Stanley nearly laughed out loud at Diggen's ignorance. You idiot, he thought. You have no idea how much those nobles are paying for your drugs. The merchant's making fifty times the cost, at least.
But he kept those thoughts to himself. Diggen, despite his past as an aura user, had never rubbed shoulders with anyone higher than a baron. He had no idea about the secret circles—the shadowy sororities and elite enclaves where nobles indulged in their darkest fantasies without consequence. For those people, drugs weren't a vice—they were a necessity.
Stanley had no intention of sharing that truth. Greed was a dangerous thing, and the same greed that had landed him here could just as easily spiral into something worse. So instead, he shrugged. "Not our business. Just make sure the usual goods are ready. They might show up before the weekend."
Diggen nodded, though his expression remained thoughtful. "No problem. We've got the surplus from the last shipment. I'll tell the boys to prep it."
Stanley stayed the rest of the afternoon, sipping beer—a rare luxury in this cesspool—and keeping mostly to himself. Both men sat in silence, minds churning. Stanley couldn't shake the feeling: Something big is coming. And I'm not ready.
In the forest near the village...
Ethan had returned to the woods, seeking refuge from the suffocating weight of his life. Again, he felt it—that cold, invisible gaze watching him from the trees. It had become familiar now, like a ghost at his heels.
But no matter how far he walked, his mind wouldn't settle. The morning's negotiation had ended exactly like the others. The gang leader, just like every other who'd passed through the village, saw Stanley as indispensable.
The rage simmered beneath his skin.
Then, unexpectedly, he heard a rustling behind him—and turned to find Pit.
The old hunter carried a massive black wolf carcass over his shoulder like it was nothing.
The beast was no common animal. Hunters knew this breed—formidable, fast, with brute strength enough to tear through a group of men. That Pit had taken it down solo only made Ethan respect him more.
Pit dropped the wolf onto the forest floor with a heavy thud. "You out here again, kid?" he said gruffly. "Any luck?"
Ethan nodded slightly. "Better than yesterday. Found some edible fruit."
Pit gave a faint smile. "Still breathing. That's what matters." He paused, his tone softening. "As long as you're alive, there's a chance things'll change."
Ethan was looking at the dead beast, with interest wandering if he could catch one of those on day. I bet I can eat for a week with a beast of this size.
Unfortunately for him, Diggen and his lackeys made sure he never laid a hand on anything sharp. They even warned the villagers not to help him acquire any weapons—or anything that could be used as one—and to report it immediately if he ever did.
Ethan looked up sharply. "Can you teach me?"
Pit's face hardened. "You know I can't. Diggen and Stanley made that clear. No one's allowed to show you how to use sharp things."
Ethan's fists clenched. "Is this really how a person's supposed to live?" he asked, voice rising. "I'm not like the others here. I want to change. I want to be more than a beggar rotting in a graveyard village. And you're telling me I can't even try because of some washed-up thug and a pig who reeks of piss?"
Pit said nothing.
Ethan turned and stormed off, wiping a single tear from his cheek.
"I'm sorry, kid," Pit muttered to the wind. "I can't help you alone."
Back in the village...
Ethan didn't go straight home. He wandered the dusty paths as the sun dipped low, swallowed by thoughts of hatred and escape. Every face he passed was part of his prison: the snitches who reported to Stanley, the cowards who bowed to Diggen, the ghosts of men who gave up long ago.
This place is killing me, he thought. And no one even notices.
By the time he returned home, the moon was already high.
He opened the door—and froze.
Stanley and Wayla were naked on their bed, grunting, sweating, oblivious.
Ethan didn't flinch. He didn't avert his eyes. Instead, he slammed the door so hard the walls rattled.
Stanley leapt up with a yelp, his face pale with shock, his tiny, flaccid manhood hidden beneath folds of belly fat.
When he saw Ethan, rage overtook his fear.
"What the hell's wrong with you, you stupid dog?!" he bellowed, spit flying. "Trying to give me a damn heart attack?!"
Ethan smirked. His voice was low, mocking. "Didn't want to hear the squeals of pigs rutting. Should've taken it outside. Mud suits you better."
Stanley's face turned crimson. His chest heaved, fists trembling.
Before he could speak, Wayla shrieked, "How can you be so ungrateful?! Show some respect to the people keeping you alive!"
Ethan turned his icy gaze on her. "You mean keeping me in chains. Don't think I don't know about your plan to sell me when I turn fifteen. I'm not your investment, and one day, you'll both pay for what you've done."
Stanley's whole body shook. His voice dropped to a venomous hiss. "You think I keep you around because I want to? Every day, I regret not snapping your neck the day you were dropped at my doorstep. Do you think I won't hurt you?"
Ethan stepped forward. "Yeah, I know you can hurt me. But not kill me." He smiled, cold and sharp. "So go ahead. Hit me. Hit me as hard as you want. It'll only make your death scream sound better when the tables turn."
Stanley's eyes twitched. Ethan held his gaze.
"I'm just a weak ten-year-old, right?" Ethan added, his voice coated in mockery. "But be careful, Stanley. You might kill me… and we both know what happens if I die."