Prologue: Downstream of the Red River
Time is a cunning thief. It steals moments, leaving behind only a mist that blurs the boundary between memory and dream. One moment, I soar high; the next, I lie shattered in pieces upon the ground.
Thump.
A dry twig fell from the tree I was leaning against, landing right on the crown of my head. I startled, my consciousness struggling to pierce the thick fog in my mind.
"Where...?"
My voice was hoarse. The morning sunlight stabbed sharply, forcing its way through eyelids that felt weighed down with lead. Memories swirled wildly—flashes of swords in the night, choked screams, and pain piercing my ribs. The smell of iron and damp earth.
"Argh... damn."
My hand crept over the damp ground, fingers groping instinctively until they touched the cold, familiar hilt of a sword. Its grip was rough, worn by many battles. I tried to move my legs. Every joint screamed, every muscle burned. That pain was a relief. It meant I was still alive.
With a tremor I despised, I pushed my body to stand. The old sword became my crutch.
Creeeak!
"Easy," I whispered to my own body, which sounded like a pile of rotten wood. The noise was too loud in the forest's silence.
My steps faltered as I descended the slope. My throat felt stuffed with dry cotton and shards of glass. In the distance, the gurgle of water was like a siren's song, tempting. Unfortunately, this body betrayed me. My right foot caught on a root, and the world spun.
Crash!
My chin hit the dirt; luckily, I had fallen right at the river's edge. Without a second thought, instinct took over. My hand scooped up water, and my mouth gulped greedily—
Fresh. And coppery.
I stopped. My eyes stared at the reflection on the surface. The liquid wasn't clear, but a murky red. This river carried a burden from upstream—the remnants of last night's village massacre. Blood had become part of its current.
"Damn," I grumbled, wiping my lips with the back of my dirty hand. But what difference did it make? In this world, everything was tainted. At least this quenched my thirst.
Ssshh!
A deeper wave of pain struck, stabbing from within. I let my body lie half-submerged in the bloody river, letting its cold soothe the fever and wash the grime from my scarred skin. Every wound throbbed, reminding me of the price of each breath.
On the brink of consciousness, shadows of the past arose. Not fond memories, but an archive of wounds I carried wherever my feet took me.
"I am Balt," I hissed, more to myself than to the wind.
Not a noble name. Just a label given by someone long gone. A legacy that was now both identity and burden.
My story would not end as a nameless corpse on this riverbank. Not today. Because my true story was only just about to begin.
...
Chapter 1: Living Commodity
Sploosh!
A liquid as cold as the grave hit my face, washing away the last traces of dreams and dragging me forcibly back to a harsher reality.
"Wake up, trash!"
A rough baritone voice. My vision blurred, filled by the silhouette of a burly man holding an empty bucket. Pain came in waves. My hands were bound tight by coarse rope, tying my fate to dozens of other children.
We were herded like cattle. Small feet stumbled over rocky ground, through forests and up slopes, until we finally reached the top of a cliff. Below, hidden behind a wall of nature, a port city lay nestled in a bay. Its fortress was stout, its harbor fairly bustling. A place where, it seemed, anything could be bought or sold.
We were given a cursory wash in a small stream, its water making fresh wounds sting open. The goal was singular: to make us look "sellable."
As the city gates swung open, the stares of the townsfolk we passed were a mixture of indifference, disgust, and, at times, a useless flicker of pity.
Crack!
"Ahh!"
The brown-haired boy beside me arched his body. His back had just been whipped for being deemed too slow. The perpetrator was the same man who had doused me earlier that morning.
This dock seemed the very picture of hell. Hundreds of people—children, women, and grown men—stood lined up. Their eyes were empty. It was painfully clear we were commodities. Numbers. Living merchandise.
The brown-haired boy wept in stifled sobs, his shoulders shaking violently but his voice trapped in his throat. I observed my surroundings. Most of the children to be sold were not far from my age, between eight and twelve. Some faces I might have glimpsed in the village recently turned to ash, but I didn't remember their names. Remembering was the last thing I wanted to do, because remembering someone's name forged a bond, and bonds were a weakness for me.
My attention shifted to the child bound behind me. His hair was a bright blond, contrasting with the grime smeared on his cheeks. His face was so smooth, more like a girl's than a boy's. And since earlier, he had been like a leaking stream—his sobs never ceased, only growing louder with time.
The smugglers seemed busy negotiating with brokers. The man with the whip also paced back and forth, his foul smile never fading.
"Sob... sob..."
The blond's weeping became an irritating backdrop. The look in his eyes wasn't merely fear, but utter devastation. I could guess the kind of suffering he'd endured before. This world was an expert at corrupting anything still pure.
Blaaarrrt!
A horn sounded. Several large ships bearing royal crests docked. Armored soldiers disembarked with discipline. Behind them came nobles clad in silk and a group of priests in clean white robes—I recognized them from the golden rose-shaped brooch I'd seen once before.
"Sob..."
"Leon! Please, be quiet!" whispered the brown-haired boy beside me, his voice trembling with panic. "They'll beat you again!"
Leon. So they knew each other. Good. Maybe they could comfort one another before being sold to a fate possibly worse than this.
The buyers began to circle. They grabbed chins, peered into mouths to inspect teeth, pinched arm muscles as if appraising horses. Their gazes were cold, full of calculation.
Leon's crying intensified. The brown-haired boy tried to reach for him, pulling the rope binding us all taut. The coarse rope scraped against my already raw wrists, igniting my simmering anger.
"Shut up, you bastard!" I barked, my voice harsher than I'd intended. "Or do you want them to slaughter you right here?"
The brown-haired boy glared at me, his eyes blazing with anger and tears. "Have you no heart? I'm trying to calm him!"
"Heart won't fill your belly or save your neck! Shut him up before we all pay the price!" I retorted, sarcasm dripping like poison. Empathy was a luxury for those whose fate hung by a thread of rope.
"You monst—"
Crack!!
We both screamed in unison. The whip landed on our backs, searing the skin, leaving trails of fire along our nerves. The burly man stood before us, breathing heavily, the whip raised for another strike.
Crack! Crack!
Two more times. The pain made my saliva taste like metal. The commotion drew attention. The knights and nobles glanced over. Their looks held no pity, only cold assessment—like watching two dogs fight.
Through the haze of agony, I glanced over. Leon, the blond boy, had fallen silent. His tears had dried, his eyes were vacant, like cracked glass. His lips were sealed shut.
My words had been cruel. But the cruelty had worked. Here, well-timed cruelty saved lives more effectively than reckless compassion.
The day crawled toward evening, low clouds hanging heavy overhead. One by one, children in the line disappeared. The brown-haired boy was dragged off by the knights, along with dozens of others deemed fit to be servants or future soldiers. Leon the blond was taken by the white-robed priests, perhaps to become an acolyte or something more sinister. Those who left at least had a destination, however grim.
Only a handful of us remained. Including me, the unsellable goods. Maybe their fate is better, I thought cynically. At least they'd eat today.
"Tch."
This world was no place for the weak. In this land, strength was the only truth. Laws were merely writings for those who could read them.
If I could choose to be anything, maybe I'd want to be the wind. Unbound, and unable to be bought.
My throat clenched with thirst. The smugglers wouldn't even spare us a sip of water before sunset. Only the evening drizzle moistened my cracked lips.
The ships that had carried the other children away had vanished, swallowed by the sea mist.
"Hah." A long breath escaped. It wasn't just my adoptive parents who had sold me cheap. Even in this line of slaves, people avoided my gaze. Or more precisely, avoided my eyes.
Right. All because of these damned eyes.
I was born with what they called "Hunter's Eyes," or more cynically, "Devil's Eyes." The entire sclera of my eyes was pitch black, contrasting with irises of a pale, sickly yellow. A cursed heritage.
I didn't understand why everyone was so afraid. But back when my drunken adoptive parents would beat me, they'd scream about my origin. I was a child left by the Vars people, an exiled and accursed race, said to carry the blood of dark sorcerers and possess eyes that could see souls. That was the story, before my very worth was finally sold for a sack of grain to these smugglers.
...
"Damn it! This devil-eyed brat won't sell! I even set the price at a single copper coin and no one wants him!" fumed one of the smugglers.
"Just dump him in the sea. Better to be rid of him than have him eat our rations on the way back," another replied, his tone flat.
Panic surged in my chest. "Hey! What are you doing? Let go!" I yelled as rough hands seized me, dragging me toward the dark edge of the dock.
"Let go! I don't want to die!"
"Quiet!" they barked, muffling my cries. "Don't draw attention!"
My struggle was futile. The dock's edge grew nearer, the black water below churning cold and dark.
"No—!"
"Stop."
The voice came from the side, calm yet cutting. A man in simple black robes stood there, his face hidden beneath a hood. His entire being radiated an aura that halted even the fierce smugglers.
"What's your business, stranger? We're just 'tidying up' some garbage," said the lead smuggler, trying to sound tough.
Clink!
Something glinted in the air and landed on the wet wooden planks of the dock. A single gold coin.
"As your man said," spoke the robed figure, his voice resonating oddly. "One coin."
He didn't wait for a reply. He had already turned and was walking slowly away, as if certain his command would be obeyed.
The smugglers exchanged glances. A gold coin for this scrap? It was an insane offer. One of them quickly severed my rope and shoved me, sending me tumbling to a seated position.
"Oof!"
"Heh, off you go. Seems someone has a taste for oddities," the leader sneered. "Lucky you, devil-child."
I sat there, still dazed, watching the black-robed man recede into the distance. Who was he? What did he want from me? In my life, nothing was free. Everything, especially this so-called salvation, had a price that must be paid.
And I was certain, the price for my newly purchased life would be far more costly than a single gold coin.