The next day brought no mercy.
The sun hammered us flat, the soil cut our hands, and Rourke's whip cracked across flesh like thunder. But something new happened—something small, almost invisible.
The boy from the night before worked beside me. His name was Tomas, whispered in the yard when the overseers weren't listening. His hoe moved clumsily, his body too frail for the labor. Each time he faltered, I saw Rourke's eyes narrow, whip twitching.
Kael's voice rumbled, bitter as always: "Why care? The boy will die soon. They all do."
But I couldn't look away. When Tomas dropped his tool, I bent quickly, scooped it up, and pressed it back into his hands before Rourke noticed. His wide eyes met mine—frightened, but also something else. Gratitude.
That night, as the shack groaned in the wind, Tomas whispered, barely audible: "Why did you help me?"
Kael wanted silence. Wanted to turn away. But I answered for both of us:
"Because someone should."
The boy didn't reply. But he didn't stop staring at me until his eyes closed in sleep.
And Kael… Kael's despair wavered. Just slightly. Just enough to wonder.