The hold was silent, the kind of silence that made the air feel heavy, oppressive. The captives huddled against the walls, their chains clinking faintly as they shifted. No one dared speak. No one even dared breathe too loudly.
The slaver stood at the center of it all, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow that seemed to stretch across the entire hold. His torch flickered, throwing jagged light across his face, accentuating the cruel curve of his sneer.
His grin spread slowly, like oil slicking across water, twisting his scarred features into something grotesque. He held the club loosely in his hand, letting it swing like the weighted pendulum of an executioner's axe. To him, this wasn't punishment. It wasn't even control.
It was art.
The slaver's grin widened further, his yellowed teeth bared in anticipation. This was his stage, and the captives his audience. The symphony would begin with blood and end with silence.
His eyes locked on Jorund, who still stood tall despite the chains weighing him down. That defiance—it infuriated and exhilarated the slaver all at once. How dare this man, this chained animal, stand before him with fire in his eyes?
His fingers tightened around the club.
"You should've kept your mouth shut," the slaver said, his voice low, almost conversational. "But its ok, I'll shut it for you …"
He raised the club high, the torchlight glinting off its iron head.
The club came down with the precision of a butcher's cleaver, smashing directly into Jorund's jaw. The impact resounded through the hold like the crack of splintering wood, a grotesque symphony's opening note.
Jorund's head snapped to the side, his body swaying under the blow. Blood and teeth sprayed across the air, splattering onto the filthy planks and the faces of the nearest captives. His body collapsed like wet laundry, falling to the floor. The iron tang of blood filled the hold, sharp and metallic, cutting through the oppressive stench.
The captives flinched, recoiling as though the spray had struck their very souls. A young man in the corner began to weep quietly, pressing his trembling hands against his face. Others turned their heads away, too frightened or sickened to watch.
Jorund staggered, his breath hitching as he struggled to stand up. Blood poured from his shattered mouth, pooling at his chin and dripping onto his chest. His knees bent slightly, his body swaying like a great oak in a storm.
The slaver's grin widened, his face lit with a savage joy as he watched Jorund crumple. "Want some more?" he sneered, stepping forward. He jabbed the club against Jorund's chest, pushing him with just enough force to unbalance him and send him tumbling backwards.
The iron shackles on his wrists clinking softly as they hit the floor. He braced himself with trembling arms, blood dripping from his lips onto the filthy planks below.
The slaver crouched in front of him, his breath hot and rancid as he leaned close. "You think you're strong, don't you?" he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper. "Think you're better than me? Look at you now. On your ass, bleeding like a pig."
The slaver reached out and grabbed a fistful of Jorund's hair, yanking his head forward to force him to meet his gaze. Jorund's face was a ruin of blood and broken teeth, his jaw hanging at an unnatural angle.
And yet, in his eyes, there was no fear.
The slaver's sneer faltered for the briefest of moments, his hand tightening in Jorund's hair. The defiance in those eyes—it shouldn't still be there.
"You don't know when to quit, do you?" the slaver growled. His voice shook slightly, though whether with anger or something deeper, he didn't know.
He shoved Jorund backward, the merchant's broken body crashing to the floor. Without hesitation, the slaver climbed onto him, straddling his chest, his knees pinning Jorund's arms to the planks.
The captives gasped, some turning their faces to the wall, others frozen in horrified silence.
The slaver raised the club high, his muscles tensed, his teeth bared in a snarl. "Let's see if you're still so defiant after this."
The club came down again and again. The iron head struck Jorund's face with relentless, sickening force, each blow accompanied by the dull, wet crunch of bone breaking beneath it.
Blood splattered across the slaver's arms, his chest, his face. The hold echoed with the sound of flesh meeting iron, a brutal, merciless rhythm.
Jorund's body convulsed beneath him, then fell still, his head lolling to the side. But the slaver didn't stop. He brought the club down once more, and then again, his breaths coming in ragged gasps, his face twisted into something monstrous.
When he finally stopped, his chest heaving, the slaver sat back on his knees, the bloodied club still clenched in his hand. Jorund's face was unrecognizable, a ruin of blood and shattered bone.
The light in his eyes was gone. And so was his defiance.
The slaver stood, wiping his face with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his scarred cheek. He turned to the captives, his grin returning, wide and vicious.
The slaver stepped back, his chest heaving, his face flushed with exertion. He dropped the club to his side, its iron head smeared with blood.
"That's what happens to heroes," he spat, his voice low and venomous. He turned to the captives, his sneer widening as his gaze swept over their pale, stricken faces.
"Let this be a lesson," he said, his voice sharp and cutting. "You're nothing. You'll always be nothing."
The captives remained frozen, their eyes fixed on Jorund's lifeless body. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the wooden planks, its dark color stark against the flickering torchlight.
No one moved to help him. No one dared.
From his corner, the boy sat unmoving, his gaze hidden behind the curtain of his hair. The hold creaked softly around him, the sound blending with the faint murmur of the waves outside. Nearby, the lanterns flickered, their flames dancing erratically, as if reaching toward him, trying to pierce the wall of his grief. The warm glow pulsed in the shadows, almost alive, almost calling—but the boy remained still, deaf to its whisper, lost in the cold void of his despair.
Jorund's death was another echo, another shadow in a world that had already been swallowed by darkness.
The slaver climbed the ladder, his boots thudding heavily against the rungs. The hatch slammed shut behind him, plunging the hold into near-total darkness.
The captives sat in silence, their breaths shallow, their chains clinking faintly as they shifted.
The shadows closed in around the boy, thick and suffocating, as though the air itself mourned the loss of something irreplaceable.