The next morning, Rourke's boots crunched across the yard, his whip coiled lazily in his hand. His eyes scanned the line of slaves until they found Kael. A grin split his face, jagged and cruel.
"Ah," he said, voice dripping with mockery. "My stubborn dog. Still standing. Still pretending he's a man."
Kael's jaw tightened. He didn't answer. That only amused Rourke more.
He circled slowly, his shadow sweeping over us like a vulture's wings. Then his gaze flicked to Tomas. The boy wavered under the weight of his load, sweat slicking his pale face.
Rourke's grin widened. "Drop it," he barked.
Tomas froze, confused.
"Drop it!"
The boy obeyed, the sack of grain thudding into the dust. Rourke swung the whip, striking him across the back. Tomas cried out, collapsing to his knees.
Kael's hands twitched around the hoe, fury surging through him. I felt it boil in my chest, hot and dangerous.
Rourke leaned close to Kael, his voice low and venomous. "Go on. Protect him. Take a swing. I'm begging you."
Kael's breath shook. His grip on the hoe tightened until the wood creaked. His heart thundered inside me. One move, and it would all be over.
I whispered through clenched teeth: "Don't. That's what he wants. His game is to break you—through Tomas, through your rage. Don't play it."
Kael's whole body trembled. For a moment, I thought he would do it—strike, damn himself, damn us both. But then, slowly, painfully, he let the hoe drop to the soil.
Rourke sneered, disappointed. "Coward."
He struck Tomas once more for good measure, then walked away, laughter trailing behind him.
Kael's heart still thundered. His despair pressed heavier than ever.
But he had endured. And survival, in this place, was its own rebellion.