By evening, Axel and Malcolm returned home, their cart lighter and their coin pouches full—a handful of silver and even some rare gold. The day at the market had been good. After unloading the goods and stashing their earnings, they shared a hearty dinner with Martha. Laughter returned to the house, and warmth lingered as the fire crackled in the hearth.
That night, sleep came easily to Axel.
But peace did not.
In his dream, Axel was seven again.
The grand hall of the mansion stretched above him—tall pillars, gleaming chandeliers, and marble floors. It was his birthday. His mother had decorated the hall herself, and his father stood beside him, proud in his ceremonial robes. His mother placed a small cake before him and lit the candles, smiling as she whispered, "Make a wish, little lion."
Axel smiled, surrounded by love.
Then the doors burst open.
His uncle stormed in, eyes wild, voice shaking as he addressed Axel's father. At first, the boy didn't understand—just rapid words, tension, anger. Then his uncle's hand went to his sword.
As his father looked away, the blade struck.
The sound of metal on bone echoed through the hall.
"You outshone me in every way," the uncle snarled, stepping over the body. "You were younger than me, yet they made you clan leader. You were the best swordsman, the most respected. You married the general's daughter. You were honored, loved, even made a noble."
He spat in disgust. "And I? Nothing. Forgotten. How could I stand that?"
Then, in front of the boy's horrified eyes, he swung his sword again—this time, severing his father's head cleanly from his body.
His mother screamed.
What followed was torment. Screams. Pain. Chains. His uncle tortured them both—mocking, cruel, slow. His mother clung to Axel even as her strength faded, whispering his name until her voice broke into silence.
She died in agony, and the boy—too broken to cry—was handed over to a slave trader like worthless cattle.
From that day forward, he feared humans, feared their words, their hands, their eyes.
Until he met Malcolm.
In the darkness of the real world, Axel thrashed in bed. Sweat poured from his body. He mumbled, shouted, screamed. Tears streaked his face as he relived the horror.
"No—no—Mother! Don't—!"
Martha, hearing his cries, rushed from her room, her lantern trembling in her hand. She found him caught in the throes of the nightmare, his face twisted in fear, limbs kicking violently beneath the blankets.
"Axel," she whispered, kneeling by his side. "Axel, wake up…"
He didn't respond.
She touched his face, her hand firm yet gentle. "It's just a dream. You're safe. Wake up."
At last, Axel jolted awake—eyes wide, breathing ragged, chest heaving. His skin was pale. His eyes were distant.
"I saw them again…" he choked out. "The fire... the blood... I saw them die again."
Martha said nothing. She simply wrapped her arms around him, holding him the way a mother holds a broken child. Her warmth steadied his shaking. Her silence was his comfort.
Malcolm appeared at the doorway, eyes heavy with concern. But he didn't speak either. He only watched, knowing there were wounds no words could reach.
Axel eventually calmed, though sleep would not return that night.
The past had clawed its way back into him. And even in the safety of Catler, its shadow refused to let go.