Mercy and violence are sometimes the same act—only intent separates them

  A large crowd—military personnel, soldiers, and townsfolk—pressed around an arena. The roar of spectators and the clashing of metal made it clear that a bout was underway. Lively, yet dire.

  In front of the arena, dozens of outlets catered to a wide array of customers—humble passersby to military figures. All met their needs in this chain of outlets.

  Two figures in green jackets approached one such shop selling food and drink. They took a seat on a bench near the counter.

  The shop owner, a man with a big moustache and shaved head, walked toward them. He focused on the girl, and asked, "What will you have, girl?"

  However, before she could answer, the man beside her hissed, "That's Madam Elsyn to you, peasant—know your place."

  The moustache man stared at him in anger. His fists clenched.

  Before things could escalate, Elsyn interjected, "It's all in good spirit, Corvus... The man means no harm, I'm sure."

  The moustache man shifted his focusing to her, and said, "Yes, ma'am, of course. Though my memory fails me; I cannot seem to recall you which house you belong to."

  Corvus slammed his hand on his thigh. He almost rose from his seat in anger as he again interrupted: "That's because you don't need to recall her! If you did then you would've been briefed days ago. For now, just present us with your best meal—that's all the service required of you at the moment."

  The moustache man bared his teeth and raised a finger, but Elsyn quickly stood up to defuse the situation.

  "Corvus, you're being rude to this man here," she said.

  "Apologies, my lady. It was the lord's explicit order to kill anybody who disrespects you. So, I'm actually being kind to this gentleman here, lest he says something that might force me to unsheath my blade."

  The moustache man's eyes twitched in anger: "You wretch —"

  Cutting him off, Elsyn evenly spoke, "I think you should leave, Corvus. I will have your food packed; you can eat on the road."

  Corvus stood up and gave a light bow to Elsyn: "Yes, my lady. I will be in the crowd; never too far away."

  Sparing a dark glance at the shop owner—one that sent shivers down his spine—Corvus left the outlet. And merged with the crowd; out of sight but always within reach.

  His role as an overprotective escort was complete. Now began his role as an eavesdropper—listening in on any topic of interest while refraining from engaging.

  Corvus pushed through a few ruffians and leaned against the wooden railing of the arena. Observing the ongoing contest from the front row, left a bad taste in his mouth.

  What a joke. He scoffed inwardly.

  Elsyn, meanwhile, was apparently reading the shop's menu carefully; the moustache man, busy serving other customers, occasionally indulged in her seemingly idle gossip. Casual, yet deliberate.

  "I must say, Hugo, you're quite a man to make a living in a lawless place like Bleakmoor, and all by yourself at that," Elsyn said, flipping through the menu.

  The moustache man, Hugo, wiping a glass, replied, "Hardly, ma'am. It's all thanks to the Silver Cartel. Their patronage allows me to function here without much trouble."

  The Silver Cartel? Should I ask him about it? But what if it's common knowledge—he might suspect us.

  "Troubles? Who might trouble a strong, reliable man like you, Hugo?" Elsyn asked in a roundabout manner.

  "You flatter me, ma'am. Surely you must—"

  "Bring me four ales, quickly," a soldier barked his order, rather rudely at Hugo.

  Hugo poured four mugs of ale and handed them to the soldier: "Thank you for visiting, sir." He cursed under his breath as soon as the soldier left.

  Elsyn looked at him in surprise, and asked, "Are you always this pliant? Or was my escort an especially infuriating person? I won't judge if it's the second one."

  "A bit of both, I suppose," Hugo smirked, then continued, "But, it's mostly because he was a member of the Frostbound Legion, they don't exactly see eye to eye with my patrons. So, I try to avoid picking a fight with them, else they might target me and mine during the night wars."

  Night wars? Frostbound Legion? Elsyn had more questions than answers. She frowned lightly.

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  Breaking her thoughts, Hugo commented, "That... escort of yours, he's a warrior, isn't he. I know his kind... rough hands, steady eyes, and ill bred; good for nothing but bloodshed. Not that I blame him, of course. Anyone would become that after years of battle and violence... a tool of war, incapable of feeling anything or being anyone's."

  A sullen silence hung in the air for a few moments, when Elsyn broke the lull with a quip, "Actually, he has a pretty good sense of humor."

  Hugo let out a short, incredulous laugh. The unbelievable thought of Corvus joking caught him off guard.

  Elsyn, flipping the menu page back again, added in her mind, As long as the joke's on him and he doesn't know about it. He's a natural. A warm smile found its way on her face.

  She continued the conversation for a while longer before leaving the outlet without ordering anything. Her appetite sated with knowledge alone.

  Elsyn's excuse for not eating anything was: "Nothing here suits my palate, I'm afraid. Though, I did enjoy our little exchange very much, Hugo."

  Carefully navigating the crowd, she reached Corvus. She prodded his arm, and spoke, "I'm not becoming a noble lady next time. It's really uncomfortable, listening to someone older call me ma'am."

  Despite her complaints, Elsyn's true feelings were betrayed by her shining eyes.

  "You're here. I take it the operation went well. Nice job, Elsyn," Corvus said.

  "Oh, it went beyond well. You won't believe half the things Hugo told me. He also gave me these free meatballs," she replied, offering two meatballs to him.

  Corvus picked one of them and ate it. Chewing thoughtfullly, he remarked, "They're tasty. Did he really give it to you for free? I thought you were also socially awkward, like me."

  Traitor, he added in his thoughts.

  "Hey, don't put me in your league." She grumbled. "Besides, it's only idle talks with strangers that makes me uncomfortable. Otherwise, I can hold my own if I have an objective in mind," she retorted.

  "I don't think anyone's good at those," enjoying the last of the meatballs, Corvus said. Too engrossed in his food to pay any attention to the remark about him.

  Elsyn rolled her eyes, and added, "You don't know 'squeak then. There's not a single person who doesn't like her, there was this one time..."

  She drifted off, catching glimpse of something appalling and unexpected. Her eyes widened and hands began trembling on their own.

  Corvus failed to notice the shift in her demeanour as he said: "Yeah, you're right. I don't doubt that for a second, I mean..."

  He saw that she was not paying him any attention, in fact her eyes were fixed on the match inside the arena.

  "Hey, are you listening—"

  "Gar..." A name escaped her mouth.

  Inside the arena, a boy about the same age as Elsyn was battling against another youth. The boy, Gar, was one of the enslaved children that she had met and befriended.

  "Gar? Who, that boy? You know him?" Corvus asked.

  With her focus divided, it was a second before she replied, "Yes... He's my friend. He was sold in the outskirts. What are they doing? It's dangerous—he's not even armed. Don't they want him in the military or something?" Her concern became almost palpable.

  Corvus focused on the grim scene ahead:

  Armed with only a blunt sword, Gar—wounded and severely fatigued—fought against another youth, armed with a sharp metal sword and a shield.

  Gar's hands trembled on the hilt of the sword. Barely mustering enough strength to lift the sword.

  "I think the military brass are training their protégés, giving them a taste of 'real battle'. A load of crap," Corvus said scornfully, and spat on the ground.

  "Protégés?" Elsyn did not overlook the insinuation.

  "Yes. So far I've counted four of them. They retreated once they dealt a wound on him. I suppose that's their cue for victory; pathetic. No wonder a simple turn of hand is enough to deal with these noble brats in the real battle."

  "But, his body has over a dozen wounds..." A chilling sensation suddenly engulfed her, leaving her palms and soles slick with sweat. She realised the true scale of the horror that her friend had been going through.

  Meanwhile, Gar was trying to catch his breath as he struggled to dodge the strikes of his enemy. Jumping and running around, he somehow evaded the strikes.

  Unbothered by the biased match, Gar mustered a smile. He considered the brutality as an ordained tribulation meant to test his mettle.

  "Are you giving up already? And you call yourself a man," the boy fighting Gar mocked him.

  Gar raised himself using the sword, and spoke in a grating voice, "No, lord... not at... all... I'm perfec... Perfectly fine." His words barely audible beyond a few meters as he strained to breathe.

  "Then face me, you lout!" the boy taunted.

  Yet to even steady his breath, Gar recklessly charged—flailing his hands aimlessly, he exerted the last of his strength in that rush. The protégé took a step backward, then rammed Gar's chest with his shield.

  Gar fell back from the heavy blow. Dropping his sword, he clasped his chest tightly as he tried to gasp for air—leaving bloody nail imprints on his skin. Despite his wretched condition, the protégé slashed at Gar's leg—drawing a long, soundless yelp from him. Muffled by the lack of oxygen in his lungs.

  With a smug face, the protégé turned and began to retreat.

  Suddenly, a harsh voice resounded: "What are you doing, boy!"

  A man dressed in military outfit moved toward the protégé. Standing face-to-face, he slapped the boy: "Is this what I taught you, boy? You're showing your back to the enemy."

  "But, sir, you told—"

  The military man again slapped him: "I told you, don't return before finishing the fight. Does that look like finished to you?" He growled.

  The military man briskly approached Gar, raising him by the collar, he instructed, "You either beat them unconscious," and landed two unrestrained punches on Gar's nose, disfiguring it.

  Blood began to seep out of the broken nose as Gar mumbled, "Lord... I'm sorry..."

  The military man dropped Gar on the floor, and continued, "Or dismember their body—for good."

  Brandishing his blade, he callously struck at Gar's leg. The blade struck the bone, cleanly severing the leg.

  A sudden stream of blood gushed out of the severed stump, while Gar's face contorted horribly. He screamed and scratched his face violently. Convulsing on the ground, his veins bulged throughout his body and his eyes lost signs of sanity.

  The military man gestured for his protégé to follow after him: "Come on, boy; the lunch will get cold."

  Uncaring and unmoved by Gar's agony, they simply left. Gar's fate was no more than a tedious routine.

  Elsyn speechlessly witnessed the morbid spectacle. Her mind overwhelmed by a slew of emotions that seethed within her—threatening to burst out at the slightest of touch.

  Yet one emotion dwarfed all others: pity.

  She closed her eyes, suppressing the tears within them; shut her mouth with a palm, lest they scream on their own.

  Only her ears were left open. She heard Gar's wheezing cry. Each squeal begged for one thing: mercy.

  A storm raged within her, yet she opened her eyes, lowered her hand, and whispered, "Kill Gar..."

  Something broke inside her.