"By the gods," muttered the first city watch officer as he stepped through the doorway. "It's the seventh time this month we've found them like this."
His partner followed behind, covering his nose with his sleeve. "Same strange way of killing. All arranged in a perfect circle, no blood, no wounds we can see." He paused, studying the scene. "But wait... look at the center. There's a child sitting there. Why isn't he laying down like the others?"
"He looks dead to me," the first officer whispered, squinting at Jim's small figure. "He's so still... but why is he sitting up? The killer always leaves them lying flat."
They thought the boy was dead. He supposed he looked like he was - sitting perfectly motionless in the center of that circle, staring at nothing, not breathing loudly enough for them to notice. He had been sitting like that for two days.
"Let's get closer," the second officer said carefully.
As they approached, the first officer suddenly gasped. "Wait! His chest is moving - he's breathing! He's alive!"
"Alive?" The second officer rushed forward, kneeling beside Jim. "Child, child! Can you hear me?"
Jim remained completely motionless, staring straight ahead with wide, empty eyes. He didn't turn his head, didn't blink, didn't make any sound at all.
"What happened here, boy?" the first officer asked gently, crouching down to Jim's level. "Who did this to your family?"
Jim stared at him with wide, empty eyes. He wanted to tell them, but the words wouldn't come. They would never come again.
But he remembered. Oh, how he remembered that night...
I was six summers old, living with my family in our cramped stone dwelling in the Mudflats district of Heavenport. The Mudflats was both the oldest and poorest part of the great city, where ancient stones crumbled and forgotten families struggled to survive.
The smell of roasted fowl and herbs filled our dwelling as Mother stirred the small iron pot hanging over our meager hearth. She hummed a gentle lullaby while she cooked, her voice soft and comforting. The flames struggled against the damp air that always lingered in the Mudflats, casting dancing shadows on our cracked stone walls.
My three elder sisters were gathered near our rickety wooden table - the only large piece of furniture we owned. Sarah, the eldest at sixteen, sat upon a three-legged stool, carefully braiding Emma's flaxen hair with strips of fabric torn from old clothes. Emma, who had seen fourteen summers, sat still as a church statue while Sarah's patient hands worked their magic with what little we had.
"Come, little brother!" called Lucy, who was twelve and still young enough to play. She beckoned me from where she knelt upon the rush-covered floor. "Help me build a castle with these wooden blocks Father carved for you!"
I scampered over in my woolen tunic, my bare feet pattering on the cool stones. Together we stacked the carved blocks, making towers and walls, pretending we were great lords building a mighty fortress. The blocks smelled of pine and Father's woodworking tools. Lucy's bright smile lit up her face as we built our castle together.
The creaky wooden door opened, and Father stepped through, bringing with him the familiar scent of the docks where he worked loading ships and the salty air of Heavenport's harbor. His rough clothes were stained with sweat and grime, but his eyes sparkled with joy at seeing his beloved family in our tiny home.
"My brave knight returns!" I cried, running to embrace his strong legs. He laughed heartily and lifted me high, his calloused but gentle hands swinging me through the air. Father's tired but loving smile warmed the whole room as he embraced me.
"Come, good family," Mother called, wiping her hands on her linen apron. "The feast awaits!"
We gathered around our wobbly table, Father at the head, Mother beside him, and we children squeezed onto the rough wooden benches. There was a small roasted chicken - a rare treat Father had bought with his dock wages, thick dark bread from the baker's day-old pile, and boiled turnips from Mother's tiny window garden. Our chipped wooden bowls and dented tin cups caught the weak firelight, but Mother's love made the meager meal feel like a feast.
Sarah told us about her needlework lessons with the merchant's wife, Emma shared tales from helping at the village market, and Lucy made us all giggle with her impression of Old Willem, the village storyteller. I mostly listened, swinging my legs under the table and trying to eat properly so Mother wouldn't scold.
After supper, Father settled into his chair by the fire to mend a fishing net by candlelight. My sisters gathered the wooden bowls and helped Mother with the washing. I played with my carved wooden horses on the floor, galloping them across imaginary meadows while the adults talked softly of neighborhood news and the next day's tasks.
"Time for washing, my little lord," Mother said eventually, filling a wooden basin with warm water heated by the fire.
She helped me out of my day clothes and washed me gently with a cloth and soap made from sheep's fat and lavender. The water was warm and soothing, and she was careful not to splash my face. Her gentle hands washed away the day's grime, and she dried me carefully with a warm woolen blanket that had been warming by the hearth. I could feel her fingers combing through my damp hair as she called me her "clean boy."
"There's my clean boy," she said, wrapping me in the soft woolen blanket.
She helped me into my sleeping tunic, then took my small hand in her work-worn but tender one. Together we climbed the narrow wooden stairs to the loft where I slept, past my sisters' small chambers where I could hear their quiet evening prayers.
In my little alcove under the eaves, Mother tucked the wool blankets around me on my straw mattress. A single candle flickered in a clay holder, casting gentle shadows on the wooden beams above.
"Sleep now, my precious son," she whispered, pressing her lips to my forehead. Her voice was soft as silk, full of love and tenderness.
"Tell me of the brave knights, Mother," I pleaded, though my eyelids were already growing heavy.
"On the morrow," she promised gently. "Tonight, dream of dragons and castles, of adventures yet to come."
She left the candle burning low and crept quietly down the stairs. I listened to the gentle sounds of my family preparing for sleep - Father banking the fire, my sisters whispering their goodnight, Mother's soft footsteps on the stones below. The sounds were comforting and familiar, filling me with warmth and safety.
I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep, feeling loved and protected in my little bed, surrounded by my family in our humble home.