The morning broke with the gentle song of birds. Their chirping filled the air, weaving a melody of life as the sun slowly rose. Soft rays of golden light slipped through the cracks of the worn-out hut, spilling across the floor and touching the boy's fragile frame.
Wrapped in a torn blanket, he lay still, his breathing calm, his face almost serene. The sunlight kissed his delicate skin as if trying to breathe warmth into his cold body. Outside, the world stirred with hope, but inside, time seemed to pause in quiet silence.
For that fleeting moment, he looked no different from any other child—peaceful, innocent, untouched by sorrow.
Suddenly, the fragile peace was broken. The boy stirred as the thin blanket was snatched away in a single, harsh tug. The warmth of the morning sun was replaced by the sting of cold air on his skin.
"Hey! Wake up and get to the house chores. Don't lie there like a lazy dog!" a sharp voice cut through the quiet.
It belonged to Barbara Diablo, the stern woman of the household. Her presence loomed over him, her shadow blotting out the sunlight that had moments ago caressed his face. To her, he was nothing more than a slave—just a boy bound to serve, his fragile body and innocence buried beneath the weight of obedience.
The boy slowly opened his eyes, still heavy with sleep. Through his blurred vision, he saw Barbara standing above him. She wasn't a woman of beauty, but her face was painted thick with heavy makeup, as if trying to hide the harshness beneath.
"I… I'm sorry, master," the boy murmured weakly, his voice trembling. "I accidentally overslept."
Barbara narrowed her eyes, her painted lips curling into a cold smirk. "Huh? Accidentally? Or was it your plan to skip work?"
"No, master!" the boy quickly answered, fear rising in his chest. "I truly overslept… last night the cold kept me awake. I couldn't sleep properly."
Barbara's expression hardened, her voice sharpening like a blade. "Oh? So you mean you're not satisfied with what we give you to live? Hmm? Is that what you're saying?" She stepped closer, her shadow falling over him like a curse. "It seems you've started to raise your voice. Fine then—I know how to silence it. From now on, you'll receive even less food than usual."
The boy's eyes widened, panic rushing through him. He fell to his knees, trembling. "No, master! Please, forgive me! I will never raise my voice again!"
But Barbara only sneered, her tone cruel and mocking. "No. It is your choice to do so."
"No, ma'am! Please forgive me!" the boy cried, his voice breaking as he scrambled forward. "I will never do it again!"
In desperation, he lowered his head to the ground and pressed it against Barbara's shoe. His frail body trembled as he whispered, "Sorry, ma'am… please forgive me…"
Barbara looked down at him with disgust, her lips twisting into a mocking smile. "You fool!" she snapped, pulling her foot back. "My precious shoes—you'll ruin them with your filthy head! Get away! Shoo!"
She pushed him aside with a sharp kick, her cold laughter echoing in the small, broken hut. The boy flinched but dared not raise his eyes, clutching the torn blanket like it was his only comfort.
"Sorry, ma'am! I will do anything for forgiveness," the boy pleaded, his tiny frame shaking.
Barbara sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. "Ok, ok… don't cry like a fool over such a small thing like food. I won't take it away." Her hand waved dismissively. "Now go. Clean all the dishes."
The boy nodded quickly, wiping his tears with the back of his trembling hand. "Yes, ma'am…" he whispered before hurrying toward the pile of dirty utensils.
He stood up, letting the torn blanket slip from his hands, and worked tirelessly, scrubbing each dish with care. Hours passed, the sun climbing higher, his frail arms moving back and forth as he polished away the grime.
Just as he finished the last utensil, a deep voice thundered from the doorway.
"Hey, boy! Move faster, you lazy brat!"
The boy flinched. Standing there was Balthas Diablo, the head of the family. His presence was cruel, his tone sharp, but his sluggish frame revealed a man who preferred commanding others rather than lifting a finger himself. His sharp eyes bore into the boy with no trace of kindness.
"We need to go to the city," Balthas barked. "There are new antiques to be picked for the shop—so move faster!"
The boy swallowed hard, setting the last dish aside before rushing to obey, his tired legs carrying him as quickly as they could.
He ran toward the cart, his bare feet kicking up dust as he climbed inside. Balthas followed shortly, settling his heavy frame with a grunt. With a sharp flick of the reins, the cart rattled forward, carrying them down the rough road.
Hours passed beneath the creaking wheels until they reached the bustling market. The air was thick with noise—merchants shouting from every corner, their voices colliding in a chorus of promises.
"It's cheap! It's the best!" one vendor cried.
"Fresh and good, come see for yourself!" another yelled.
The boy sat silently in the cart, observing the chaos. The colors of fabric, the smell of spices, and the traders' calls filled his senses, but none of it belonged to him. He was only there to serve.
He whispered softly to himself, almost lost in the noise, "Hmm… that smells so good. I wish… I could eat that kind of food, just once in my life… and… to wear something like that." His gaze drifted to a bright yellow dress swaying in the breeze, imagining what it would feel like to wear something clean and beautiful.
But the world offered him no such luxury.
The cart came to a halt near a merchant's office. Balthas Diablo climbed down and barked orders.
"Hey, slave! Stand up and load all the goods before I go speak with my friend inside. Do it quickly!"
The boy scrambled to his feet. His eyes fell on a large wooden box, far too heavy for his weak frame. He pressed his arms against it, inching it toward the cart, trembling under its weight. Slowly, he managed to push it up and begin loading it.
Suddenly, the rhythmic pounding of boots cut through the market's noise. A troop of soldiers marched down the road, their polished armor flashing in the sunlight, voices echoing in disciplined unison. These were no ordinary guards; their armor bore scratches and dents, scars from the fierce battle they had recently returned from.
The boy's eyes widened. He slipped behind the cart to stay hidden.
It was only then he remembered Balthas Diablo's words: "Hide as soon as you see soldiers or anyone like them."
One soldier, however, noticed him. The commander, a tall and imposing figure hardened by countless battles, raised his hand and signaled the troop forward. "March straight! I'll join you ahead."
The commander strode toward the boy, scanning the crowd. But the boy had vanished from sight. Assuming he had followed the soldiers, the commander moved on.
The boy emerged slowly from behind the cart, exhaling a shaky breath of relief. His tiny body sagged, exhausted.
"Hmm… you are good at hiding."
The voice was deep, resonant, and sudden. The boy froze, spinning around. Standing before him was a tall warrior of war, appearing almost miraculously out of nowhere. His presence radiated strength, experience, and danger, making the air feel heavier.
The boy's heart thumped, a mix of awe and apprehension running through him.
To Be Continued…