By the third week, Rourke had noticed.
Not freedom, not rebellion—no, he was far too clever for that. But he saw the flicker in Kael's eyes. The hint of defiance, the smallest spark of life that had no place in his yard. And Rourke hated sparks.
That morning, he dragged Tomas into the center of the field. The boy stumbled, his thin frame shaking as Rourke's shadow swallowed him.
"Lazy rat!" Rourke snarled, raising the whip. "Think you can steal breath from me? Think you can hide behind bigger dogs?"
Kael's chest tightened. My chest. Our hands clenched around the hoe until the wood creaked. Tomas's eyes found ours, wide and terrified, silently begging for help.
The whip cracked.
Tomas fell, a strangled cry tearing from his throat. Blood striped his back. The other slaves kept their heads down, tools moving slower, eyes darting away. No one dared interfere.
But Kael's voice surged inside me, raw and furious. "I won't let this happen. Not again."
He lurched forward, but I held him back, whispering: "Wait. Not like this. You'll be killed."
His fury burned hotter, clawing at me. "Better me than him."
The whip cracked again. Tomas collapsed. Rourke grinned, savoring the moment.
Kael's despair hadn't vanished—it had only shifted. From ending himself to ending the cruelty around him.
And I realized with dread: sometimes hope and rage were the same fire.