His elbows rested on the wooden window sledge, the cool morning breeze brushing against his skin as he took a slow, deliberate draw from the wrap pinched between his fingers. He exhaled with careful control, shaping the smoke into four clean rings that floated upward, spiraling lazily into the brightening sky before thinning into nothingness.
"Beautiful," he murmured.
There was a faint pride on his face as he watched the rings drift apart, unraveling in slow, elegant patterns. It had taken him a frustrating number of attempts to achieve the trick. Seven tries before he managed a proper ring, five more before he could produce more than one. Now, anyone who watched him smoke would assume he was an expert.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
He released a quiet sigh and leaned back, already growing bored with the spectacle. He had only been awake for a few minutes, yet the novelty had worn off. The sight itself was far from dull. The sky was a clear shade of blue, the sun still climbing past thick, drifting clouds. Dew clung to the nearby waterways and rooftops, giving the small village a misty aura that hadn't fully cleared in the early light.
It was a peaceful scene. Almost mesmerizing.
Almost.
After waking to the same view for an entire week, the charm had faded. Familiarity dulled even the most picturesque landscapes.
As he lingered in his quiet contemplation, the calm shattered.
A sudden shout ripped through the village, cutting through the soft sounds of morning. A boy, no longer a child yet not fully a man, burst through the village's shabby gate. His voice was frantic, cracking as he ran.
"Help! Help! My father! Somebody, help!"
In a village where every path could be crossed on foot within minutes, the cry spread quickly. Doors opened. Curtains shifted. Villagers stepped outside, drawn by fear and curiosity in equal measure. They gathered around the boy, whispering among themselves as he collapsed to his knees, breathless and shaking.
"Finally. Took long enough," he muttered, pushing himself away from the window.
Despite the boy's desperate plea, no one stepped forward to help. They only stared, whispered, and exchanged uneasy glances.
What is wrong with these people?
He didn't linger on the thought. Grabbing his black pants from the chair, he pulled them on in a hurry and stepped out of his room. The moment he was dressed, he bolted out of the door and toward the commotion.
By the time he reached the gathering, the village head had already arrived. The elderly man stood tall, leaning on his cane, his presence commanding silence from most of the villagers. On the ground beside him lay the boy's father, his body battered and marked with fresh injuries.
The man's chest bore deep lash-like marks. His neck was reddened, bruised, showing signs of a chokehold he had barely survived. Cuts and abrasions covered his arms and torso, each one raw and newly formed.
"What happened?" the village head demanded. "Where did he get those from?"
"We—uhm—we went out to the sea to fish—"
"You went to the sea?" one villager snapped, cutting him off with open hostility.
Whispers erupted, quickly escalating into loud murmurs. The village head slammed his walking stick into the dirt, the sharp sound cutting through the rising noise.
"Silence!"
The crowd quieted instantly.
"You know the rules" the village head continued, his voice stern and unyielding. "You do not go out to the sea. You do not attempt to fish out in the sea. Those were the established laws of this land."
Each sentence was punctuated with a strike of his cane against the ground, as though to hammer the seriousness into the boy's skull.
"We didn't have a choice," the boy cried, tears streaming down his face. "Our family was starving. My father and I—we—"
"Enough," the village head snapped. "You violated the laws. It is only right that—"
"Seriously, man."
The voice cut in sharply, silencing the village head mid-sentence. He walked straight through the crowd, unbothered by the hostile stares. His expression was irritated, his tone unapologetic.
"The man is fucking dying, and you're standing here passing blame," he said flatly.
He ignored the village head's authority entirely, moving past him and kneeling beside the injured man. His hands moved quickly, checking the man's breathing and injuries.
"I am afraid you do not understand what is—" the village head began.
"Shuuuuu," he interrupted, holding up a finger. His gaze shifted toward one of the villagers. "You. Take him inside and find someone who can treat him immediately."
The villager hesitated, glancing toward the village head for confirmation. His eyes silently asked for permission. The village head hesitated for only a moment before nodding.
The man obeyed, lifting the injured father with ease and carrying him away. He was soon out of sight, taken to his hut to receive the village's best if still inadequate medical attention.
The crowd remained silent as he turned back to the boy.
"Speak," he said calmly.
"Sir Grieve, sir, you do not understand, he—"
He raised his hand, and the village head immediately went silent. He pointed at the boy again.
"Speak."
The villagers watched in disbelief. How dare a foreigner command their head like that? Yet none of them voiced their thoughts. The village head held authority, but he had allowed this man to take control, and that was enough to keep them quiet.
"Speak, I say."
The boy struggled to compose himself. He sniffed hard, wiping tears from his eyes, his hands trembling.
"We didn't know," he whispered. "I didn't…"
He paused, trying to steady his breathing.
"My family was starving. We had nothing left. My father… he wanted to put us out of our misery. So he and I went hunting in the sea."
His voice cracked repeatedly, but he forced himself to continue.
"We were out in the open when it happened." He swallowed hard, reliving the memory. "It dragged my father into the water. He struggled. He tried to stay above the surface. Somehow, I managed to grab him and pull him back into the boat."
He trailed off, shaking.