"Why?" Vahl thought."Why?" The word echoed in his mind as his gaze drifted into the shadows of memory, a flashback dragging him into the past.
It was the day his world had been torn apart.
He saw it again: his parents' bodies lying broken on the ground, their blood staining the soil in deep, merciless strokes. The killer had not been a thief, nor a wandering brigand, nor some hardened soldier. No—it was another child.
The boy stood over them with blond hair that gleamed like sunlight and eyes the pale blue of clear skies, his hand wrapped around a sword far too cruel for his age. His clothing was pristine, silks embroidered with jewels that caught the light even as they were splattered with blood. The smile on his lips was not one of fear or regret—it was the idle grin of someone amused, as though he had just swatted at pests or toyed with animals.
"Vermin, why are there still so much infestation within my father's fief?" the noble child spoke, his voice smooth, almost playful. The blade in his hand gleamed red, the reflection of spilled blood shimmering across its edge.
That blood belonged to Vahl's parents. They had fallen defending him, their bodies shielding their son until the very end. Vahl, small and trembling, had been left staring wide-eyed, unable to move or speak—paralyzed with the raw terror only a child can feel when everything is stripped away in a heartbeat.
The noble child sneered."These disgusting creatures dared to touch me, and they deserved more than death. As their child, you should bear responsibility for your feeble parents' mistakes, is it not so?"
He turned his cold gaze toward a nearby attendant.
"Yes, my lord is right as always," the man stammered, sweat dripping down his temple despite the chill in the air. His voice shook with obedience, fear threading through every word.
With a lazy flick of his wrist, the blond boy gestured to another servant. The man hurried forward, offering a smooth, white handkerchief. The young noble traded his bloodstained sword for the cloth, dabbing delicately at his hands as though nothing at all had happened.
That was when Vahl saw it.
A crest. Glowing faintly upon the boy's palm, branded into his flesh as a divine mark. It was unmistakable—the Crest of the God of Creation and Hope.
Of everything that burned into Vahl's memory that day—the blood, the smile, the helplessness—that crest was seared deepest of all.
'After that, I was sold as a slave…' Vahl thought bitterly. His eyes, shadowed with exhaustion and ringed with dark circles, blinked back to the present.
The harsh world of memory shattered as a nearby scuffle caught his attention. An old man, gaunt and tattooed from neck to arm, cried out as another slave snatched the crust of bread from his hands. The old man's weakness left him unable to resist, and the thief turned away, chewing greedily.
Vahl lowered his gaze to the ration he had just received. Without hesitation, he devoured it quickly, each bite rough and hurried, for in this place hesitation meant starvation. The crewmen who tossed down bread didn't bother with the quarrels of slaves. To them, conflict was natural, even entertaining—as long as no one died.
But Vahl's haste had not gone unnoticed.
A shadow fell over him. A heavy voice followed."Hey, brat, didn't I say you should contribute your food for the less fortunate?"
Vahl looked up into the snarling face of a man. His teeth were bared like fangs, his eyes sharp with menace—the look of a starving wolf circling prey. The man was known among the slaves as Jamie, a brute who thrived by preying on the weak.
Vahl said nothing.
Jamie's lip curled in fury. His fist shot forward, slamming into Vahl's stomach. The air rushed from Vahl's lungs as he gasped, the chains at his wrists clattering against the floor. Pain rippled through him before a savage kick struck his side, driving him to the ground.
The other slaves glanced his way, but when Jamie roared—"What are you guys looking at?!"—their eyes quickly turned aside. This was the unspoken rule: do not interfere.
On the ground, Vahl's body curled from the blows, but his expression was not of surrender. His teeth ground together, trembling with suppressed rage. Hatred burned hotter than pain, a storm behind his eyes that no chain could restrain.
Jamie sneered, looking down at him.Ha, a bunch of wusses. Making an example out of a kid is a small price to pay for respect here, he thought with smug satisfaction.
But the floor shifted beneath him—no, it was not the ship's sway. In an instant, Jamie found himself tumbling backward, his skull cracking against the wooden planks. His vision spun, confusion flashing across his face.
A shadow loomed over him.
It was Vahl.
Though still shackled, the boy had surged forward, dragging Jamie down with raw desperation. Without hesitation, he swung his bound hands, the iron cuffs crashing against Jamie's head. Once. Twice. Again and again. The sound of metal striking flesh echoed in the cramped hold.
Jamie grunted, raising his arms to shield himself, but the relentless blows rained down like the storm outside. Each strike carried all the venom of Vahl's hatred, the fury of years compressed into this one violent moment.
Shouts erupted. Crewmen rushed forward, dragging Vahl away before he could kill. Jamie was left groaning, his face bloodied, his arms trembling from the effort of shielding himself.
The other slaves watched in silence. Some stared in shock, others with disdain. A few sighed, as if this outcome had been inevitable.
And through it all, Vahl's chest heaved with ragged breaths, his eyes burning with the same thing they always held.
Hatred.