The grey sky above Blackwater boiled into deep purple, then pitch black, pierced by a thin, needling rain whose cold bit to the bone.
I still sat on the wet planks of that dock, staring at my throbbing, raw wrists. The black-robed man had nearly vanished at the far end of the wharf, his shadow merging with the gloom seeping into the city's narrow alleys.
"Move," growled one of the smugglers still standing near me, stamping his foot on the sodden wood.
His voice was still coarse, but a tremor of fear underpinned it. Their eyes remained fixed on the dark coin, now cautiously picked up by their boss—The Bearded One handled it warily, as if holding a scorpion.
Rising from the mire of despair took reserves of strength I didn't think I possessed. My muscles trembled, but the will to live—or perhaps merely a curiosity about what new hell awaited—forced me to my feet.
I stepped forward, following the black silhouette. My feelings were a tumult, a relief that was not quite relief.
No new shackles bound me. No commands were given. Only a distance to be kept, ten paces behind him, like a loyal shadow. It was the most uncomfortable freedom I had ever known.
That evening, we walked away from the din and stench of the docks, deeper into Blackwater's labyrinth.
The raucous laughter from pleasure houses, the clink of glasses from taverns, the hissed conversations from dark alleys assailed my ears. Intermingled was the sweet scent of incense and cold metal from small temples bearing the symbol of the Thorned Rose, masking the city's fishy, congested odour.
The robed man never looked back. His stride was long and sure, as if he knew every slick stone, every blind corner. His deep black robe was not dampened by the drizzle; the water seemed to repel it, beading and falling without ever soaking the fabric. I, by contrast, shivered, my hairs standing on end, moisture seeping through the tattered rags clinging to my wretchedly thin frame.
Something was amiss as I walked in his wake. Even the air around him felt different.
No one noticed us. Or rather, they deliberately took no notice.
The gazes of Blackwater's denizens, from drunken sailors to courtesans on balconies, slid over us, paused briefly on the robed figure, then swiftly looked away with wary, even fearful expressions. He was like a ghost among them, something they acknowledged but chose to ignore.
After turning into a quieter alley, far from the sounds of city life, the man finally stopped. Before us stood a simple, enclosed wagon, drawn by two large horses the colour of mist. The horses stood still, placid, their eyes partly covered by leather blinkers.
A driver with a face hidden by a plain iron mask sat on the front bench, as silent as his master.
The robed man opened the wagon's rear door. He said nothing, only waited.
I hesitated.
What was I to do? Leap into unknown darkness, or remain outside? In a world that had proven it would devour me alive. The choice was difficult. Because it was no choice at all.
My body trembled slightly. Then, with the last of my strength, I clambered inside. The wagon floor felt cold and hard, covered in dry, musty straw. The door was shut softly but firmly, leaving a small gap for air.
The wagon moved. Its vibration travelled up through the wooden floor, rattling my aching bones.
I curled into a corner, trying to gather warmth from my own body. Outside, the sounds of Blackwater slowly faded, replaced by the growing roar of the wind and the constant rumble of wheels on a dirt road.
Sleep was impossible. Every protruding bone in my body seemed to weep. My thoughts whirled, trying to make sense of what had just happened, yet always circling back to the same thing.
That dark coin. What did it mean?
Who was that man? Was he a member of the Order in disguise? But his robe was different, simpler, more… empty. And the smugglers' demeanour? They seemed terrified of the coin, not the man.
Yet, for some reason inside that wagon, my mind drifted to the piggish priest's disgusted observation of Leon that morning. What did they want with a child like that? Then the memory of the Veridian knights' cold stares, viewing our bodies as chattel. And finally, the shadow of Gashed-Nose and his whip. I hugged myself tighter. I would not show weakness before this man, even as something hot twisted in my chest.
Why did everyone I meet call me a monster? When they seemed far more monstrous.
My eyes. They were what made me shunned, feared, and nearly killed. But the robed man… did he buy me out of pity? Or did he simply not care?
The journey lasted through the night. The rain ceased, replaced by the cold silence of grasslands. Occasionally, through the gap, I saw stars hidden behind clouds. I slept fitfully, haunted by the same nightmares that always tormented me.
Dawn broke with a pallid grey light when the wagon finally halted. The sounds of nature outside were different. Unfamiliar bird calls, the rustle of wind through dense leaves. The smell of damp earth and green growth replaced the odours of sea and city filth.
The wagon door opened. The robed man stood outside, his face still hidden beneath his hood. The dim morning light outlined his silhouette clearly—tall, slender, not overly muscular but radiating a potent aura of balance. He nodded, gesturing for me to descend.
My legs felt stiff as I touched ground. We were in a small clearing within a dense forest. Before us stood a structure more akin to a neglected small priory than a country house. It was built of grey stone overgrown with moss, with several of its wooden shingles missing. A short chimney emitted a wisp of smoke. There was no fence, only the forest encircling the place.
"Enter," the man said for the first time since the docks. His voice was still flat, but in the open air, it sounded more human, though no less cold.
I followed him through a low wooden door. The interior was simple yet clean, starkly different from its outward appearance. The main room was a combined living space and miniature library. Shelves were filled with scrolls and books bound in old leather.
A small fireplace still glowed, emitting a warmth I felt immediately to my core.
There was a rough-hewn wooden table, a few stools, and in the corner, a simple bunk bed with a straw mattress. The dominant smells were old dust, burning wood, and something else… like herbal concoctions and cold metal.
The man removed his hood.
I held my breath. His face was not what I had imagined. He was not a wizened old man or a sharp-featured noble. He was perhaps in his mid-thirties. His face was pale, with hard lines around his mouth and eyes. His hair was black, cut short and neat. Most striking were his eyes. They were a pale grey, like cold ashes. They regarded me with an intensity that felt almost physical, appraising, without a trace of readable emotion.
"Sit by the fire," he said, offering no introduction. "There is water and bread on the table."
I glanced at the loaves. Hunger and thirst finally overcame wariness. I crawled onto the stool near the hearth and devoured the coarse bread ravenously, gulping water from a wooden vessel like a man facing execution.
The taste of that simple fare was like ambrosia on my near-numb tongue.
The man watched me eat, then retrieved a small wooden box from a shelf.
"The wounds on your back need cleaning. If they fester, you could die, and my investment would be for naught."
Ah. Investment. So that was the word he used. And I realised afresh that I was no longer a person. I was an asset. Something inside me hardened, even as I felt a perverse relief. At least this was honest. No illusions of salvation.
"Who are you?" I asked, my voice hoarse from swallowing.
"You may call me Master," he answered curtly, opening the box to remove clean cloths, a bottle of clear liquid, and a pale green salve. "And you, for now, are the Apprentice. So mind your tone."
"Apprentice? To what?" I asked, my body tensing.
His grey eyes held mine. "Survival is the first lesson. But you are already proficient in that, are you not? Threatening another child into silence to avoid the lash. Cruel, but effective."
I flinched. He had seen that? From where? "It… was necessary— but I was whipped anyway," I muttered, my words faltering. My head bowed slightly. The man produced a small container of salve and approached.
"In Blackwater, anything that keeps you breathing 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."
He instructed me to turn. With a swift, skilled motion surprising for one so seemingly composed, he cleaned the whip-wounds on my back. The liquid stung, but afterwards, the applied salve felt cool and soothing.
"Varsian eyes," he murmured suddenly, his fingers barely touching the skin near my shoulder blades. "A legacy hunted, cursed, and hidden. Did they give you a name, boy?"
"No," I answered shortly. To give a name was to give power. I would not grant it.
"Good. Names are burdens. You may choose your own later, or remain nameless. It is unimportant." He finished binding the wounds with clean cloth. "What matters is what you can do. And what I can teach you."
"Teach me what? I am nobody. Just refuse that wouldn't sell."
The Master stood, returning the wooden box to the shelf. "You see the world with Hunter's Sight. Different colours, slower movement, heat trails in the dark. Is that true?"
I was stunned. How did he know? It was my secret, the only thing that helped me survive—seeing where guards were lax, spotting the trails of small game to steal, perceiving the aura of rage or ill intent before it erupted. "I… yes," I admitted cautiously.
"That is no common curse. It is a tool. A most subtle, wild, and valuable tool. The Thymolt Order hunts your bloodline because they fear that tool. They call it forbidden sorcery, devil-sight." His voice was flat.
"They are fools. They fear what they do not understand, and destroy what they fear."
He walked to a small window, looking out at the forest. "This world, the Veridian Kingdom and its ilk, is built on ignorance and illusion. They create monsters, then scream in fear when the monsters do not obey. You, with your eyes, are the monster in their tale."
I watched his back, trying to grasp his complex words. "And you? You are not part of them?"
He turned, and for the first time, a shadow of something flickered in his grey eyes—not emotion, but a kind of detached clarity I couldn't interpret. "I… am an observer. A collector. Of truths, knowledge, and rare instruments. Like you."
"I am not an instrument!"
"Everyone is an instrument," he countered calmly. "For someone or something. Your king is an instrument for the ambitions of his lords. The priests are instruments for the people's fear. The children on the dock were instruments for the smugglers' greed. Your only choice is this: to be a blunt, replaceable tool, or to be a sharp, valuable one—one that decides how and for what purpose it is wielded."
His logic felt cold, irrefutable, for it matched my experience. "So for what purpose do you 'wield' me?"
He approached again, sitting on the stool opposite me. "To see. To learn. To become more than a slave or a victim. I will train you. Not only the body—though that is also vital—but primarily the mind and your sight. I will teach you to read signs others miss, to understand the unseen currents of power that move the world, to control, little by little, the Varsian heritage within you."
"Why? What do you gain from this?"
"Satisfaction," he answered simply. "And perhaps, one day, an ally. The world approaches a turning point. War between kingdoms, the Order's rot, uprisings of the oppressed… in the chaos, it is the right tool in hand that can change everything."
It was madness. It was far more complex and terrible than surviving day to day. But within its madness lay a promise. A promise of power. A promise never to feel the lash again, to never be chattel. It was a near-unbearable temptation.
"And if I refuse?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
His grey eyes gleamed coldly. "The door is there. This forest is vast, and full of beasts—both two-legged and four. You are free to go. But remember, a dark coin has been paid. In the eyes of the world, you are mine. If you flee, you remain quarry. Only this time, it may not be foolish smugglers who hunt you."
The threat was implied, yet clear. I looked at the fireplace, the books, then at my own thin, wounded hands. The choice, once again, was no choice.
"I will stay," I said, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears, trembling slightly with suppressed turmoil.
The Master nodded, as if he had known it all along. "Training begins tomorrow. For today, rest. Eat more if you need. There are clean clothes in the chest in the corner. Burn those you wear now—the stench of despair attracts the wrong sort of attention."
He rose and went into an adjoining room, leaving me alone with the crackling fire. I sat in silence for a long time, digesting it all.
Apprentice—Instrument—Ally?
The words circled in my head. I looked around the room, searching for clues to who the Master truly was. The books on the shelves seemed to be in various tongues, some with symbols I recognised from the Veridian Kingdom, others with strange, curling sigils. No ornaments, no religious or heraldic symbols. This place was like a hermit's cell… or an assassin's den, as my father's stories described.
Exhaustion finally won. I changed into the rough linen provided—itchy but clean—and crawled onto the lower bunk. The straw mattress was hard, but more comfortable than planks or earth.
Before sleep took me, my mind returned to the dock. To Max and his futile anger. To Leon the blond with his empty eyes. What had become of them? Were they alive? Had they learned, as I was learning, that softness was poison?
I closed my eyes, and in the darkness, the shadows of my Hunter's Sight seemed to open wider, catching the faint glow of the dying embers, perceiving the hidden shapes within the room's shadows. My legacy—a tool and a curse?
Tomorrow, I would begin learning to become something else. And somewhere beyond this forest, behind monastery or palace walls, Leon might be staring emptily at the sky, Max might be scrubbing floors as a drudge, and Gashed-Nose and his lot were likely counting their coin from The Bearded One, hoping the curse had left with me.