The streets were loud that morning.
Not the pleasant kind of noise—the kind that comes from laughter or music or celebration—but the harsh, grinding cacophony of a city that had learned to ignore its own misery. Merchants bellowed their prices from wooden stalls that lined the cobblestone streets, their voices competing with each other in a desperate symphony of commerce. "Fresh bread! Still warm!" one shouted. "Cloth from the eastern provinces! Finest quality!" another claimed, though the fabric looked thin and faded even from a distance.
Children darted between the adults, their small hands outstretched, their voices high and pleading. "Please, sir. Just a coin. Just one." Most people stepped around them without looking down, as if the children were simply part of the street itself—obstacles to be avoided, not people to be acknowledged.
And through it all, cutting through the chaos with mechanical precision, came the sound of boots. Heavy boots. Polished boots that caught the morning light and threw it back in sharp gleams. The soldiers marched in formation down the center of the street, their uniforms crisp and clean, their weapons gleaming. Their boots never touched the filth that accumulated along the sides of the road—the mud and refuse and things better left unnamed. They walked above it all, literally and figuratively, their eyes fixed straight ahead as if the poverty surrounding them simply didn't exist.
The morning sun was already climbing higher, and with it came the heat. The kind of heat that made the air shimmer above the stone streets, that made sweat break out across skin within minutes of stepping outside. Dust hung thick in the air, stirred up by passing carts and marching feet, coating everything in a fine grey layer that made the whole city look faded, tired.
Through this chaos walked a man who seemed to carry his own bubble of calm.
Nikandros moved along the cobblestone path with unhurried steps, his posture relaxed despite the press of bodies around him. He was middle-aged—old enough that his beard had grey threading through the dark hair, young enough that his back was still straight and his steps still sure. His face was kind, the kind of face that crinkled easily around the eyes when he smiled, though at the moment his expression was simply peaceful. Attentive.
He wore simple clothing—a loose shirt and trousers that had been mended in several places, clean but clearly not new. Nothing about his appearance suggested wealth or status. He looked like what he was: a man of modest means who worked with his hands for a living.
In one hand, he carried a small leather pouch. The coins inside clinked softly with each step.
Every few paces, Nikandros stopped.
A thin man sat against a wall, his legs stretched out in front of him, his eyes hollow with exhaustion or hunger or both. Nikandros knelt down, opened his pouch, and placed a coin in the man's palm. The man's fingers closed around it immediately, and his lips moved—thank you, thank you—but Nikandros had already nodded and moved on before the words fully formed.
A woman with a baby tied to her back sat a few steps further, her hand extended in a gesture so practiced it had become automatic. Nikandros placed a coin in her palm without breaking stride. She called out her gratitude, but he simply nodded again, his attention already moving to the next person.
Barefoot children clustered around a doorway, their faces smudged with dirt, their clothes hanging loose on too-thin frames. Nikandros gave each of them a coin, his hand moving with the easy practice of someone who did this often. Regularly. The children knew him—their eyes lit up when they saw him approach, and they crowded forward but didn't grab or push. They'd learned that he would give to all of them if they waited.
The poor recognized him. Not because he was anyone important, but because he was consistent. A fixture. A man who walked these streets every week and shared what little he had with those who had less.
He didn't perform his charity. Didn't announce it or wait for expressions of gratitude or linger to accept thanks. He simply gave, nodded, and continued. Matter-of-fact kindness, as natural as breathing.
Around him, the chaos continued—the shouting, the haggling, the marching boots. But Nikandros moved through it like an island of peace in a storm, untouched by the frenzy, carrying his own quiet purpose.
As he turned down a different street, the noise changed.
It was subtle at first—a shift in tone more than volume. The merchant calls faded, replaced by a different kind of sound. Laughter, but not the warm kind. Jeering. Sharp voices raised in mockery or crude jokes. And beneath it all, a sound that made Nikandros's shoulders tense involuntarily: the rattle of chains.
His pace slowed. His expression, which had been peacefully neutral, began to darken.
A slave market.
The street opened into a wider plaza, and there they were. Cages stacked in rows, some wooden, some made of iron bars that had rusted in places. Wooden platforms elevated above the street level, giving the buyers a better view of the merchandise.
Men and women sat or stood inside the cages, chains on their wrists, sometimes on their ankles. Some were clothed in rags, others in nothing but strips of fabric that preserved the barest minimum of modesty. They sat on display like animals at a livestock auction, and the traders walked among them with the same casual energy, calling out prices and descriptions as if they were selling grain or fruit or tools.
"Strong back on this one! Perfect for field work!"
"Young woman, good teeth, can cook and sew!"
"Special price today—taking offers!"
The buyers wandered past, examining the merchandise, sometimes reaching through the bars to check a muscle or look at teeth. Haggling over prices. Discussing the value of human beings in the same tone they might use to debate the quality of vegetables.
The air stank of unwashed bodies, fear, and despair.
Nikandros slowed further, his jaw tightening. His expression had moved past dark and into something closer to revulsion—controlled, but visible in the tight set of his mouth, the hard line of his brows. He'd walked past this market before. Had to walk past it, because this was the main route through this part of the city. Every time, it made something twist in his chest. Every time, he wanted to tear the cages open and let everyone free.
Every time, he knew he couldn't. One man couldn't change an empire's laws. Couldn't topple an institution that had existed for centuries.
But sometimes—sometimes—he could save one person.
His eyes moved across the cages, taking in the faces. Most looked broken already—eyes dull, shoulders slumped, hope long since abandoned. Some still had fight left in them, glaring at potential buyers with barely suppressed rage. Others wept quietly, or stared at nothing, lost in whatever horror had brought them here.
And then his eyes caught on something near the end of the row.
A small boy.
No older than five, sitting alone on the ground near the last cage. Not inside it—just sitting on the dirt beside it, as if he'd been placed there and forgotten. Or perhaps he was so worthless that the traders hadn't bothered caging him at all.
He wore rags that might once have been clothing. His face was streaked with dirt, his hair matted and filthy. Bruises marked his arms—old ones, fading to yellow and green, and newer ones, still dark purple and fresh.
No chains on his wrists or ankles. Not even deemed valuable enough to restrain.
While other children in the market cried or whimpered or called out for their mothers, this boy simply sat. Silent. Staring at the ground in front of him with a blankness that was almost worse than tears. His small body was perfectly still, as if he'd learned that movement only brought pain, that sound only brought attention.
As if he'd already accepted that the world was cruel and there was no point fighting it.
Something in Nikandros's chest constricted.
He stepped closer, weaving between the cages and the buyers, his eyes fixed on the small figure.
"You looking at something?" a voice cut in. Rough, dismissive.
Nikandros glanced up. A slave trader—bald head gleaming with sweat, belly straining against his shirt, face red from heat and exertion—stood with his arms crossed, his expression somewhere between annoyed and hopeful. Annoyed that someone was lingering without buying, hopeful that he might make a sale.
"Boy's useless," the trader said, waving a hand toward the child without really looking at him. He pulled a cloth from his belt and wiped it across his bald head, then his neck. "Doesn't talk. Might be dumb. Can't get a word out of him. Been sitting there for three days and nobody wants him."
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial way.
"I'll give you a bargain if you want him. Just to get him off my hands."
Nikandros didn't respond to the trader. Instead, he knelt down slowly, bringing himself to eye level with the boy.
The child didn't look up. Didn't react at all. Just kept staring at that same spot on the ground, as if Nikandros wasn't there.
"What's your name?" Nikandros asked. His voice was soft, gentle—the kind of tone you'd use with a wounded animal.
No answer.
The silence stretched. Nikandros didn't move, didn't press. Just waited, kneeling there in the dirt of a slave market, patient as stone.
The trader snorted. "See? Waste of mo—"
"How much?" Nikandros interrupted, standing up in one smooth motion. His voice had changed—no longer soft, but firm. Direct. The voice of a man who'd already made a decision and wasn't interested in discussion.
The trader blinked, his mouth still open from whatever he'd been about to say. "You're serious?" He looked down at the boy, then back at Nikandros, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline—or where his hairline would have been if he'd had any hair. "For him?"
He rubbed his chin, calculating. "Two silvers."
It was a pittance. The price you'd pay for a broken tool or a sick animal. The price that confirmed exactly how worthless this child was considered to be.
Nikandros's hand went to his coin pouch without hesitation. He unhooked it from his belt, counted out two silver coins with quick, practiced movements, and held them out.
The trader took them, bit one to check its authenticity, and shrugged. "He's yours then." He waved them off with one hand, already turning to walk away. "Don't bring him back crying when he doesn't work out."
Nikandros didn't watch him go. His attention had already returned to the boy.
He knelt again, and this time he reached out slowly, carefully, and placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. The child flinched slightly—just a small tightening of the muscles—but didn't pull away.
"Come," Nikandros said gently. The word was both invitation and promise. "You're safe now."
For a long moment, the boy didn't move. Then, slowly—so slowly it was almost painful to watch—he lifted his head. His eyes were dark, large in his too-thin face, and completely empty of hope. But he looked at Nikandros.
And then, with movements that suggested his legs weren't entirely steady, he stood.
His first step was uncertain, his balance off. Malnourished. Exhausted. Possibly injured in ways that weren't visible. But when Nikandros began to walk, the boy followed.
Unsteady steps, but steps nonetheless.
The first act of trust.
The walk from the market to Nikandros's home took perhaps twenty minutes, though it felt longer. The boy walked slowly, and Nikandros matched his pace without comment or complaint. He didn't try to carry the child or hurry him along. Just walked beside him, one hand occasionally hovering near the boy's shoulder—not touching, but ready to steady him if he stumbled.
The city noise faded as they moved toward the outskirts. The buildings grew smaller, more spread out. The crowds thinned. The air, somehow, felt cleaner.
Nikandros's home sat at the edge of town, where the cobblestone streets gave way to packed dirt paths and the urban sprawl dissolved into scattered houses with actual land around them. It was modest—a small wooden structure, clearly built by someone who knew their way around carpentry but hadn't bothered with anything fancy. Single story, with a low roof and shuttered windows. The wood had been painted white at some point, though the color had faded to a soft grey in places where the sun hit hardest.
Behind the house, a tiny garden grew—vegetables mostly, and a few herbs. A single tree stood near the corner of the property, its branches swaying in the breeze that didn't seem to reach the city proper.
Nikandros pushed open the door, and warm sunlight spilled through the opening, illuminating the interior. It wasn't much—a single main room with a table and chairs, a cooking area against one wall, a few other pieces of simple furniture. But it was clean. Cared for. The kind of space that felt like someone actually lived here, not just existed.
"Sit," Nikandros said, pulling out one of the chairs at the table.
The boy moved immediately, walking to the chair and sitting down with a precision that was startling. His back straight, shoulders squared, hands placed flat on his thighs. The posture of someone who'd been trained. Disciplined.
Nikandros noticed. His eyebrows rose slightly as he studied the child's position, the way he held himself even in exhaustion. This wasn't the wild, chaotic movement of a street kid or an abandoned orphan. This was…
Not wild. Not unraised.
Someone had taught this boy how to sit properly. How to hold himself. Someone had cared enough to instill discipline and manners.
Which raised the question: how had he ended up in a slave market?
Nikandros filed the thought away for later and moved to the small kitchen area. He pulled out a plate and filled it with simple food—a thick slice of bread, still relatively fresh. Some vegetables that had been cooked the day before. A small piece of salted meat. Not fancy food, but filling. Real food, not scraps.
He placed the plate in front of the boy and stepped back, giving him space.
The boy looked at the food. Then, with the same careful precision he'd shown when sitting, he began to eat.
Small bites. Slow, thorough chewing. He didn't spill a single grain. Didn't let crumbs fall. Didn't grab or shovel food into his mouth the way a starving child might. He ate the way someone would eat at a formal dinner, each movement controlled and deliberate.
His table manners were refined enough to belong in a noble household.
Nikandros leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching in silence. His expression had shifted from curiosity to something deeper. Recognition, perhaps. Or concern.
This boy's past was a mystery. But it was a mystery that suggested he'd come from somewhere far better than a slave market. Somewhere he'd been taught not just to survive, but to behave. To present himself properly.
What had happened? Where were his parents? His family? How did someone fall so far?
"You must have had good parents," Nikandros murmured, more to himself than to the boy. "Someone taught you to behave."
The words hung in the air—must have had. Past tense. Because whatever the boy had once possessed, he clearly didn't have it anymore.
The boy didn't look up. Didn't react. Just continued eating with that same careful precision, as if Nikandros hadn't spoken at all.
A soft gasp came from somewhere behind them.
Nikandros turned his head. In the doorway that led to the other rooms of the house, a small figure stood half-hidden behind the wall. A little girl, peeking around the corner with wide brown eyes.
She was younger than the boy—four at most. Her hair had been tied back in what had probably started as a neat arrangement but had come loose throughout the day, leaving strands falling around her face in messy tangles. She wore a simple dress, and in her hands she clutched a piece of cloth that she'd clearly been working on—needle and thread still attached, the stitching half-finished.
She stared at the boy with open curiosity, her eyes huge, her mouth slightly open.
"Hayat," Nikandros called gently. His voice carried warmth, affection. "Come here."
She hesitated, her feet shuffling but not moving forward. Her eyes darted from her father to the strange boy at their table and back again. Then, slowly, she emerged from behind the wall and walked over.
But she didn't sit near the boy. She climbed into the chair next to her father, close enough that she could press against his side if she needed to. Safe. Protected.
From there, she stole glances at the boy—quick little looks, then immediately looking away when he might notice. Curious but cautious.
"This is my daughter, Hayat," Nikandros said, his tone gentle but clear. He was establishing something important here—introducing them, making the boy part of this moment rather than just an object they'd brought home.
Then he turned his attention fully to the boy. "And your name?"
The boy had finished eating. He set down the last piece of bread carefully, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—another gesture that spoke of taught behavior, of someone who knew that you cleaned your face after eating.
Then he swallowed, and spoke.
"Zarif."
His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, but clear. The first word he'd spoken since Nikandros had found him.
A small thing. A name. But it felt enormous in the silence that followed.
Nikandros smiled, and something in his expression softened even further. "That is an elegant name," he said. And he meant it. Zarif. It was a beautiful name, the kind of name that suggested culture, education, refinement.
Not the kind of name a slave would have. The kind of name a person would have.
Hayat's head lifted at the sound of Zarif's voice. She lowered her gaze, studying him with new intensity now that he'd become real to her. Now that he wasn't just a silent stranger but someone with a voice. A name.
Nikandros leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking slightly under his weight. He took a breath, preparing himself for what he needed to say next. This was important. The foundation of everything that would follow.
"Zarif," he said, his voice steady but kind. "Listen to me."
The boy looked up, those dark eyes focusing on Nikandros's face.
"I will be your guardian," Nikandros continued. "Not your father. Your parents may still be somewhere in this world. Until the truth is known, I will care for you. You will live here, eat here, and rest here."
He paused, letting each word settle.
"You are safe."
It was the second time he'd said those words. You are safe. And this time, he said them with weight. With promise. With the full intention of making them true.
Zarif didn't react visibly. His face remained still, his expression unchanged. But his fingers—just his fingers—clenched around the edge of the table for a moment. A brief, involuntary movement. As if he was holding onto something he couldn't voice. Something too big or too painful or too precious to express.
From her seat beside her father, Hayat saw that small motion. And for a brief second, something shifted in her small chest. A feeling she couldn't name yet—she was too young to understand it fully. But she saw something fragile in the boy. Something that made her feel heavy and soft and sad all at once.
Something that made her want him to be okay.
Nikandros stood. He moved around the table slowly, deliberately, and placed his hand on Zarif's head. The gesture was gentle, paternal. A blessing. An acceptance.
"Welcome to our home," he said simply.
The words were plain. Basic. But they carried weight that fancy speeches couldn't match.
Zarif lowered his eyes—not from fear this time, but from something else. Something that might have been relief, or gratitude, or the first fragile seed of hope that maybe, somehow, things might be different here.
And for the first time in days—maybe weeks, maybe longer—he felt warmth on his skin that didn't come from the sun.
The afternoon sun fell warm across the small patch of farmland behind the house, turning everything golden and lazy. The heat was still present—it never really left during this time of year—but it felt different out here. Less oppressive. More like a blanket than a weight.
Nikandros was already outside when Zarif emerged from the house. He'd rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, exposing forearms that were tanned and corded with muscle from years of work. In his hands, he held a farming tool—something between a hoe and a spade, wooden handle worn smooth from use, metal end dulled but still functional.
He was working the soil. Pushing the tool deep into the earth, lifting, turning. The movements were slow but steady, rhythmic. The kind of work that required endurance more than speed. The kind of work that filled hours and days and years of a life.
His back showed the strain of it. The slight bend in his spine, the tightness in his shoulders. This was work he'd been doing alone for too long.
Zarif stood on the wooden step that led from the back door to the yard, watching in silence. His eyes tracked every movement, studying the way Nikandros held the tool, the angle of his body, the placement of his feet.
Learning.
Inside the house, near an open window, Hayat sat with her stitching in her lap. She'd picked up the cloth again after Zarif had gone outside, her small fingers working the needle through the fabric with concentration. But after a moment, she lifted her eyes and saw Zarif standing there on the step.
She didn't speak. Didn't call out to him. Just watched, her needle paused in mid-air, curious about what he was doing. What he was thinking.
Nikandros struck the ground once more, then exhaled and leaned on his tool. His breathing was heavier than it should be for this kind of work, and his back remained bent even when he wasn't actively digging. The exhaustion of someone who'd been doing this every day, alone, with no one to share the burden.
He didn't see Zarif at first. Didn't notice the small figure watching from the step.
But then Zarif moved. He walked forward with that same careful precision, his bare feet silent on the dirt, and stopped beside Nikandros.
He held out his hand.
Nikandros blinked, looking down at the boy in surprise. "Are you sure you want to start working right now, little man?" His voice carried concern, gentle reproach. "You should be resting. You've had a hard few days."
He paused, studying the determination in Zarif's small face.
Then a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, pulling at his beard. "Well," he said, the smile growing, "if a man wants to work, who am I to stop him?"
He reached behind him where a second, smaller tool leaned against the fence—lighter, shorter handle, meant for less intensive work. He handed it to Zarif.
The boy took it with both hands, his fingers wrapping around the wooden handle. The tool was still too big for him, still required both hands to control, but it was manageable. Barely.
He walked to a spot near where Nikandros had been working, positioned himself the way he'd seen Nikandros stand, and dug the tool into the soil.
The ground was firm. Sun-baked. Resistant. The first strike barely broke the surface—just scratched it, really, leaving a shallow mark.
Zarif pulled the tool back and struck again.
Still barely anything. A slight depression in the earth, but not the deep cut that Nikandros's tool made.
He struck a third time. Fourth.
By the fourth swing, his arms were trembling. Just a little—a subtle shake that ran from his shoulders down to his wrists. The tool was heavier than it looked. The work was harder than it appeared.
But he kept going.
Inside, Hayat set her cloth aside completely and leaned closer to the window. Her eyes were fixed on Zarif now, watching the way his small body bent with each swing, the way he refused to stop even though it was clearly difficult.
Zarif's breaths grew heavier. His shoulders tightened with each swing, muscles straining. But he stayed silent. No complaints, no sounds of effort. Just the steady rhythm of work.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The sound of the tool hitting earth, over and over. Meditative. Hypnotic.
The trembling in his arms began to fade—not because the work got easier, but because he forced them to keep moving regardless. Pushed through the weakness. His body adapted, or at least pretended to.
Nikandros had stopped his own work. He stood with his arms crossed, watching the boy with an expression that had shifted from surprise to something deeper. Something that looked like respect.
"You swing like someone who refuses to lose," he said.
The words hung in the air between them—observation, recognition, praise all wrapped together.
Zarif didn't answer. He didn't even look up. He simply struck the earth again, his answer given through action rather than words.
From her window, Hayat's brows softened as she watched. She couldn't explain what she was feeling—didn't have the vocabulary for it yet, didn't have the life experience to name it. But something about the way Zarif kept working, kept pushing himself despite the difficulty, stirred something in her small chest.
Quiet admiration. The beginning of something else.
Nikandros watched for another few moments, then moved forward. He placed his hand on Zarif's shoulder—gentle but firm, stopping him.
"That's enough for now," he said, his voice warm with both amusement and approval. "Come. I'll show you the proper way before you dig us a tunnel to the underworld."
He laughed as he said it—a gentle, rumbling laugh that came from his chest.
Zarif loosened his grip on the tool and looked up, his expression slightly confused. His head tilted just a fraction, uncertainty in his eyes. Was that a joke? Was he supposed to respond? He didn't understand.
Nikandros saw the confusion and laughed louder, more freely. And in response—just for a moment, just a flicker—something eased in Zarif's eyes. Not quite a smile. Not even close to laughter. But the barest hint of relaxation. The first crack in the armor he'd built around himself.
At the window, Hayat quickly lowered her gaze, suddenly very interested in the cloth in her lap. She fumbled with the needle, pretending to adjust the thread, though she hadn't actually stitched anything in minutes. Her focus had been entirely on the boy in the yard, and she'd been caught staring.
For a brief moment—fleeting but real—everything felt simple.
The afternoon sun warming the earth. The sound of tools working soil. A man teaching a boy. A girl watching from a window. The smell of growing things and honest work.
Calm. Safe.
For a brief moment, it felt like this could be home.
The sun had barely risen when Nikandros stepped outside the next morning, stretching his arms above his head and rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness that came from sleeping on a hard bed. The air was cool—that brief window before the heat of the day began to build, when everything felt fresh and possible.
He'd expected to be the first one up. Expected to have the quiet morning to himself for a few moments before beginning the day's work.
Instead, he blinked in surprise at what he saw.
Zarif was already in the fields.
His tiny hands—still so small, the hands of a five-year-old child—gripped the farming tool with determination that looked almost comical on someone so young. He was striking at the soil with the same focused intensity he'd shown the day before, his small body moving through the motions with a seriousness that didn't belong to childhood.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The rhythm was steady, unbroken. How long had he been out here?
"You started without me?" Nikandros called out, genuine surprise coloring his voice.
Zarif didn't look up. Didn't stop working. His voice came out flat, matter-of-fact, as if the answer should have been obvious.
"I woke up."
That was it. That was the entire explanation. I woke up. The implication was clear: if he was awake, he should be working. Why would he do anything else?
Nikandros scratched his cheek, a short laugh escaping him despite himself. "That much I gathered."
He walked over to where Zarif was working, his practiced eye immediately catching the small mistakes in the boy's form. His stance was too narrow, his weight distributed incorrectly. He was compensating with pure determination, but it was making the work harder than it needed to be.
Nikandros reached down and gently moved Zarif's feet, widening his stance. "Like this," he said, his tone patient, instructional. "Widen your legs. You'll have more balance that way."
Zarif adjusted immediately, shifting his feet to match what Nikandros had shown him. Then he struck the soil again.
The tool landed cleaner this time. Deeper. More effective.
He was a quick learner. Absorbed instruction like dry earth absorbed water—immediately, completely, without question.
From the doorway of the house, a small figure appeared. Hayat stood there in her nightclothes, her hair still messy from sleep, hugging a folded cloth to her chest. She didn't say anything. Didn't call out. Just watched silently as Zarif worked, her eyes following every movement he made.
The morning stretched into afternoon. The cool air gave way to summer heat, but the heat felt different here—less oppressive than in the city, tempered by the breeze that passed through the open spaces.
Zarif and Nikandros worked together in the yard, their tools creating a complementary rhythm. Hayat sat on a wooden stool nearby, stitching small pieces of cloth together with careful, practiced movements. The wind carried the faint scent of grass and growing things, and for a while, the only sounds were work sounds—tools striking earth, needles piercing fabric, the occasional grunt of effort or satisfied exhale.
Each person had their role. Their place in this small family unit that was forming whether they'd planned it or not.
At some point, Zarif had moved from farming to carpentry. He sat cross-legged on the ground now, hammering together two short planks of wood. His movements were careful, measured. He was building a small storage box—something practical, useful. A place to keep the smaller tools organized.
Hayat glanced up from her stitching, watching him work for a moment before she spoke.
"You're… building something?" Her voice was shy, hesitant. The first direct question she'd asked him.
Zarif didn't look at her. His eyes stayed fixed on his work, his hands continuing their task without pause.
"Tools need a place," he said simply.
No unnecessary words. No elaboration. Just the practical truth.
Hayat nodded, though he wasn't looking at her to see it. She returned her attention to her own work, and immediately pricked her finger with the needle.
"Ow—!" The sound escaped before she could stop it, and she pulled her hand back, looking at the small bead of blood forming on her fingertip.
Nikandros turned immediately, his protective instincts firing. "Hayat? What happened?"
"Just a prick," she muttered, embarrassed by the fuss. She pressed her other hand over the spot, hiding it. "It's nothing."
Nikandros walked over and ruffled her hair affectionately, checking to make sure she was really okay, then returned to his work.
Zarif paused. Just for a second. His hands stilled, and he watched the interaction quietly—Nikandros's gentle concern, Hayat's embarrassed deflection, the easy affection between father and daughter. Something flickered in his eyes. Curiosity? Longing? Some recognition of a bond he'd once known and lost?
Then he returned to hammering, the moment passing without comment.
Days became weeks. Weeks became months.
Zarif worked beside Nikandros at dawn, the two of them moving through the fields as the sun rose and painted everything gold. He ate quietly with Hayat at midday, the three of them sharing simple meals at the wooden table. He built things—small shelves, sections of fence, storage boxes, a dozen practical items that made life on the small farm easier and more organized.
More than once, Nikandros found him asleep sitting up, his back against a wall or a tree, his body finally surrendering to exhaustion that his will had refused to acknowledge. He'd carry the boy to bed on those occasions, noting how light Zarif still was despite the gradual filling out of his frame.
Zarif never complained. Not once. Not about the work, not about the heat, not about being tired or sore or overwhelmed. He simply did what needed to be done, with that same quiet determination, as if he was trying to prove something—though to whom, even he probably didn't know.
And every so often—more often than she probably realized—Hayat would peek at him from behind a doorway or through a window. Her eyes would find him wherever he was working, would watch him for long moments before she realized he'd noticed and quickly looked away, pretending she'd been focused on something else the entire time.
Zarif noticed. He always noticed. But he never commented on it, never acknowledged it. Just kept working, a faint awareness in his eyes that suggested he was more conscious of her attention than he let on.
One evening, as the sun began its descent and painted the sky in shades of orange and pink, Nikandros leaned against the doorway of the house with his arms crossed. His expression was a mixture of pride and concern as he watched Zarif hammer together the frame of yet another structure—a tiny shed this time, to store hay for the animals.
The boy had been out there for hours. Since dawn, actually. Working without break, without rest, as if stopping would somehow constitute failure.
"Zarif," Nikandros called out, his voice carrying across the yard. "Come inside. You've been out there in the fields the whole day!"
Zarif paused long enough to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. His shirt was soaked through, his hair plastered to his head. But his voice, when it came, was steady and stubborn.
"I'll work for however long I want."
Nikandros laughed—a full, genuine laugh that came from his belly. "What a disobedient child you've become!"
The word become carried weight. Because Zarif had become something different from the silent, broken boy Nikandros had bought from a slave market. He'd found his voice, found his will, found his sense of self. Even if that self was currently being expressed through stubborn overwork.
Behind Nikandros, Hayat giggled, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. The sound was light, joyful. She was enjoying this—the banter, the easy affection, the way their little family had settled into comfortable rhythms.
Zarif kept working, but there was something in his eyes now. A faint glimmer of stubborn pride. He was pleased by their attention even if he wouldn't admit it, pleased that they cared enough to tell him to stop.
Eventually—after Nikandros called him twice more—Zarif did come inside. He washed his hands and face in the basin by the door and sat at the table, his movements betraying his exhaustion even though his expression remained neutral.
Hayat placed a plate in front of her father, then brought food for Zarif and herself. As she moved around the table, Nikandros noticed the way her eyes lingered on Zarif before darting away. The way she found excuses to glance in his direction. The way her entire demeanor shifted slightly when he was in the room.
His daughter had grown over these past months. Not just physically, but in other ways. She was older now—old enough to feel things she didn't entirely understand yet.
"Hayat," Nikandros said lightly, a teasing note entering his voice. "You've been looking quite down ever since Zarif started living in that separate house."
Hayat's eyebrows shot up, her eyes widening. "Did you tell him to do that?" Her voice was defensive, worried. Had she done something wrong? Had she driven him away somehow?
Nikandros bit back a grin, barely keeping his amusement contained. "No."
Hayat crossed her arms, her expression shifting to confused hurt. "Then why would he move out?"
It was true—Zarif had built himself a separate small dwelling on the property months ago. Nothing elaborate, just a simple structure with four walls and a roof, barely large enough for a bed and a few possessions. He still took his meals with them, still worked alongside Nikandros, but he slept elsewhere now. Apart.
Nikandros leaned forward, his teasing smirk impossible to hide now. "Maybe… you're the reason."
Hayat froze completely. Her body went still, her breath catching. The fear in her eyes was genuine—What does he not like about me? What did I do wrong?
"What does he not like about me," she murmured, and the hurt slipping into her voice made it clear this wasn't just a passing concern. "That he had to change where he ate and slept ever since he started living with us?"
Nikandros's expression softened, the teasing giving way to gentle wisdom. He chuckled warmly. "It might be the opposite."
Hayat blinked. "What?"
"He might like you too much," Nikandros explained, his tone amused but kind. "So he built a separate house to get his mind off you and focus on his duties."
The words hung in the air for a moment while Hayat processed them.
Then her face flushed—a deep red that spread from her cheeks to her ears. "That's… too far."
Nikandros reached out and tapped her forehead with one finger, his touch affectionate. "Everything about him has always been 'too far.' Just like you."
Hayat tried to look offended. "That's different."
"It's the same," Nikandros laughed. "I tell you to cook something simple, and you prepare a feast like we're feeding an army. You both do everything with your whole heart. Nothing halfway. That's why you're well-matched."
The implication in those last words was clear, and Hayat's blush deepened further. But despite her embarrassment, despite her attempt to maintain her offended expression, she couldn't help it.
She laughed.
The sound was genuine, unguarded—joy and relief and hope all wrapped together in one bright moment.
Outside, unaware that he was currently the subject of conversation, Zarif hammered another plank into place. The sound echoed across the yard, steady and sure.
His name had just started living in someone's heart, and he had no idea.
The next morning, Hayat slid her bedroom door open and stopped.
There was a box sitting directly in front of her doorway. Small, wooden, tied with neat rope in a simple knot. The craftsmanship was careful—whoever had made it knew what they were doing with wood.
She blinked, staring down at it. The hallway was quiet and empty. From the living room came the faint smell of morning tea—her father was already up, as always.
Hayat knelt down slowly, her fingers reaching for the rope. She untied it with careful movements, as if the box might disappear if she handled it too roughly.
Inside were clothes.
Not just any clothes—beautiful clothes. Finer than anything she owned. The fabric was soft and smooth under her fingers, clearly expensive. The patterns woven into the material were intricate, delicate—flowers and geometric designs in colors that complemented each other perfectly. The stitching was professional, precise. Someone had chosen these with care.
Resting on top of the folded garments was a small card, hand-cut from scrap wood. The edges were rough, uneven—made by someone who knew how to work with tools but wasn't trying to create art. Just communication.
Two words were carved into the wood: From Zarif.
Hayat's breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she simply stared, her eyes softening with a warmth she couldn't hide even if she'd wanted to. Her fingers trembled slightly as she touched the fabric, feeling its quality, its softness.
Then her expression changed.
The emotion shifted to something more practical, more concerned. She looked at the fabric in her hands with a frown, her fingers digging slightly into the material.
She stood quickly and walked to the living room, where her father sat sipping tea from a clay cup, looking out through the open window at the fields. Outside, visible through that window, Zarif was already working—swinging his tool into the soil with his usual steady rhythm, as if he hadn't stayed up late to deliver a gift in secret.
"How much did these cost?" Hayat asked, her voice stern, almost scolding.
Nikandros took another sip of his tea, completely unbothered. "I don't know. He used the pocket money I gave him."
"How can he spend so carelessly?" Hayat's frown deepened. "You can tell how expensive this is just by touching it!"
But even as she scolded, even as her voice carried worry about wasted money, her hand moved across the fabric with a different kind of touch. Slow. Tender. Almost protective. Her fingers traced the patterns lovingly, contradicting every word coming from her mouth.
She treasured the gift. That much was obvious from the way she held it.
"I'll take it… then," she muttered finally, lifting the clothes and walking back toward her room.
Her voice was steady, controlled. But as she hung the garments carefully in her small wardrobe—positioning them where they wouldn't get crushed, where she could see them easily—her eyes glistened. Something soft in her chest tightened, and she had to wipe away a tear before it could fall.
She would treasure these clothes forever. Would probably never actually wear them for fear of damaging them. They would hang in her wardrobe as a reminder that someone had thought of her, had saved money for her, had wanted to give her something beautiful.
For several moments, she just stood there, looking at them.
Then a shout split the calm morning air.
"Zarif! Run!"
Nikandros's voice. Urgent. Sharp. No teasing now, no warmth—just pure alarm.
Hayat's heart slammed into her chest as she rushed into the living room. Through the window, she could see them—two wolves, large and grey, closing in on the small cluster of cattle near the edge of the property.
One of the wolves was snarling, its teeth bared, saliva dripping from its jaws. The other crept low to the ground, its body coiled like a spring, ready to launch itself forward. They moved with coordination, with purpose. Predators who knew exactly what they were doing.
The cattle were beginning to panic, stamping their feet, their eyes rolling white with fear.
Zarif didn't hesitate.
He grabbed the nearest farming tool—the same one he'd been using moments before—and sprinted forward. Not toward safety. Not away from danger. Toward the wolves.
"Hey!" he yelled, waving one arm to draw their attention. "Hey!"
It was tactical. Deliberate. He was making himself the target, pulling their focus away from both Nikandros and the vulnerable animals.
The first wolf's head snapped toward him, and it lunged.
Zarif planted his foot and struck.
The movement was fast, precise, economical. No wasted motion. The tool's metal end pierced the wolf's shoulder, and the animal's lunge transformed into a yelping howl of pain. Before it could recover—before it could even register what had happened—Zarif yanked the tool free and struck again.
This time at its leg.
The wolf collapsed to its side, writhing, its leg no longer supporting its weight. Disabled. Out of the fight.
The second wolf didn't wait. It launched itself at Zarif's throat, going for the kill shot, its jaws open wide.
Zarif stepped back.
Just one step. Perfect timing. Perfect distance.
Then he drove the tool down in a clean, devastating arc.
The strike hit the wolf's skull with a sound like wood hitting stone. The animal hit the ground hard, twitched once—a final firing of nerves—and went still.
Dead.
The entire encounter had lasted perhaps ten seconds.
Nikandros stood frozen, his hand pressed to his chest, breathing hard. He wiped sweat from his brow with a shaking hand and let out a breath that was half exhale, half laugh.
"What a guy…" he muttered, his voice colored with disbelief. Pride. Wonder.
At the window, Hayat stood with her eyes wide, one hand pressed over her mouth. Her heart was still racing, adrenaline making her hands shake.
"He's so… reckless," she whispered. Her voice was barely audible, colored with fear—not fear of Zarif, but fear for him. "Why don't you be more strict with him, Father? Why do you let him do things like this?"
Nikandros walked over and patted her head gently. "You like him for who he is, my daughter. Don't ask me to take away who he is."
He nodded toward the window, where Zarif was already dragging the wolf carcasses away from the cattle, silent as ever, his expression unreadable.
"Besides," Nikandros added, "he looks like he knows exactly what he's doing."
And it was true. There had been nothing reckless about Zarif's movements. Every action had been controlled, calculated, efficient. He hadn't fought wildly or desperately. He'd fought like someone who understood violence, who knew his own capabilities, who could assess a threat and respond appropriately.
Nikandros watched those movements—the strength in Zarif's young body, the composure he maintained even after killing two wolves, the complete lack of fear or hesitation.
Something occurred to him. A thought that had been forming for a while now, crystallizing in this moment.
"Leander would suit him as a last name," he said quietly. "After what he just did."
Hayat turned away from the window to look at her father. "Leander?"
"It means lion-like," Nikandros explained. His voice carried pride, affirmation, recognition. "And that boy fights like one."
Hayat turned back to the window. Outside, Zarif stood alone in the field, having finished moving the wolves. The morning breeze caught his hair, brushing it back from his face. His expression was unreadable—calm, neutral, already moving on to the next task.
And slowly, as she watched him, Hayat smiled.
It was a small smile at first. Soft. But it grew, warming her features, reaching her eyes.
Acceptance. Admiration. Something deeper that she was still too young to fully name but old enough to feel.
The wind continued to blow across the field, carrying the scent of grass and earth and the promise of another hot day to come.
And Zarif—Zarif Leander now, though he didn't know it yet—stood in the morning light, ready to return to work.
Night had fallen by the time Nikandros poured hot tea into two small cups, the liquid steaming as it filled each vessel nearly to the brim. The only light in the room came from a single oil lamp sitting on the table between them, its flame dancing and casting shadows that moved across the walls like living things. The quiet crackle of the burning oil filled the silence—a soft, comforting sound that made the space feel warm and intimate.
The house was dim, peaceful. Outside, the world continued its endless motion, but in here, time seemed to slow. To pause.
"Zarif," Nikandros said, sliding one of the cups across the wooden table toward the boy.
He leaned back in his chair, and the movement caused the wood to creak softly. His shoulders sagged with the weight of the day's work—hours spent in the fields, bent over tools, coaxing life from resistant earth. He was tired. The kind of tired that settled into bones and reminded you that you weren't as young as you used to be.
But this conversation couldn't wait.
"There are things I haven't taught you yet."
Zarif lifted his cup with both hands—always both hands, the way Nikandros had taught him years ago—and took a slow sip. The tea was still hot, almost too hot, but he didn't flinch. Just waited, his dark eyes lifting to meet Nikandros's face with patient attention.
He'd grown. Not just taller—though that too—but in other ways. The silent, traumatized boy from the slave market had become someone else. Someone who listened. Someone who learned. Someone who carried himself with a quiet dignity that suggested depth beneath the surface.
Thirteen now. No longer a child, but not yet a man. Caught in that strange in-between place where the world starts to reveal its true nature.
Nikandros rested his elbows on the table, his hands folding together. "A heap of knowledge," he continued, his voice low and serious. "More than I've given you so far. You're learning words, numbers, farming… but that is not even the surface."
Zarif's head tilted slightly to one side—a gesture of curiosity, of engagement. His eyes never left Nikandros's face.
"The world is bigger than this farm," Nikandros said. "Bigger than this town. There are things written in books that can change how a man sees everything. Things that can make him powerful, or wise, or dangerous. Sometimes all three."
He paused, studying the boy's expression, searching for… what? Readiness? Understanding? Some sign that Zarif was prepared for what came next?
Then, lowering his voice further—almost conspiratorial now—he asked: "You've seen me entering the room beneath the house, haven't you?"
Zarif set his cup down gently, carefully, making no sound as the clay touched wood. "Yes," he said, nodding once. "I've seen you go down there at night."
No evasion. No pretending he hadn't noticed. Just honest admission. The boy was observant—had been from the beginning—but he'd never intruded. Never asked. Had simply noted and respected the boundary.
Nikandros inhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling with deliberate breath. He folded his hands together more tightly, as if the gesture might help him find the right words.
"That room," he said, and his voice took on a quality that was almost reverent, "is a place of prayer for me. A shield. A shelter from the evil in this empire."
The word empire came out heavy, weighted with implications.
"When the world outside is loud and filthy," Nikandros continued, "when the soldiers march and the poor are beaten and the powerful do as they please without consequence… I go there to remember who I am. To remember what matters. To keep my soul from being crushed under the weight of what I see every day."
Zarif's eyes followed every word. His attention was complete, absolute. The kind of listening that absorbed not just the words but the meaning beneath them.
"And," Nikandros added, his voice dropping even lower, "it holds knowledge. Books, scrolls, and writings that can change a man—for good or for ruin."
He looked at Zarif very carefully now, as if measuring something. Testing. Assessing whether the boy sitting across from him was ready to bear the weight of what Nikandros carried.
The boy leaned forward, unable to hide his interest. His elbows came to rest on the table, his body language shifting from patient listening to active engagement. His eyes were bright with curiosity, with hunger to know, to understand.
Nikandros smiled faintly. "Tell me, Zarif… what is the first lesson I ever taught you? From the day I brought you home from that slave market?"
Zarif straightened immediately, his posture becoming formal, respectful. His hands moved to rest on his knees, and when he spoke, his voice was soft but clear. Reciting something he'd memorized not just with his mind but with his heart.
"To be kind," he said. "Merciful. Just. Forgiving. And charitable. Never hurt people. No matter what. Be good. Always."
The words flowed from him without hesitation, without stumbling. He'd internalized them completely. They were his compass. His foundation. The core of who Nikandros had tried to help him become.
Nikandros's smile grew warmer, reaching his eyes now. He tapped his finger lightly on the table three times—a gesture of approval, of pride.
"Exactly," he said. "If you carry that with you—if you engrain it in your soul so deeply that nothing can tear it out—then even when I'm gone, you won't lose yourself."
When I'm gone.
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. With foreshadowing. With the acknowledgment that Nikandros would not always be here, and that Zarif would have to navigate the world without him.
Zarif nodded slowly, absorbing each word. His expression had become solemn, understanding the weight of what was being said.
Nikandros leaned closer now, and his voice dropped to barely above a whisper. The lamp flickered, casting strange shadows across his face.
"But you must promise me something."
His tone had changed entirely. No longer warm or instructive. Now it was firm. Serious. Almost fearful.
"Do not speak to anyone about that room. Not the books. Not the prayers. Not the knowledge. The world we live in…" He paused, searching for words. "It destroys anything pure. If the wrong men find out—if they learn that I have those writings, that I practice those prayers—they will burn everything I own."
Another pause. Heavier.
"And they will hang me for it."
The fear in his voice was genuine. Real. This wasn't theoretical danger or abstract concern. This was the lived reality of a man who'd spent years walking a knife's edge, hiding his true beliefs in a world that would kill him for them.
Zarif looked straight into Nikandros's eyes. No hesitation. No wavering.
"I won't tell anyone," he said.
The promise was binding. Absolute. Spoken with the kind of certainty that needed no embellishment.
Nikandros reached across the table and placed his hand on Zarif's shoulder. The gesture was heavy with meaning—trust, gratitude, the passing of something sacred from one generation to the next.
"One day," he whispered, "I will open that door for you. And I will teach you everything. But not yet. Not until you're strong enough to bear it."
Strong enough to bear it.
Because knowledge was burden. Weight. Something that, once known, could never be unknown. Something that would change Zarif forever, in ways neither of them could fully predict.
Zarif didn't reply. Just nodded quietly, accepting the promise for what it was: a future gift, held in trust.
Nikandros sat back, his gaze drifting toward the small window set into the wall. Through it, visible in the night sky, a massive shadow floated past—dark against the stars, its shape unmistakable.
An airship.
One of the empire's vessels, drifting silently through the darkness. Large enough to carry hundreds of people, powered by mechanisms that Zarif didn't understand but desperately wanted to.
He followed Nikandros's gaze and stared at the vessel with undisguised awe. His eyes tracked its movement across the sky, watching as it passed through a shaft of moonlight that made its hull gleam for a brief moment before it disappeared back into shadow.
"I want to go up there one day," Zarif said, still watching even after the airship had passed from view.
Nikandros chuckled softly—a warm sound, affectionate. "Then become a man who can stand tall in a corrupt world."
He paused, choosing his next words carefully.
"Knowledge without righteousness creates monsters," he said. "Men who know how to do terrible things and see no reason not to do them. But righteousness without strength…"
He exhaled, and the breath carried resignation, sadness, the weight of watching good people crushed by a world that didn't value goodness.
"It gets crushed."
The lesson was clear: You need both. Morality and power. Goodness and strength. One without the other will fail.
Zarif listened in complete silence, absorbing the wisdom the way dry earth absorbed rain—completely, desperately, storing it away for when it would be needed.
The lamp flickered again. The tea in both cups had cooled, forgotten. The room felt sacred, heavy with the weight of important words spoken at an important moment.
Outside, the world continued. But in here, between a man and the boy he'd saved, a covenant was being formed. A legacy being passed.
Location: Nikandros's farm.
Time: 10:00 pm.
Zarif's age: 13.
Later that week, the day was quiet.
Birds circled above the fields in lazy patterns, riding thermals that carried them higher without effort. The sun was warm but not oppressive. A perfect day for work—the kind where your body moved through familiar motions and your mind could wander.
Hayat sat on the porch, her needle moving through fabric with practiced ease. She was humming—nothing specific, just a melody that had gotten stuck in her head somehow. Her fingers worked automatically while her mind drifted elsewhere.
Everything felt normal. Routine. Safe.
Then—
Screaming.
Not distant. Not vague. Not the kind of sound you could dismiss as coming from somewhere else, someone else's problem.
Human screaming. Close. Immediate. The kind of sound that triggered every instinct evolution had burned into the human nervous system.
Danger. Pain. Death.
Zarif dropped his tools and sprinted. His body moved before his mind could fully process what he'd heard, running toward the source of the sound with legs that had grown strong from years of farm work.
Hayat jumped to her feet, her stitching falling forgotten to the porch. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she ran after him.
As she rounded the corner of the house, she saw them.
Six men in dark clothing, surrounding Nikandros near the cattle pen. They weren't trying to rob him. Weren't demanding anything. They were just… beating him. Methodically. Brutally.
One held him while the others struck. Fists and boots. Again and again. Nikandros tried to defend himself, tried to fight back, but he was one man against three, and they were younger, stronger, coordinated.
"Father!" The word tore from Hayat's throat as a scream—primal, terrified, helpless.
Zarif didn't hesitate. He rammed into one of the attackers with his full weight, trying to pull the man away from Nikandros. For a moment, the man stumbled, surprised by the sudden impact.
These were grown men—strong, experienced, working together as a unit.
They turned on Zarif, who was terribly worn out from working all day and sickness.
A kick to his stomach doubled him over. A punch to his face snapped his head to the side. Hands grabbed him, held him, and then the blows came from multiple directions at once. Fists and boots striking his body mercilessly, without pause, without restraint.
He was thirteen. He'd killed wolves. He'd worked alongside men. He'd thought he was strong.
But he wasn't strong enough for this. Not strong enough to fight back with his body weakened by sickness.
They beat him down, pinned him, kept hitting him even after he stopped trying to fight back.
Hayat rushed forward, screaming for them to stop, and one of the men struck her across the face with the back of his hand. The blow sent her spinning to the ground, dirt filling her mouth, stars exploding across her vision.
From where he lay pinned, gasping through blood that filled his mouth, Nikandros saw his daughter fall. He tried to reach for her, tried to crawl toward her despite the boots still coming down on his body.
And then one of the men pulled out a knife.
They stabbed him.
Not once. Not twice.
Again.
And again.
And again.
They didn't stop when he stopped moving. Didn't stop when blood pooled beneath him. They kept stabbing, kept driving the blade into his body with vicious, methodical brutality. Making sure. Ensuring death.
Until his hands—those hands that had taught Zarif to hold tools, to plant seeds, to be kind—stopped moving entirely.
"Stop!!" Zarif roared, his voice breaking with rage and desperation. "STOP!!"
Another blow to his head silenced him. The world went dark for a moment, spinning, pain exploding through his skull.
When his vision cleared—when the ringing in his ears faded enough that he could hear again—the men were gone.
The field had fallen into a chilling stillness.
No birds. No wind. Just silence so complete it felt unnatural. Wrong.
Zarif lay on the ground, gasping. Blood in his mouth. Blood on his face. He couldn't tell if it was his blood or Nikandros's blood or both.
He forced himself up. His body screamed in protest—ribs broken or bruised, face swelling, head pounding. But he crawled. Dragged himself across the dirt toward the still figure near the cattle pen.
The man wasn't breathing.
Zarif could see it even from a distance. Could see the way Nikandros's chest remained completely still. No rise. No fall. Nothing.
His eyes stared up at the sky, blank and empty and unseeing.
He's dead.
The thought hit Zarif like a blade through his chest.
He's dead. Nikandros is dead.
His shaking hand reached out and closed those eyes gently, his fingers trembling as they touched skin that was already beginning to cool. The final gesture of respect. The last kindness he could offer.
Nearby, Hayat dragged herself across the dirt, sobbing so hard she couldn't breathe. She collapsed over her father's lifeless body, pressing her face into his chest, waiting—praying—for it to rise and fall. For him to take a breath. For this to be a nightmare she could wake up from.
It didn't rise.
"Father…" The word came out choked, broken. "Father, please…"
She pressed her ear harder against his chest, listening for a heartbeat that wasn't there.
"Wake up. Please wake up."
But Nikandros didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't open his eyes.
He was gone.
Zarif stared at the body. At the blood pooling in the dirt. At Nikandros's face—peaceful now, as if he was sleeping. At those hands that had taught him everything.
Those hands would never move again.
Would never correct his grip on a tool.
Would never place a coin in a beggar's palm.
Would never rest on his shoulder in reassurance.
Never. Never again.
Zarif stood slowly, his legs shaking beneath him. His entire body was screaming with pain, but he barely felt it. The physical pain was nothing compared to the thing tearing through his chest.
He couldn't look at Hayat. Couldn't look at the house. Couldn't look at Nikandros's body.
"Where are you going?" Hayat's voice cut through the air, breaking with desperation. "Zarif—look at me. Look at me!"
He didn't.
Couldn't.
"You're blaming yourself, aren't you?" Her voice cracked completely as tears streamed down her face. "Don't go. Stay here with me. Please."
She was still clutching her father's body, unable to let go.
"It's not your fault. He's gone, Zarif. He's gone, and I—I can't lose you too."
Zarif's fists trembled at his sides. Every muscle in his body was tense, shaking with suppressed emotion. Rage. Grief. Guilt. All of it compressed into a tight ball in his chest that he couldn't release, couldn't express, couldn't survive.
"Zarif… please," Hayat begged. "Don't leave me alone. Not now. Please."
But Zarif turned away.
One step.
Then another.
"It's not your fault!" Hayat screamed after him, her voice hoarse and desperate. "Zarif! Please!"
But Zarif didn't stop.
He ran.
Into the night. Into darkness. Into a world that had just taken the only father he'd ever known.
Behind him, Hayat's sobs echoed through the empty fields, alone with the body of the man who had cared for them both.
__________________________________________
Six years later.
"And that's when I realized that good guys never win."
Zarif's voice was flat, emotionless, as he stared at his tightly closed fists. The street around him buzzed with evening activity—people coming and going from the gambling hall across the road, their laughter and chatter creating a backdrop of noise that seemed to exist in a different world from the one Zarif inhabited.
"I want to be the killer."
He said it simply. Stating a fact. No shame. No hesitation.
Foggy swallowed hard beside him. He had no answer.
Zarif leaned back against the wall behind them, his eyes cold, his voice low and bitter.
"A man is supposed to be brutal… violent!" His fist clenched tighter as he looked at it. "Take things with force! That's how the world works. That's the only way to survive."
"A life of sunshine and rainbows is delusional," Zarif continued, his elbows resting on his knees now, his posture hunched. "Pathetic. Useless. You'll lose everything if you have that mindset. I learned that the hard way."
"That's why, Foggy…" He turned his head to look at his friend. "You and I will have everything one day. We'll be ruthless. Merciless. We'll take. And we won't let anything be taken from us. Not ever again."
His new code. His new philosophy. The opposite of everything Nikandros had tried to teach him.
Never hurt people. No matter what. Be good. Always.
Zarif had taken those words and burned them. Had replaced them with their shadow.
Hurt people before they hurt you. Take before you're taken from. Be strong, because being good gets you killed.
Foggy sat beside him in silence, not knowing what to say. Not knowing if there was anything to say.
And Zarif stared across the street at the gambling hall—at the wealth and corruption and power he now wanted to claim—with a smirk that held no joy. Only bitter determination.
Zarif's age: 19.
Six years since Nikandros died.