The darkness of night had fully claimed the village, casting jagged shadows across crooked huts and winding dirt paths. A bitter chill hung in the air, the kind that crept through the cracks of every wooden wall and made even the bravest criminals pull their blankets tighter. At this hour, the streets were deserted—only the occasional bark of a hungry dog or the creak of a broken shutter interrupted the silence.
Inside one of the larger, filthier homes near the village center, Stanley paced back and forth like a man possessed. His heavy boots thudded against the warped wooden floor, each step echoing louder than the last in the claustrophobic room. A single candle flickered on a cracked table, casting a feeble light that stretched his hunched silhouette across the walls like a grotesque puppet.
"The kid'll be the end of me," he muttered, voice low and hoarse, barely audible over his own footsteps. Sweat clung to his forehead despite the cold. "He didn't come back. It's been an hour past sunset—where the hell is he?"
Stanley's breathing grew shallow as he rubbed his temples, trying to suppress the storm of thoughts surging through his mind. Ethan had always returned by nightfall, like clockwork. Even when the boy had tried to run in the past, Stanley's men had caught him before he made it past the outer shacks.
"This doesn't make sense," he whispered. "The watchers—those idiots—should've dragged him back if he even looked like he was bolting."
He paused at the window, peering into the moonless night. The shadows outside seemed deeper than usual, more oppressive. A gnawing feeling clawed at his gut, something he hadn't felt in years—dread.
"No, no… calm down," he hissed, shaking his head. "He's just testing the waters. That's it. The brat knows better than to really run. He remembers what happened last time. We made sure of it."
His reflection in the cracked mirror of the sink stared back at him—pale, bloated, eyes sunken with anxiety. He didn't like what he saw. Not because of guilt—Stanley hadn't felt that in a long time—but because he was starting to feel something far more dangerous: fear.
But the words did little to soothe him. Stanley's instincts—honed by years of surviving double-crosses, shady deals, and violent outbursts—were screaming at him now. Something was off. Deeply off.
He grabbed his coat and made for the door. If anyone could find the boy quickly, it was Diggen and his men. Maybe the brat had wandered too far. Maybe he was lying in a ditch somewhere with a broken leg. Or maybe—
Stanley stopped cold.
The door creaked open under his hand, revealing not the biting cold of the village night, but a small silhouette standing just outside in the dark. Ethan. Calm, unbothered, his frame bathed in shadow. His blond hair was slightly damp with dew, and his arms were folded across his chest like he'd been waiting.
Stanley's breath caught. For a moment, relief tried to well up—but it was immediately crushed by the spark of humiliation that followed.
Ethan raised an eyebrow, then smirked.
"What's wrong? Were you worried?" the boy asked, his voice dry, mocking. "Scared I ran away, you fat pig?"
Stanley's face turned an ugly shade of red. His blood boiled as the implication settled in—Ethan had done this on purpose. Stayed out late just to make him sweat. Make him panic. Make him look weak.
The urge to lash out surged within him, white-hot. His fists curled at his sides, knuckles whitening, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. But before he could move, a voice floated from inside the house.
"Stop." Wayla's tone was steady, but laced with warning. "Hitting him won't fix anything. And if you hurt him again, the injuries will reopen."
Stanley's muscles tensed, his breathing labored. He turned his head slightly, eyes flicking toward her shadow seated across the room, silhouetted by the dim light of a single oil lamp.
"Just come inside," she added. "It's freezing out there."
Stanley stood there a moment longer, caught between rage and restraint. Then he stepped aside, jaw still clenched.
Ethan walked past him without a word, the smug grin still plastered on his face. He tilted his head slightly as he passed, making sure Stanley saw it.
And Stanley did.
He saw it, and he memorized it.
Wayla handed Ethan his dinner—a bowl of bone soup, thin and greasy with bits of cartilage floating on the surface. The smell alone was enough to make most gag, but in this village, it passed for luxury.
Ethan eyed it with obvious disdain. "What's the occasion, ugly?" he muttered, lips curling into a mockery of gratitude.
Wayla didn't rise to the bait. "Eat and shut up," she replied coolly, turning away. "I just made more than usual."
Her calmness unsettled him.
Ethan took a small sip. Immediately, his tongue recoiled—the soup was unusually salty. Suspiciously salty. Wayla never used that much salt. It was too expensive, too precious. Even on better days, their meals were bland at best. But this… this was deliberate.
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was pretending not to watch him, but he caught the flicker of her gaze—drifting toward the shelf where the old clay water jar sat.
A realization clicked.
They know.
They figured out I haven't been drinking from it.
They're trying to make me thirsty enough to give in.
Ethan forced himself to keep chewing. He schooled his expression into annoyance, not suspicion. Then, with an exaggerated grumble, he stood.
"The hell is this?" he muttered loud enough for them to hear. "Did she dump a whole bag of salt in the pot? Ugly and useless in the kitchen, too."
He stomped over to the water jar, picked it up, and tilted it back. But instead of drinking, he let the water spill past his mouth and onto his shirt, neck, and chin. A messy drink, careless—just as they expected from a sulky boy.
Then he let out a theatrical sigh and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
"Better than choking on salt," he grumbled, tossing the jar back in place with a thunk.
He walked to his corner, curled up on the mat, and closed his eyes. But he didn't sleep.
From beneath his lashes, he saw Wayla watching him—carefully, quietly. When she thought he was out, she let out a soft sigh of relief and turned away.
So that's your game, Ethan thought, his body still but his mind racing. Let's see who breaks first.
Ethan's acting paid off.
Within half an hour, hushed voices drifted through the dim room. He kept his eyes shut and his breathing steady, ears straining.
"He finally took the medicine," Wayla whispered, a hint of triumph in her tone. "I put three times the usual amount of salt in the soup. Poor brat was probably dying of thirst. I'd say my plan worked better than forcing it down his throat, wouldn't you, Stanley?"
"Whatever, woman," Stanley grunted. "Either way, it worked. Just don't get comfortable. That little freak is dangerous. Wouldn't shock me if I woke up with a knife in my neck one day."
Wayla shivered at the thought, rubbing her arms. The image of Ethan's eyes from the night before flashed in her mind—cold, hateful, the look of someone far older than his years. A look that didn't belong on a child's face.
For a brief moment, guilt tugged at her. Then Stanley's voice snapped her out of it.
"Vekir's coming tomorrow," he said, his voice lower now, wary. "Sent a pigeon earlier today. Said he's got things to 'discuss.'"
Wayla blinked. "Tomorrow? That doesn't make sense. The next shipment isn't due for two weeks. He's never changed the schedule before."
"How the hell should I know what that pompous freak's thinking?" Stanley snapped. "But my gut's screaming something's off. Real off. And for once, I don't think it's because of the kid."
There was a heavy pause. Then Stanley muttered, "Get ready. If things go sideways, I want you packed and gone before the dust settles."
Wayla's face tightened, but she nodded. "And what about the kid?"
Stanley's eyes drifted toward Ethan's sleeping form. The boy hadn't stirred once.
"Let Diggen's men watch him for now," he said. "If something happens, they'll take care of it."
He didn't clarify what he meant by take care. He didn't need to.
Wayla looked at Ethan again—curled in his ragged blanket, breathing soft and even. Still just a boy. But the unease in her gut refused to fade.
He's not normal. And if something really is coming… God help us if he gets dragged into it.
Ethan listened intently, his mind racing.
Vekir's coming tomorrow?
That changed everything.
This could be my chance. If the drug shipment is disrupted, Diggen's grip on the village might weaken. It could throw the whole system into disarray. He began piecing together a plan.
If I tell the new gang about this… they might act faster. If they move soon, I might slip away in the chaos.
But before he could think further, shouting erupted outside—sharp and panicked. Ethan's eyes snapped open.
Voices? At this hour?
Then—BANG! BANG! BANG!
The door shook under the weight of heavy fists.
Stanley flinched and stumbled toward the entrance, his face taut with confusion. He wrenched the door open.
Dan stood there, breathless, his pale face slick with sweat. Behind him, two of his cronies hovered, their eyes darting wildly like spooked animals.
"We're in big trouble, fat guy!" Dan shouted, not bothering to lower his voice.
Stanley opened his mouth, but Dan pointed north with a trembling hand. "Look!"
Stanley turned—and froze.
Far off in the distance, a pillar of flame lit the night sky. Orange and red flickered above the treetops like a second, hellish sun. The air smelled faintly of smoke already, even from here.
"The farm…" Stanley whispered.
Then he ran.
Stanley and Dan tore through the village streets, boots pounding against the dirt, hearts thundering with dread. When they reached the hill overlooking the valley, they stopped short, breath catching in their throats.
The drug farm—once carefully hidden among the trees, rows of valuable herbs cultivated in silence—was now engulfed in fire. Flames surged across the fields, feeding hungrily on the dry plants. Smoke billowed into the sky in thick black coils.
Villagers gathered nearby in stunned silence, watching the inferno devour what had been the lifeblood of the entire settlement.
At the edge of the crowd stood Diggen.
He didn't move. Didn't blink.
His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it might snap. His hands balled into fists at his sides, veins bulging. The fire reflected in his wide, furious eyes.
His empire was burning.
And someone was going to pay.