"Hey, brat! Don't touch me!" a man shouted at a small child in a filthy robe covered in mud. The boy had accidentally bumped into him in a crowded marketplace in the middle of a bustling, prosperous city, Northwood. The child didn't look up and kept running, already late to meet his masters. The consequences of being even a second late were dire, and the scars on his neck were a constant reminder to what could happen if this was repeated. As more people gathered around the news board, a messenger shouted at the top of his lungs to the masses, "Ven Trueblade, the Kvothe Kingdom's Magic Knight, has been named the seventh WarLord! His eleven-hour, single-handed victory against ten thousand soldiers has crushed all hope for our nation's revival!"
The atmosphere of the crowd didn't just shift; it shattered. A woman at the front collapsed into sobs, her wail cutting through the stunned silence, "My boy… he was stationed at the border!" Whispers turned to frightened shouts as everyone began to panic. "Ten thousand? It's a lie!" one man yelled, though his voice trembled with conviction. "This can't be possible for a nineteen year old, what a monster!" another screamed, pointing a shaky finger as if the Warlord himself stood before them. People began to shove in terror, desperate to flee the square. The ruckus wasn't just beginning; it had erupted, a maelstrom of a nation's broken spirit. But for the 11 year old child , it did not matter, neither did he even understand what the title of 'Warlord' even meant. For him, a lowborn slave, the only world which mattered was his family, and nothing more, because he never did see any world except the broken barns he lived in with other livestock and the ruthless family of his masters.
He scrambled through the chaos towards the elegant villa, bumping into others in the frantic crowd, who this time didn't notice him because of the panic.
As he burst through the villa gates, two youths, roughly six years older than him and dressed in fine silk clothes with hair as beautiful as of a white horse, stood waiting for him. The boy stood frozen in fear in front of the youths as he knew that today he was to meet his end because he was late.
"Norvin, did you forget what happened last time?" one of the youths shouted, yanking the metal chain around Norvin's neck.
The other added, "You've grown bold, not replying to your masters."
Norvin began to beg for his life. "Young Lord, please spare me. The crowd was—"
Before he could finish, the first boy drove a fist into his stomach. "So now it's the crowd's fault? You deserve a punishment for blaming others." The force of the blow left Norvin dangling from the chain, choking as the youth held him aloft.
The second boy began using him as a punching bag, venting all the frustration built up from his studies and the losses his family had suffered in the war.
The torture didn't end there. The boy's battered face earned no mercy. The second youth pinned Norvin to the ground. He didn't resist; this was how his ordinary days went, except today was far worse. The first boy then brought his heel down on Norvin's left arm, and a crack echoed in the air. Norvin, who had been silent until now, let out a raw scream of agony, tears streaming down his face. His only thought was to die, to never have been born at all.
The cry echoed through the villa, and soon an old man appeared. He wore the same fine clothes as the youths, his face a mask of distress and haste. "Boys, leave the slave alone! Trueblade has been declared as the youngest WarLord. We need to take precautions. Come inside, now!"
As the boys ran inside after their grandfather, fear in their eyes, Norvin struggled to his feet, relieved that today's hell was over. Holding his broken arm, he limped around the villa toward the barn in the back meant for livestocks and other slaves- his family.
"Oh, gods, Norvin… what have those boys done to you now?" his mother, Alena, whispered. Fresh tears rolled over her cheeks as he stumbled in. Alena was a beautiful woman with red hair, but to the nobles, she was just another lowborn pest, always covered in dust. His sister, Yara also red haired, was thirteen and working inside the villa. His grandfather was on his deathbed, unable to stand or speak, and his father had to do the old man's share of work to spare him from punishment. Norvin being a small kid with little strength just was used by the sons of their master as a punching bag. His sister recently began seeing a different hell, now that she is old enough to work properly with her father and mother.
Soon, it was night. The thin wooden door creaked open, and Norvin's father, Alden, entered after a day of crushing exhaustion. He carried a half-eaten loaf of bread, his usual meager offering.
Alden froze. The bread fell from his hand into the dirt. His face became a stony mask, but behind his eyes, a world of regret shattered. "Why? Why did I believe children would be a blessing in this cursed life? Why was I so selfish?" the thought screamed in his mind. He saw his son not as a boy, but as a testament to his own failure.
He collapsed to his knees before his broken child. His large hands that had toiled for masters his whole life, trembled as they gently held Norvin's small body. Alden pulled his son into a tight, desperate warmth. "I'm sorry," he choked out, his voice thick with anguish. "I am so sorry, my son. Forgive me for my weakness. Forgive me for giving you this life… for letting you be born into this endless pain."
What deeper agony can a man know than to kneel before his own child and apologize for his very existence?