Ned
In the northern lands of Valkryn—which belonged to the kingdom of Thornholl, as did the rest of the northern territories agreed upon decades ago by an old treaty—there was an ancient accord. It granted Thornholl the right to benefit from the light of Valkryn's lands through agriculture, in exchange for Thornholl paying an annual tax on the harvest. The treaty was dry. Bureaucratic. The kind of thing kings signed and peasants bled for.
In the middle of a forest that straddled the border between the two kingdoms, no one was thinking of taxes or treaties or kings.
A group of bandits stood in the middle of the forest. They waited.
The trees around them were tall and black—their branches stripped bare, their trunks scarred with old axe marks. The ground was soft with rot. The air smelled of wet earth and something else—something metallic, like old blood. A single torch burned in their midst, its flame weak, its light barely reaching the edges of their circle.
Their faces were hard. Their hands rested on their weapons. Their eyes moved—left, right, left—scanning the darkness.
After a few moments, one of them came back. His boots were caked with mud. His breath came in quick, excited puffs. He stumbled into the circle and stopped, his hands on his knees.
"The cattle—" He swallowed. His eyes were wide. "The sheep—so many sheep."
One of them said, his brow furrowing, "Are you sure?"
The scout nodded—quick, eager. His hand rose and pointed back the way he had come. "Yes. Everything was clear. We have a treasure waiting for us."
Their leader said, "Good."
He was a tall man—his face half-hidden beneath a hood, his voice rough. He turned to two children who stood nearby. One of them was looking at him without fear—his small body still, his eyes fixed on the leader's face. The other was hiding behind the older child, his fingers clutching the back of his friend's shirt.
The leader said, "You two." He jerked his chin toward the road. "Go to that house. Speak to its owner. Tell him your father is hurt. And he needs help—" He paused. His lip curled. "If you bring him— I will consider letting you go."
He shrugged. His shoulders rose and fell beneath his cloak.
"No one wants to buy you. Anyway. You're like a curse that stuck to us."
The older child did not reply. His jaw was tight. He simply turned toward the road to the house—with his small friend behind him, clutching the back of his shirt.
One of the men looked at the leader. His head tilted.
"Why did you send both of them? One is enough. Two will raise suspicion."
The leader, "The older one barely speaks. The other—I have not seen him once except clinging to the older one's shirt." He shrugged again. "Get ready. A big prize this time."
The man looked at the leader. His head tilted further.
"Were you serious?"
The leader said, "About what?"
The man said, "Letting them go."
The leader said, "Yes. As I promised—I will let them go from this world that never cared for them. As humans. Or as slaves."
The man was looking at him strangely as he took his position. His hand tightened on his weapon. He did not speak again.
Beside the house, the older child walked with confidence. His steps were steady on the dirt path. His shoulders were squared. His chin was lifted—just enough. But behind him, the smaller child clung to him, his small fingers buried in the fabric of his friend's shirt.
Stolen story; please report.
"This will not work," the smaller child repeated. His voice was a whisper—thin, urgent. "This will not work."
The older child paid no attention. He simply knocked on the door. Three knocks—firm, deliberate.
After a few moments, Sara opened the door. She was holding a chicken leg—the meat half-eaten, the bone gleaming with grease. She looked at the child. Her jaw moved slowly as she chewed.
"Who are you? Why are you knocking?"
The child did not speak.
Sara shouted, her voice rising, "Come!"
She repeated it—louder, sharper—until Thomas came and stood there. He filled the doorway—his one arm hanging at his side, his body still, his eyes moving from one child to the other.
He said, "What do you want, children? Speak."
The older child said nothing. His jaw tightened. His eyes did not leave Thomas's face.
The smaller child appeared from behind—his small body emerging from behind his brother's back. His voice was thin, trembling.
"Can you help? My father—he's injured. He needs help. Please."
Thomas immediately closed the door. The sound was flat. Final.
Sara said to him, "What are you doing?"
Thomas paid no attention. He walked past her. His voice was flat.
"Don't worry, girl. His father will come by himself."
Sara did not understand. She stood in the doorway—her head tilted, her brow furrowed. But after a moment, someone knocked on the door again.
Thomas, this time, was the one who opened it.
And there—standing before him—were five bandits. Their hands rested on their weapons. Their eyes were hard. Behind them stood the two children.
Thomas looked at the children. His voice was flat.
"Which of these is your father?"
The bandit leader looked at Thomas. His lip curled.
"You have much to protect here." His hand gestured lazily at the house, at Sara, at the yard. "You will need two arms for that."
Thomas said, "I have no trouble using what I have."
The leader looked at him. His head tilted. His eyes narrowed.
"Good. Then you are ready to lose the other."
Thomas said, "And you—ready to lose your men?"
The leader said, "You frighten me." He laughed—a dry, humorless sound. "Will you kill us all? How?"
Thomas said, "No one dies here. You are lucky. Things are changing."
The man behind the leader said, stepping forward, his hand on his sword, "Let us kill him. Be done with it."
The leader said to Thomas, "Do you see these men?" He gestured at them—at their hard faces, at their restless hands. "They do not believe you. They have seen so many dead it has become routine."
Thomas said, "Believe me. Whatever blood you have seen—I have seen more."
The leader said, "Good. Then you'll be ready for what's coming." He turned to his men. His voice rose. "Men—give me his only arm. Let's see if he really knows how to use what he has."
The men in the back lunged at Thomas, one after another.
Sara, in the back, was afraid. Her hand flew to her mouth. Her body pressed against the wall.
Thomas was not. His face was still. His body moved.
With one arm, using the door—he broke one man's arm. The crack was sharp. The man screamed. With the same arm, using the door's edge, he broke another's leg. The man fell. Thomas grabbed a club beside the door. His fingers wrapped around it. He beat them mercilessly—each strike deliberate, each strike heavy—until only the leader remained.
Thomas looked at him. His breath was steady. His voice was flat.
"Do you want to join them too—or leave while things are still gentle?"
The leader ordered his men to leave. His voice was tight. His hand shook as he gestured. They fled—limping, bleeding, dragging their broken limbs. The two children did not leave with them. They stood.
Thomas did not watch them go. He did not look at the children. He turned and walked inside. The door closed behind him.
Silence.
The two children stood alone in the yard. The smaller one still clutched the older one's shirt. His fingers were white. The older one stared at the closed door. His jaw was tight.
Sara stood in the doorway. She had watched everything—the club, the blood, the men running. Her hand was still pressed to her mouth.
She looked at the children.
"Come inside."
The older one did not move. His feet were planted on the dirt.
Sara paused. Her hand fell from her mouth.
"He will not say it. So I will." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Come inside. Or stay out here. It makes no difference to him."
She paused again. Her head tilted.
"Or me."
The smaller child looked up at the older one. Waiting. His small face was pale. His eyes were wet.
The older one said nothing. But his feet moved. One step. Then another.
The smaller child followed—pulling at his shirt. He looked at Sara.
"Thank you for letting us in."
Sara stepped aside. They entered. She closed the door.
The bandits fled—leaving them behind.
Sara looked at the child. Her head tilted.
"Can he speak?"
The small child said, "He can. But not much."
Sara extended her hand to the older child's forehead. Her fingers hovered over the mark—the black line, the strange glow beneath the skin.
"What is this?"
The older child pulled away—his body jerking back. His jaw tightened. He refused to speak.
Sara withdrew her hand. She looked at him for a long moment.
"Anyway—your life won't get better. And it won't get worse." She shrugged. "You'll work daily to earn your place here. What are your names?"
The small child said, "My name is Alexander."
Sara looked at the other. He did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the floor.
Sara said, "Anyway—come inside. And don't get too close to him." She jerked her thumb toward the back room. "He eats children."
The older child interrupted her. His voice was low—rough, unused.
"Ned."
Sara turned. Her brow furrowed.
"Ned? Is that your name?"
The older child did not reply. His jaw was tight. His eyes remained on the floor.
Sara's lips curved—not a smile, but something close.
"So you can talk, Ned."