Each day in the ship's hold stretched endlessly, time marked only by the flickering of a single lantern that cast jagged shadows across the planks. The shadows twisted and writhed with the ship's movements, mimicking the lives of the captives—shapeless and fleeting. The boy lingered in the shadows of the hold, leaning against the damp wall with his body coiled in quiet stillness. His posture was loose, almost casual, but his gaze was sharp, scanning the gloom like a predator lying in wait. He noticed everything: the groans of the ship, the muffled sobs of the captives, the faint clink of chains as the overseers prowled.
The air was thick and suffocating, reeking of sweat, sickness, and despair. It clung to his skin, heavy and relentless, as though the hold itself conspired to crush its prisoners. The overseers moved like shadows through the gloom, their boots striking the planks with deliberate menace. They didn't need to bark commands; their mere presence was enough to silence the weak. When they spoke, it was in sharp, guttural tones, their words like knives scraping against stone.
The boy had learned to make himself invisible. His movements were slow and deliberate, calculated to avoid drawing attention. But his eyes—those piercing blue eyes that reflected the cold fire growing within him—missed nothing. He studied the overseers, their rhythms and habits, the way they moved and where their attention lingered. Observation was survival, and the boy had mastered it.
The cries of the punished echoed through the hold, sharp and shrill, lingering long after the overseers moved on. The whip was swift, its lash slicing through the air like a predator's strike. The boy didn't flinch when he heard it. He didn't need to look to know the overseers' targets were the frail and the desperate—the ones who dared to resist or who simply moved too slowly. Around him, the weak grew weaker, their bodies wasting away as their spirits withered.
He had seen death before, but here in the hold, it wore a different face. Death wasn't swift or honorable; it was slow and suffocating, a quiet thief that stole breath and left behind empty, hollow shells. The stench of it lingered in the corners, a constant companion to despair. The boy didn't fear it—not anymore. He felt its presence pressing in around him, patient and inevitable. Part of him welcomed it, longed for the release it promised. But not yet. Not until he had carved his vengeance into the bones of the men who had taken his sister. Death could wait. Revenge could not.
The boy tried to summon the faces of his family to anchor himself, as he had done so many times before. But when he closed his eyes, the images refused to come. His father's face, once so vivid, now flickered like a dying ember. His mother's voice, fierce and steady, was barely a whisper. His sister's laugh—the sound that had once been his greatest comfort—was gone. No matter how hard he reached for it, it slipped further and further from his grasp, leaving only an aching void.
For the first time, the fading memories didn't fill him with despair. Instead, they ignited something colder. The warmth they once brought had turned to ash, but the anger they left behind burned steady and sharp.
One of the guards paused near him, a man with a face like weathered stone and eyes that scanned the hold with cruel precision. His shadow stretched long across the damp planks as he crouched in front of the boy, the sour stench of his breath cutting through the suffocating air.
The boy felt his muscles coil instinctively, tension coursing through him like the taut string of a bow. But outwardly, he remained still, his head bowed slightly, his posture deliberately loose and unthreatening.
The man gripped his chin roughly, forcing the boy's face upward. "Still alive, are we?" he muttered, his voice low and mocking. His eyes narrowed, studying the boy's expression as if searching for cracks in the façade.
The boy's gaze flicked up, just enough to meet his eyes. His expression was blank, his blue eyes dull and devoid of challenge, but behind them burned something far sharper. He let his shoulders slump slightly, his jaw tightening under the overseer's grip in what could easily be mistaken for fear.
"That's more like it," the man sneered, his grip tightening for a moment as if testing for resistance.
The boy didn't give him any. He let his lips part slightly, feigning the hollow, beaten look of the others in the hold. The effort of holding back the fire building inside him was a blade against his ribs, but he kept his movements slow, his breathing steady.
The overseer smirked, convinced he saw nothing. "We'll see how long that lasts," he muttered before releasing the boy's chin with a dismissive shove and moving on.
The boy exhaled slowly, forcing the tension in his body to bleed out in measured waves. He flexed his fingers against the planks beneath him, grounding himself in the rough texture of the wood. His head tilted downward once more, his dark hair falling over his face to mask the spark in his eyes.
Inside, the fire raged. It burned hotter with every sneer, every touch, every dismissive word. But he knew better than to let it show. Not yet. He couldn't afford to give them a reason to notice him, to mark him as anything more than another broken captive. That was the role he needed to play—empty, submissive, invisible.
But every word the guards spoke, every smug step they took, added fuel to the blaze smoldering beneath the boy's calm exterior. He wasn't broken. He wasn't beaten. He was waiting.
He sat cross-legged before the lantern, the soft flicker of its flame reflected in his eyes. This time, the fire did not feel distant or alien; it was no longer an unruly force he had to tame. It was familiar now, like an acquaintance waiting patiently for him to reach out. He steadied his breath, remembering Matteo's teachings—focus, respect, harmony. Closing his eyes, he drew his awareness inward, and there it was: the fire's presence, glowing in his mind's eye. It was more than heat and light—it was alive, pulsing with quiet energy, waiting to be acknowledged. He reached for it, not with his hands but with his will, and felt it respond, a gentle flare of warmth that matched the rhythm of his thoughts. The flame atop the lantern swayed, growing brighter, more stable, as if it too had been waiting for this moment. No longer a stranger, the fire moved with him, its movements fluid and natural, as though their connection had been there all along, hidden beneath his grief.
Later, when the captives were hauled onto the deck for air, the boy moved with the others, his steps slow and deliberate. The sunlight was blinding after the oppressive darkness of the hold, the salty wind sharp against his skin. He kept his head low, letting his hair fall over his face to hide the calculating gleam in his eyes.
The deck was alive with activity. Sailors shouted commands, their voices rough and booming as they adjusted the sails and secured the rigging. The boy watched them from the edge of the group, noting the way they moved with practiced efficiency. He studied their weapons—the daggers at their belts, the cudgels in their hands—and the patterns of their movements. Every detail was a thread he could pull, a weakness he could exploit.
Two sailors leaned against the railing, sharing a flask and laughing loudly. The boy couldn't make out their words, but their tone—the mocking cruelty in their voices—was enough. He shifted slightly, angling his body toward them without drawing attention, and committed their faces to memory. They would pay, just as the overseers would, just as all of them would. Not today. But someday.
When the captives were herded back into the hold, the boy felt the sun's warmth fade from his skin, replaced once more by the suffocating dampness. He sat in his corner, his chains lying slack across his lap. Around him, the others began to drift into restless sleep, their breaths shallow and uneven. The boy didn't close his eyes. Sleep was a luxury he couldn't afford. Instead, he let the twisting shadows on the walls fill his vision, their movements oddly hypnotic.
Across the hold, the old man stirred. His sunken eyes found the boy's, and for a brief moment, they exchanged a look. It wasn't sympathy or comfort. It was understanding. A quiet acknowledgment that they were both clinging to something, even if it wasn't the same thing.
The boy gave a slight nod, the motion almost imperceptible. He wouldn't let his memories define him, but he wouldn't let them go entirely—not yet.
In the silence of the hold, as the shadows twisted and the ship groaned against the waves, the boy sat motionless, his body calm and his mind sharp. He wasn't waiting for freedom. He was waiting for vengeance.