I was still sat there on the wet wooden planks of the dock, staring at my raw, throbbing wrists. The black-robed man had almost vanished at the pier's end, his shadow merging with the darkness that crept through the city's narrow alleys.

  'Move,' one of the slavers still standing near me growled, stamping his foot on the wet wood.

  His voice was still harsh, but there was a tremor of fear hidden beneath it. Their eyes remained fixed on that dark coin, now in Beardy's hand. The old man, usually so fierce-looking, now seemed unsettled by something.

  Rising from the swamp of despair felt like it demanded the last dregs of strength I didn't think I had left. My muscles trembled, but my will to live—or maybe just curiosity about what new hell awaited—forced me to my feet.

  I stepped forward, following that black silhouette. With conflicting feelings—a sense of relief, but not quite full relief.

  No new shackles were placed on me. No commands. Just a distance I had to keep, ten paces behind him, like a faithful shadow. This was the most uncomfortable freedom I had ever felt.

  That evening, we walked away from the crowds and stench of the docks, deeper into Blackwater's labyrinth.

  The coarse laughter and clinking glasses from taverns, the hissed conversations from dark alleyways—they filled my ears. Amidst it all—I also caught the scent of incense and cold metal from a temple that seemed to belong to the Thymolt Order, for I saw the rose-and-thorn symbol above the chapel door, masking the city's fishy, rotten stench.

  The hooded man never looked back. His stride was long and sure, as if he knew every slick stone, every blind turn. His pitch-black cloak remained dry in the drizzle. Water seemed repelled by it, sliding off in droplets that fell without ever dampening the fabric. I, on the other hand, was shivering, my skin crawling, water seeping through the rags clinging to my thin frame.

  There was something unsettling about walking beside him. The air around him felt heavy, different.

  And only after some time did I realise: no one was looking at us. Or rather, they were deliberately not looking. The stares of Blackwater's denizens—from drunken sailors to balcony women—seemed to slide right past, sometimes pausing briefly on the cloaked man, then quickly darting away with wary, even fearful, expressions. This man was like a ghost among them, something they acknowledged but preferred to ignore.

  After turning into a quieter lane, the man led me through a small gate—one I never would have guessed existed in that city. Taking me far from the city's noise, he stopped on a narrow road.

  Before us stood a simple enclosed carriage, pulled by two large black horses. The horses were utterly silent; I saw their eyes, half-covered by leather blinkers. A driver, his face hidden behind a plain iron mask, sat on the front bench, as mute as his master.

  The cloaked man opened the carriage's rear door. He said nothing, simply waited. His gaze remained so calm, and that made me even more uneasy.

  I hesitated for a moment.

  What was I supposed to do now? Leap into an unknown darkness, or stay outside? In a world that had already proven it would eat me alive. A difficult choice. Because it wasn't really a choice at all.

  My body trembled slightly. Then, with what strength I had left, I climbed inside. The carriage floor was cold and hard, covered in musty-smelling dry straw. The door closed slowly, but gently, leaving small gaps for air.

  The carriage moved. The vibrations rose through the wooden floor, rattling my aching bones.

  I curled up in a corner, trying to gather warmth from my own body. Outside, the sounds of Blackwater slowly faded, replaced by the growing rush of wind and the constant rumble of wheels on dirt roads.

  Sleep was impossible. Every curve of my bones seemed to weep. My mind churned, trying to make sense of what had just happened, yet always falling back on the same thing.

  This rotten life. What was the point of it?

  Who was that man? An executioner from the Order in disguise? But his cloak was different—simpler, emptier... like his gaze. And the slavers' behaviour? They seemed wary of him, especially after he'd given them that strange coin.

  Yet, for some reason, inside this carriage, my mind drifted back to the pig-faced priest eyeing Leon so repulsively that morning. What did they want with a boy like that? Then the memory of the Veridian knights' cold stares, seeing our bodies as mere goods. And finally, the crushing image of four years of miserable suffering. I hugged myself tighter; I didn't want to look weak in front of that man, even though something hot was twisting in my chest.

  Why did everyone I met call me a monster? When they were far more terrifying than I could ever be.

  My eyes. They were why I was shunned, feared, nearly killed. But that cloaked man… did he buy me out of pity? Or did he just not care?

  Time during the journey—it crawled, lasting almost the entire night. The rain stopped, replaced by the silence of wet grasslands. But thick fog still clung to everything. Occasionally, through the gaps, I glimpsed the eerily empty road. I couldn't ignore that man, even for a moment, haunted by thoughts that kept me alert.

  I couldn't be sure, but it felt like midnight had passed—I saw the pale grey light of a moon partly veiled by fog—when the carriage finally stopped. The sounds of nature outside felt utterly different. An unfamiliar silence, the whisper of wind through dense leaves. The smell of wet earth and green plants replaced Blackwater's stench of sea and filth.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The carriage door opened. The cloaked man stood outside, his face still hidden beneath his hood. The dim moonlight clearly outlined his silhouette—tall, lean, not overly muscular but radiating an aura of powerful balance. He nodded, gesturing for me to get down.

  My legs felt stiff as I touched the ground. We were in a clearing surrounded by a dense spruce forest.

  Before us stood a building that looked more like a small, abandoned monastery than a countryside dwelling. Made of moss-covered grey stone, with a shingle roof, some of which had come loose. A short chimney emitted a thin wisp of smoke. No fence, only the dark shadows of the forest marking the boundary.

  'Enter,' the man said, for the first time since the docks. His voice was calm, but now sounded far more relaxed than when he'd spoken to Beardy, though it remained cold.

  I followed him through a low wooden door. The interior was simple yet clean, a stark contrast to its outer appearance. The main room served as both living space and a miniature library. Shelves were crammed with scrolls and old leather-bound books.

  A small hearth still glowed, radiating warmth I felt deep in my bones.

  There was a rough wooden table, a few benches, and in the corner, a simple bunk bed with a straw mattress. The dominant smells were old dust, burnt wood, and something else… like herbal remedies, and cold metal.

  The man finally removed his hood.

  I held my breath. His features weren't what I'd imagined. He wasn't a wrinkled old man or a sharp-featured noble. He was perhaps around thirty, about my father's age. His face was pale, with hard lines around his mouth and eyes. His black hair was cut short and neat. But his eyes were the most striking thing. They were pale grey, like cold ash. Those eyes regarded me with an almost physical intensity, appraising, with not a shred of emotion I could read.

  He walked to the hearth and added some dry wood to build up the fire.

  'Sit by the fire,' he said, not introducing himself. 'There's water and bread on the table.'

  I looked at the bread. Hunger and thirst finally overcame the vigilance I'd maintained. I crawled onto the bench by the hearth and devoured the coarse bread greedily, gulping water from the wooden cup like a man about to be executed.

  That simple food tasted like a feast of the gods on my nearly numb tongue.

  The man watched me eat, then took a small wooden box from a shelf.

  'The wounds on your back need cleaning. If they get infected, you could die, and my investment would be wasted.'

  Ah, investment. So that was the word he used. And I'd just realised that I was no longer human. I was property. Something inside me hardened, even as I felt a strange relief. At least this was honest. No illusions of salvation.

  'Who are you?' I asked, my voice hoarse after swallowing.

  'You may call me Master,' he replied curtly, opening the box to reveal clean cloth, a bottle of clear liquid, and some sort of pale green ointment. 'And you, for now, are an Apprentice. So try to mind your manners.'

  'Apprentice? What do you mean?' I asked, my body tensing slightly.

  His grey eyes met mine. 'Surviving is the first lesson. But you're already skilled at that, aren't you? Threatening another boy to be quiet to avoid a lashing. Cruel, but effective.'

  I flinched. He saw that? From where? 'That… was necessary—' I murmured, my voice low and stumbling. I hung my head slightly. The man took out a small box containing what looked like ointment and approached me.

  'In Blackwater, anything that keeps you alive is "necessary",' he said, his tone almost a murmur. 'But here, the rules are different. Here, blind cruelty is a weakness. And weakness is not tolerated.'

  'Turn around.'

  He said it, I stared at him in disbelief, but then obeyed. With a speed and skill surprising in someone so cold, he cleaned the whip wounds on my back. The liquid stung, but afterwards, the ointment he applied felt cool and soothing. My mind churned.

  'Vars blood,' he murmured suddenly, his fingers barely touching the skin near my shoulder blades. But the word alone was enough to make something inside me beat faster. 'Hunted lineage, cursed, hidden. Did they give you a name, boy?'

  Tch! That word again. My father used to whisper it, as if afraid of being overheard. And now this man spoke it so casually, like it was ordinary?

  'No,' I replied, trying to sound flat. 'Giving a name is giving power. I wouldn't give it.'

  'Good,' the man said.

  'A name is a burden. Burdens only slow one's path. You can choose your own name later, or remain nameless. It's unimportant.' He finished bandaging my wounds with clean cloth. 'What matters is what you can do. And what I can teach you.'

  'Teach me? What? I'm nobody. Just unsold trash.'

  Master stood up. 'You see the world with Hunter's Eyes. Unstable—the world ripples like waves, sometimes things seem to move slowly, mild migraines,' he cut in.

  I was stunned. I jumped back a few paces, keeping my distance. How did he know? That was my secret, the only thing that helped me survive—seeing when guards were off-guard, spotting the tracks of small animals to steal. My father was the one who understood me best. But this man…

  'How do you know that! Are you one of them?' I said, my voice catching slightly.

  The man looked at me for a moment before turning away to clean up the mess of tools he'd accidentally knocked over.

  'You can calm down now. Those who want your life wouldn't bother healing you. They'd be far more honest,' the man said—there was something odd in his words as I caught a strange smirk that then vanished from his lips.

  The man rose and put the box back on the shelf. I stared at his back, trying to grasp his complicated words.

  'So you… You're not one of them? And how do I know you're not lying?'

  He turned, and I caught a glint in his grey eyes—not anger or mockery, but something… hard to explain. 'Life always demands payment. Wherever you go, the very air you breathe will force you to pay its price. Like someone buying a weapon, a tool.' He looked at me again, this time his gaze felt intimidating.

  'I am not a tool!' I snapped. He turned away, walking calmly to the small window, staring out into the expanse of dark spruce forest.

  'Everyone is a tool,' he countered calmly, something restrained in his voice as he said it. 'For someone or something. Your king is a tool for his nobles' ambitions. The priests are tools for the people's fears. The children on the docks were tools for the slavers' greed. Your choice now is merely… to be a blunt, replaceable tool, or a sharp, valuable one, which determines how and for what purpose you are used.'

  His sharp gaze returned to me, his logic cutting, as if I could no longer argue. Because his words pierced right into the wound I'd been nursing all this time.

  And he was right.

  In Blackwater, I was a commodity to be bought and sold. Here, maybe a tool for this man. Wherever I went, only choked breaths awaited me.

  'So for what purpose did you buy me and use me as a tool?' I said, trying to meet his eyes.

  He approached again, sitting on the bench opposite me. 'To see. To learn. To become something more than just a slave or a victim. I will train you. Not just your body, though that's also important— but especially your mind and your sight. I will teach you to read the signs others don't see, to understand the flow of unseen forces that move the world, to control, little by little, the Vars blood inheritance within you.'

  'Why? What do you get out of all this?'

  'Why?'

  'That's what I want to know too,' he continued. 'And perhaps, one day, an ally. The world is heading toward a tipping point. The Order's corruption, the uprising of the oppressed… the right tool in the right hands can change everything, and that question will be answered at the end,' he said, still looking at me.

  This was insane. Far more complicated and terrifying than just surviving day to day. But within his madness, he offered me something. Power. The power to never feel the whip again, to never be property again. It was an almost irresistible temptation.

  'And if I refuse?' I asked, though I already knew the answer.

  His grey eyes glinted coldly. 'The door is there. This forest is vast, and full of beasts—those on two legs and four. You're free to go. But remember, the dark coin has been paid. In the world's eyes, you are mine. If you run, you'll still be hunted. Only, this time, it might not be stupid slavers chasing you.'

  The coin? The threat was implied, yet clear. I looked at the hearth, at the books, then at my thin, scarred hands. The choice, once again, wasn't a choice. And running from this man—it seemed harder than escaping through prison guards.

  'I'll stay,' I said, my voice sounding strange in my own ears, trembling slightly as I held back the turmoil.

  Master nodded, as if he already knew. 'Lessons begin tomorrow. For today, rest. Eat more if you need to. There are clean clothes in the chest in the corner. Throw away what you're wearing now—that stench of despair attracts the wrong kind of attention.'

  He rose and went into another room, leaving me alone with the flickering fire. I sat still for a long time, digesting everything. Especially the few brief exchanges that added to the confusion in my head.

  Apprentice—Tool—Ally?

  The words spun again. I looked around the room, trying to find clues about who this Master really was. The books on the shelves seemed to be in various languages, some with symbols I recognised as the language of the Veridian Kingdom, others with strange, winding signs. No decorations, no religious or other symbols. This place was like a hermit's den… or the lair of an assassin my father used to tell me about.

  But fatigue finally won. I changed into the coarse linen clothes provided—itchy but clean—and finally crawled onto the bottom bunk. The straw mattress was hard, but more comfortable than wooden planks or hard ground.

  Staring at the small fire in the hearth brought me back to the flashes of the docks. To Max and his futile anger. To Leon, the blond, with his empty eyes staring at me. What happened to them? Were they still alive? Had they already learned, as I would, that softness was poison?

  I closed my eyes. But my mind kept ch

  urning—about the Vars, about Master, about his cold words that somehow felt honest. In Blackwater, everyone lied. Here, maybe I was the only one who didn't know the truth.