Chapter 2: The Dark Coin and the Silent Path
The grey sky above Blackwater boiled into deep purple, then pitch black, punctuated by a spattering of thin, bone-chilling rain. I remained seated on the damp wooden planks of the dock, my wrists throbbing in pain, the whip lashes on my back feeling like lines of fire. The black-robed man had almost vanished at the far end of the dock, his shadow merging with the darkness creeping from the city's narrow alleys.
"Move," growled one of the slavers still standing nearby, kicking a plank near my feet. His voice was still rough, but there was a tremor of fear in it. Their eyes were still fixed on that dark coin, which The Bearded Man now held warily, as if holding a scorpion.
Rising from the mud of despair required reserves of strength I didn't think I still had. My muscles trembled, but the will to live—or perhaps just curiosity about what new hell awaited—forced me to stand. My feet, bare and blistered, landed on the wet wood. I stepped, following that black silhouette.
No new shackles were applied. No orders. Just a distance to maintain, ten steps behind him, like a faithful shadow. It was the most uncomfortable freedom I had ever felt.
We walked away from the bustle and stench of the docks, into the labyrinth of Blackwater. The city breathed a different breath at night. The sound of coarse laughter from brothels, the clinking of glasses from taverns, the hiss of conversations from dark alleys where even darker business was conducted. The smell of sweat, alcohol, and human waste mixed with the scent of woodsmoke and stale food. In between, there was another aroma: sweet incense and cold metal emanating from the small temples of the rose-and-thorn-symboled Order, standing at important corners.
The robed man never looked back. His stride was long and sure, as if he knew every slippery stone, every blind turn. His pitch-black robe was not wet from the drizzling rain; the water seemed to repel it, sliding off to form droplets that fell without ever dampening the fabric. I, on the other hand, shivered from the cold, my hair standing on end, water seeping through the tattered cloth clinging to my skinny frame.
No one paid us any attention. Or rather, they deliberately ignored us. The gazes of Blackwater's inhabitants, from drunken sailors to stage women on balconies, drifted past us, paused briefly on the robed figure, then quickly looked away with wary, even fearful expressions. He was a ghost among them, something they acknowledged but preferred to disregard.
After turning into a quieter alley, far from the sounds of city life, the man finally stopped. Before us stood a simple, enclosed wagon, pulled by two large horses the color of mist. The horses were still, calm, their eyes partially covered by leather blinders. A driver with a face obscured by a plain iron mask sat on the bench, as silent as his master.
The robed man opened the wagon's rear door, dark inside. He said nothing, only waited.
I hesitated for a moment. Jumping into unknown darkness, or staying outside, in a world that had already proven it would devour me alive. That choice, essentially, was no choice at all. With the last of my strength, I climbed in. The wagon floor felt cold and hard, covered with dry, musty-smelling straw. The door was closed softly but firmly, leaving small cracks here and there for air.
The wagon moved. Its vibration rose through the wooden floor, rattling my aching bones. I curled up in a corner, trying to gather warmth from my own body. Outside, the sounds of Blackwater slowly faded, replaced by the increasing roar of the wind and the constant sound of wheels hitting the dirt road.
Sleep was impossible. Every part of my body cried out in pain. My mind spun, trying to comprehend what had just happened. One dark coin. What did it mean? Who was that man? Was he a member of the Order of the White Rose in disguise? But his robe was different, simpler, more... empty. And the slavers' attitude—they feared the coin, not the man.
The memory of the pig-faced priest observing Leon assaulted me. What did they want with a child like that? Then the memory of the cold stares of the Veridian knights, who saw human bodies as tools or obstacles. And finally, the shadow of The Bearded Man and his whip. In this world, everyone is either predator or prey. I had been prey all my life—since my parents, Vars wanderers, were slaughtered by the Order's executioners, and I, just a child, was saved by a merchant who then sold me to the first smuggler in a long chain of suffering.
My Hunter's Eyes. The cursed legacy. They were what made me shunned, feared, and nearly dead. But the robed man... did he buy me because of those eyes? Or did he not care?
The journey lasted all night. The rain stopped, replaced by the cold silence of the grasslands. Occasionally, through a crack, I saw stars hidden behind clouds. I dozed off briefly, startled awake by nightmares of whips and the black water of Nidhogg Bay.
Dawn broke with a pale grey light when the wagon finally stopped. The sounds of nature outside were different: unfamiliar bird calls, the rustle of wind through dense leaves. The smell of damp earth and green plants replaced the stench of sea and city filth.
The wagon door opened. The robed man stood outside, his face still hidden beneath the hood. The dim morning light made his silhouette clear—tall, slender, not overly muscular but radiating an unshakable aura of balance. He nodded, signaling for me to get down.
My legs were stiff and painful as they touched the ground. We were in a small clearing in the midst of a dense forest. Before us stood a building more resembling a small, neglected monastery than a house. Made of grey stone overgrown with moss, with a shingled roof where some tiles were missing. A short chimney emitted thin smoke. There was no fence, only the forest surrounding this 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 cold.
I followed him through a low wooden door. The interior was simple yet clean, contrasting with its exterior. The main room was a living space and a mini-library combined. Shelves were filled with parchment scrolls and books bound in old leather. A small fireplace crackled, emitting warmth that I felt instantly to my bones. There was a rough wooden table, a few benches, and in a 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 wrinkled old man or a sharp-featured noble. He was perhaps around thirty-five seasons old. 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 pale grey, like cold ashes. They looked at me with an almost physical intensity, analyzing, judging, without a trace of readable emotion.
"Sit by the fire," he said, not introducing himself. "There is water and bread on the table."
Hunger and thirst finally overcame vigilance. I crawled to the bench near the fireplace and devoured the coarse bread, gulping water from an earthen jug like a parched man. The taste of that simple food felt like a feast of the gods on my empty tongue.
He watched me eat, then took a small wooden box from a shelf. "The wounds on your back need cleaning. If infected, you will die, and my investment will be wasted."
Investment. So that was the word he used. I was not a human. I was capital. Something within me hardened, though I also felt relief. At least this was honest. No illusions of salvation.
"Who are you?" I asked, my voice hoarse after swallowing.
"You may call me Master," he answered briefly while opening the box, taking out clean cloths, a bottle of clear liquid, and a kind of pale green salve. "And you, for now, are Apprentice."
"Apprentice? Apprentice of what?" I asked, my body tensing.
His grey eyes stared at me. "Survival is the first lesson. But you are already quite proficient in that, yes? Threatening another child to be quiet to avoid the whip. Cruel, but effective."
I flinched. He saw that? From where? "It... was necessary."
"In Blackwater, everything that keeps you alive is 'necessary'," he uttered, his tone almost a murmur. "But here, the rules are different. Here, blind cruelty is weakness. And weakness is not tolerated."
He told me to turn around. With a swift, skilled movement surprising for someone who looked so graceful, he cleaned the whip wounds on my back. The liquid stung, but afterward, the applied salve felt cool and soothing.
"Vars eyes," he murmured suddenly, his fingers barely touching the skin around my shoulder blades. "A hunted, cursed, and hidden heirloom. Did they give you a name, child?"
"No," I answered shortly. Giving a name was giving power. I would not give it.
"Good. Names are burdens. You can choose your own name later, or remain nameless. It is not important." He finished bandaging the wound with clean cloth. "What is important is what you can do. And what I can teach you."
"Teach me what? I am nobody. Just unsellable trash."
The Master stood, placing the wooden box back on the shelf. "You see the world with Hunter's Eyes. Different colors, slower movements, heat trails at night. Correct?"
I was stunned. How did he know? It was my secret, the only thing that helped me survive—seeing where guards were negligent, seeing trails of small animals to steal, seeing auras of anger or ill intent before they exploded. "Yes," I admitted cautiously.
"That is not a curse. It is a tool. A very delicate, wild, and valuable tool. The Order of the White Rose hunts Vars blood because they fear that tool. They call it forbidden magic, devil's sight." His voice was flat. "They are fools. They fear what they do not understand, and destroy what they fear."
He walked to the small window, looking out at the forest. "This world, the Kingdom of Veridia and its allies, is built on ignorance and fear. They create monsters, then scream in terror when the monster does not obey. You, with your eyes, are the monster in their story."
I looked at his back. "And you? You are not part of them?"
He turned, and for the first time, there was a shadow of something in his grey eyes—not emotion, but a kind of intellectual satisfaction. "I... am an observer. A collector. Of truths, knowledge, and rare tools. Like you."
"I am not a tool!"
"Everyone is a tool," he refuted calmly. "For someone or something. Your king is a tool for the ambitions of nobles. The priests are tools for the people's fear. The children on the dock earlier were tools for the slavers' greed. Your choice is only: to be a blunt, replaceable tool, or to be a sharp, valuable tool, one that determines how and for what purpose you are used."
His logic was cold, irrefutable, and fit with what I had experienced. "So for what purpose are you 'using' me?"
He approached again, sitting on the bench opposite me. "To see. To learn. To become something more than just a slave or a victim. I will train you. Not just the body—though that is also important—but especially your mind and your sight. I will teach you to read signs others do not see, to understand the unseen currents of power that move the world, to control, bit by bit, the Vars heritage within you."
"Why? What do you get from all this?"
"Satisfaction," he answered simply. "And perhaps, one day, an ally. The world is approaching a turning point. War between kingdoms, the rot of the Order, rebellion of the oppressed... in the chaos, the right tool in the right hand can change everything."
This was insane. This was far larger and more dangerous than just surviving day by day. But within this madness, there was a promise. A promise of power. A promise to never again feel the whip on my back, to no longer be a helpless prey. It was an almost irresistible 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 predators—those who walk on two legs and four. You are free to go. But remember, the dark coin has been paid. In the eyes of the world, you are mine. If you run, you are still quarry. Only this time, perhaps not foolish slavers chasing you."
The threat was implicit, yet clear. I looked at the fireplace, at 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.
The Master nodded, as if he already knew. "Lessons begin tomorrow. For today, rest. Eat more if needed. There are clean clothes in the chest in the corner. Discard what you wear now—the stench of despair attracts the wrong kind of attention."
He rose and went to another room at the back, leaving me alone with the flickering fire.
I sat quietly for a long time, digesting everything. Apprentice. Tool. Ally. Those words spun in my head. I looked around the room, trying to find clues about who this Master really was. The books on the shelves seemed to be in various languages—some with symbols I recognized as ancient Veridian, others with strange, swirling signs. No decorations, no religious or heraldic symbols. This place was like a hermit's den... or a spymaster's nest.
Exhaustion finally won. I changed into the coarse linen clothes provided, itchy but clean—and finally crawled into the lower bunk. The straw mattress was hard, but more comfortable than wooden planks or dirt.
Before sleep, my mind returned to the dock. To brown-haired Max and his futile anger. To blonde Leon with his empty eyes. What happened to them? Were they still alive? Had they learned, as I was about to, that tenderness is poison?
I closed my eyes, and in the darkness, the shadows of my Hunter's Eyes seemed to open wider, catching the faint light of the dying embers, perceiving hidden shapes behind the room's shadows. My heritage. My tool. My curse.
Today, I was a living commodity traded for one dark coin.
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 servant, and The Bearded Man might be counting his coins, hoping the curse had left with me.
They didn't know. The curse had only just begun.