The gravel crunched beneath polished leather boots, each step measured and steady. The coastal village of Duskport spread out under the gray sky. Crooked rooftops sagged under old shingles, and fishing nets hung between weathered posts. Gulls circled overhead, crying in the cold morning air. The smell of salt and rotting fish filled the air.
The man in the dark coat walked down the main road, his boots clicking against scattered stones and patches of hard-packed dirt. Children playing in the mud stopped to stare at his clean clothes. Women hanging laundry paused their work, watching him pass with worried eyes. His boots were spotless despite the rough terrain, his coat well-oiled against the sea spray. In his breast pocket, a sealed letter pressed against his ribs with each step.
He stopped before a crooked shack that leaned against its neighbours. The wood was gray from years of salt and neglect, the single window covered with oiled cloth instead of glass.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three sharp sounds echoed through the door.
Footsteps shuffled inside. A latch scraped. The door opened to show a man with tired eyes.
"Ben Reikan?" the visitor asked.
Ben's eyes flicked once to the clean boots, then up to meet the stranger's gaze. "You are finally here. Please, come in."
The inside of the shack was sparse and cold. Old fishing nets hung on one wall. A pot of thin stew simmered over the dying fire, filling the air with the smell of boiled bones. Two rough chairs sat across from each other at a scarred wooden table.
They sat without ceremony. The visitor reached into his coat and placed a heavy leather pouch on the table between them. The heavy silver coins clinked against each other inside the leather pouch.
Ben's eyes darted to the pouch, then away, then back again. His voice came out clipped and careful. "The terms we discussed?"
"As agreed," the visitor said. "The boy comes with me. You get what's in the pouch. No questions after."
Ben nodded quickly. His fingers drummed against the table once before he stopped.
"Kain!" Ben's voice turned sharp, impatient. "Get in here!"
Footsteps padded across the floor above. Then down wooden stairs that creaked with each step. A small figure appeared in the doorway—a boy of eight with sleeves that hung past his wrists and dark gray hair that needed cutting. His gaze flickered to the silver pouch before settling on his father's face.
"This man is giving you work," Ben said without preamble. "You'll contribute to the family for once."
Kain's voice came out steady, too steady for a child. "How much money per month will I get?"
The visitor remained silent, his eyes shifting toward Ben.
Ben's face darkened. "This money keeps us alive. You should be thankful for the chance to learn a skill in this economy—"
"I wasn't asking you," Kain interrupted, his gaze never leaving the stranger. "I was asking him."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Ben's chair scraped as he shot to his feet, his face flushing red above his stubbled jaw.
"Ungrateful little shit!"
Heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs. Two older boys burst into the room—Mason and Blake, sixteen and fourteen, drawn by their father's shouting. They stopped in the doorway, eyes wide as they took in the scene.
Kain's voice stayed calm. "If this is such a good opportunity, why don't you send Mason or Blake? They're old enough to work."
Ben's hand rose, trembling with rage. "YOU DARE—"
"Enough."
The word hit the room hard. Ben's raised hand froze. Mason and Blake pressed back against the doorframe. Even the fire seemed quieter.
The visitor studied Kain with new interest, noting how the boy hadn't flinched, hadn't stepped back, hadn't shown even a flicker of fear at his father's raised hand.
"I don't have time for this," the visitor said. "Kain, gather your things. We leave now."
Kain nodded once and disappeared up the stairs. His footsteps were soft but quick above their heads. In the silence that followed, Ben reached for the pouch with shaking fingers. He hefted its weight, feeling the coins shift inside the leather. More money than he'd seen in months. Enough to fix the roof, buy new nets, maybe even get through the winter without borrowing from his neighbours.
He tried not to think about what would happen to Kain. The stranger had been vague about the work, but Ben didn't really want to know the details. Some things were easier when you didn't ask too many questions.
"Finally," Blake muttered from the doorway, not bothering to keep his voice down. "Maybe our luck will change now."
Mason nodded, a cruel smile playing at his lips. "Should have done this years ago. We've been feeding dead weight for too long."
"Good riddance," Blake added, his voice cold. "Maybe now we can actually make something of ourselves without his curse hanging over us."
Ben said nothing, but his grip tightened on the silver pouch. His sons were right, of course. This was long overdue.
When Kain returned, he carried a small cloth bundle—everything he owned in the world. His sleeves had shifted, hanging looser now, but no one noticed the subtle change.
"You have everything?" the visitor asked, standing and adjusting his coat.
"Yes, sir."
The visitor turned toward the door, expecting the boy to follow. His hand was already reaching for the latch when the world exploded into violence.
Steel flashed from Kain's sleeves—two fillet knives, sharp from years of cutting fish. The blades were old but well-maintained, their edges honed to razor sharpness. He spun toward his brothers with movements that seemed almost rehearsed.
The blades went into Mason and Blake's chests with wet, sucking sounds. Mason's mouth opened in a wordless gasp, his hands reaching up to clutch at the steel buried between his ribs. Blake stumbled backward, blood already spreading across his shirt in a widening stain. Their eyes went wide with shock, not pain—they couldn't process what had happened fast enough to feel it yet.
Blood spread across their shirts in dark patches. Mason fell first, his knees hitting the floor with a dull thud. Blake followed a moment later, his back striking the doorframe before he slid down to sit in a growing pool of red.
Ben turned just in time to see Kain pull the knives free with a wet, tearing sound. Blood dripped from the blades as his youngest son spun toward him with cold, empty eyes.
The first blade took Ben in the chest, punching between his ribs with a crack of breaking bone. The second found his throat as he stumbled backward, his hands clawing uselessly at the steel buried in his body. But Kain wasn't finished.
He stabbed the knives into his father again and again. Blood sprayed across the walls and pooled on the floor. Ben's face was destroyed until he didn't look like the same man anymore.
The visitor stood by the door, stunned. The man seen many things. He had never seen this. The boy had moved like he'd done this before—quiet and sure.
When it was over, Kain left the knives buried in what remained of his father's chest. He straightened slowly, blood spattering his clothes. His breathing was steady. His hands were steady. When he turned to face the visitor, his voice came out flat and empty.
"Now I am ready to go."
The room was quiet except for dripping sounds. Outside, gulls cried over the sea, and a fishing boat's bell rang in the distance. The silver pouch sat on the table, untouched.
The visitor looked at the small boy standing in a lake of his family's blood, and for the first time in years, he felt something that might have been fear.
Or perhaps it was respect.