else—something that filled the hollow, gnawing ache inside him.
He liked making others feel small.
Breaking men was more than a necessity; it was an art. He relished the fear in their eyes, the way their spirits cracked under the weight of his fists, his words, his presence. Here, on the slave ship, he wasn't the weak one anymore. Here, he was power incarnate.
The thought made him smile, his scarred lips curling as he turned toward the hatch leading to the hold.
The slaver gripped the torch from the sconce near the ladder, its flame flickering as he descended into the darkness. The sound of chains grew louder with each step, accompanied by the murmur of voices.
His boots thudded heavily against the rungs, the metal creaking beneath his weight. He moved slowly, savoring the anticipation, letting the captives below feel the tremor of his approach.
When he reached the bottom, he paused, his torch held high. The light cast jagged shadows across the walls, making the hold seem even smaller and more oppressive. The captives froze as his shadow fell over them, their murmurs silenced in an instant.
Most of them were slumped against the walls, their gaunt faces turned away, their eyes fixed on the floor. But one man stood apart.
Jorund stood tall, his broad shoulders squared despite the heavy chains that bound him. His face, lined with age and hardship, was set in a mask of quiet defiance. He met the slaver's gaze without flinching, his dark eyes steady.
The slaver's sneer deepened. He recognized this one. The merchant. The man who thought he was better than the rest of them.
"So," the slaver said, his voice low and mocking. "You're the one causing all the trouble. The hero."
He stepped closer, his torch illuminating the weathered planes of Jorund's face. The man's calm, unshakable demeanor made something twist inside him—a flare of anger, of hatred.
"I've seen your kind before," the slaver continued, his tone dripping with disdain. "Big talk. Full of fire. Think you're going to inspire a rebellion, do you?"
Jorund didn't respond. His gaze held steady, his silence speaking louder than words.
The slaver hated that silence. It was the silence of men who thought themselves untouchable, who thought they couldn't be broken.
"You don't scare me," Jorund said finally, his voice low but firm.
The slaver's grin widened, his teeth flashing in the dim light. "We'll see about that."
From his corner, the boy watched, though he barely registered what was happening. His mind was a haze, lost in the tangle of memories that refused to let him go.
He saw the torchlight flicker across the slaver's face, casting grotesque shadows that twisted and writhed, the fire's glow pulsing as if trying to reach him, trying to call him back to awareness. But the boy couldn't see it—couldn't see anything beyond the suffocating weight of his grief. Jorund stood tall nearby, a figure of quiet strength in a sea of despair, but even that felt distant, unreal, like the faint echoes of a dream slipping away.
The boy lowered his head, the weight of his grief pressing him further into the shadows.
The slaver circled Jorund slowly, his boots thudding against the wooden planks. The torchlight cast long, flickering shadows, making the hold feel smaller, more suffocating. Each step he took seemed calculated, designed to press down on the captives' fear, to make them shrink further into the darkness.
But Jorund didn't shrink.
He stood tall, his shoulders squared, his feet planted firmly beneath him. The chains around his wrists clinked softly as he shifted his weight, his movements deliberate and calm. He held the slaver's gaze without flinching, his dark eyes steady, reflecting none of the fear that filled the room.
The slaver hated that look.
It was the look of someone who believed in something, someone who thought they had strength that couldn't be taken. It was a look the slaver had seen before, in the faces of men who refused to kneel, who clung to their pride like it was armor. He had broken those men before. He had ground their pride into the dirt and left them weeping, begging for mercy.
But this man was different.
There was arrogance in Jorund's gaze, not the fire of rebellion. His defiance was quieter, steadier, like the slow, unyielding rise of the tide. It wasn't born of anger or hatred. It was rooted in something different. Wealth.
The slaver's sneer faltered for a fraction of a second before twisting into a deeper scowl.
"Think you're better than me?" he snarled, his voice laced with venom. "Your money won't save you down here, merchant."
Jorund didn't respond. He didn't need to. His silence spoke volumes, a wall the slaver couldn't scale.
The slaver's grip tightened on the club at his side. He could feel the rough wood bite into his palm, the familiar weight of it grounding him. The weapon was his answer, his solution to everything. Words could be ignored. Looks could be shrugged off. But pain? Pain silenced even the strongest men.
"You'll break," the slaver said, his voice dropping into a low growl. "They all do. Every last one of them."
Jorund shifted slightly, the movement so subtle it was almost imperceptible. His hands, bound by iron, curled loosely into fists, but he didn't raise them. He didn't need to.
"I've seen men like you before," Jorund said finally, his voice calm but heavy with meaning. "Men who think strength comes from hurting others. Men who think they can take what they want because they're bigger, louder, crueler."
The slaver's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening.
"You're weak," Jorund said simply.
The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp as a blade.
Jorund didn't move. He didn't flinch as the slaver closed the distance between them, his breath hot and sour as it ghosted across Jorund's face.
But inside, Jorund was thinking of his family. He saw his wife's hands weaving, her deft fingers turning rough wool into something soft and beautiful. He saw his sons racing along the rocky shore, their laughter carrying on the wind. He imagined them waiting, their eyes fixed on the horizon, believing that one day, he would come home.
He had to come home.
The slaver, however, wasn't thinking of Jorund's family. He wasn't thinking of anything beyond the immediate, visceral satisfaction of making this man fall. He imagined the moment when Jorund's legs would buckle, when his resolve would crack, when the light in his eyes would dim.
The slaver craved that moment. He needed it.
This wasn't about the captives, the rebellion, or even Jorund's defiance. It was about control. About proving, once again, that he was the one who held the power.
Jorund's calm, steady resolve was a force as immovable as the cliffs he had once stood upon. The slaver's anger, sharp and volatile, burned like a wildfire, desperate to consume everything in its path.
The captives watched in silence, their wide, fearful eyes darting between the two men. For a moment, the hold felt like the center of the world, a place where everything had stopped to witness the collision of these two opposing forces.
The slaver's sneer deepened. "Let's see how long that arrogance of yours lasts."
Jorund didn't answer. He simply stood, waiting, as unyielding as the tide.
The tension between them was electric, a clash of wills as stark and inevitable as the meeting of storm clouds.
Jorund's unshakable resolve.
The slaver's need to destroy it.