Just Another Spectator

Being a child has its advantages and disadvantages. Unfortunately, at that moment I became a victim of the disadvantages.

ㅤㅤComing home late at night without notice, ended, as anyone but me could have expected, in a monumental type of scolding. The kind of yelling that, while doesn’t kill, certainly educates. My mother cried. My father shouted. Punished for life—did they mean this one, or…?

ㅤㅤBut then came the advantages.

ㅤㅤManipulating your parents by pretending to be sick the next day is probably immoral. My theatrical performance and acting would’ve won an Oscar. I felt a little dirty. Even if it was necessary.

ㅤㅤMy mother stirred herbs in a pot, trying, unsuccessfully, not to show an expression of fear. Her delicate fingers trembling, and her eyes focused on the fire—something struck me deep inside.

ㅤㅤShe never doubted. She never asked how much it hurt; she simply was there. Always knew which plant to pick, which cloth to place on my forehead, or which words to use to make the pain feel less.

ㅤㅤI never lacked anything as long as she was there.

ㅤㅤTruth is, I didn’t feel entirely comfortable with the life of a child, having lived as an adult in the previous one. Hugging her felt like something another Iren would do, not me.
Even so, on that moment while she prepared the remedy, I tried to convey how much I appreciated everything she did with my eyes. Or at least, that’s what I wanted to believe.

ㅤㅤThe final ingredient, the only reason for pulling off this little scheme, finally came delivered by none other than my father. In the form of seeds that “enhanced” the spirit of whoever took them. Or so it was said.

ㅤㅤI couldn’t care less. My true intentions about sending a minion on a mission for information on Marvalen without risk blowing my cover yielded results. I would now finally assess the reach of consequences that my excursion the day before had caused…

ㅤㅤ“How do you feel?” my father asked, his voice more serene than the night before, as he handed me a bottle of thick, greenish liquid.
“Better,” I said, lowering my gaze, so I wouldn’t have to hold his guilt.

ㅤㅤMy mother appeared on the door with a blanket. She wrapped it around my shoulders. Her hands soft and warm, like always. They reminded me of someone else I had lost in my previous life.

ㅤㅤ“How was Marvalen?” I asked my father, pretending distraction.

ㅤㅤ“A mess,” he snorted. “Guards everywhere. Searching carts, stopping vendors, asking questions. They’re looking for a young man. Although I like to think I still qualify, my back says otherwise.”

ㅤㅤ“They’re looking for someone?”

ㅤㅤ“Yes. That’s what they said. A murderer. Killed the Lord, can you believe it?”

ㅤㅤ“And what does he look like?” I tried to sound impressed, not interested.

ㅤㅤ“No idea, the description’s incredibly vague. ‘Young man, dangerous, armed.’ Like that’s not every outsider for the past hundred years.”

ㅤㅤPerfect, I thought. They believed they were looking for a man with a villain’s face, broad shoulders, and sinister scar somewhere visible. Not a kid.

ㅤㅤThat was the best advantage of all. Being Iren the boy. Not Iren the assassin.

ㅤㅤHe looked at me again, eyes tired and worried, and sighed.

ㅤㅤ“Rest. Don’t do anything foolish. I’ll be back by nightfall.” He concluded.

ㅤㅤI waited. Listened to the sound of his steps fading away. The gate. Silence.

ㅤㅤAnd I got up.

ㅤㅤI dressed calmly. Nothing attention-grabbing. Still holding the medicine bottle as part of the disguise and with messy hair.

ㅤㅤI passed through the main road, among carts, peasants, and the occasional early traveler. 

ㅤㅤThe wooden palisade of Marvalen was more alive than ever.

ㅤㅤDogs, axes, bows and guards checking carts, asking questions and writing names on wrinkled parchments.

ㅤㅤAnd me, a sad-faced child with a bottle in hand.

ㅤㅤThe moment of truth came.

ㅤㅤ“What brings you here, boy?” A guard in armor asked.

ㅤㅤ“To get medicine for my sick mother,” I replied, lowering my gaze, shoulders hunched.

ㅤㅤThe guard barely looked at me.

ㅤㅤ“Go on. Don’t be long.”

ㅤㅤI entered through the big gate. Walking with the face of someone to whom everything belongs, and guards as my escort.

ㅤㅤAnd then I saw it.

ㅤㅤA poster.

ㅤㅤPinned to a board near the market, corners trembling in the breeze.

𝕎𝔸ℕ𝕋𝔼𝔻

𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘝𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘯
𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘯. 𝘈𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘥, 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴, 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘴.
𝘈𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥. 𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥.
𝘙𝘦𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥: 200 𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘴

ㅤㅤThat was enough to buy a house with land, a wife, and a cow.

ㅤㅤAnd underneath, a fairly well done portrait—that didn’t resemble me in the slightest—a hood and a face covered by a scarf.

ㅤㅤThey had no clue what I looked like.

ㅤㅤAlthough the shading made it resemble the portrait of a demon.

ㅤㅤI guess that’s how you create a villain for the masses.

ㅤㅤI held back the urge to spit on the paper.

ㅤㅤ“Preferably dead,” I murmured. “Again?”

༺═─–⸻–─═༻

ㅤㅤAt thirteen, I still had some hope. Foolish, childish, but alive.

ㅤㅤI went to a rural school of magic. Two hens for the tuition, one more for the final exam.

ㅤㅤThe teacher, Tibil, could cast level-three spells. He claimed to be “a graduate of the Esoteric Conservatory of Karthios,” which sounded impressive until I found out Karthios didn’t exist. Or at least not as an academy. It was a brothel with an exotic name, where they sold “reimagined” magic books.

ㅤㅤClass one: light a candle with your mind.
ㅤㅤResult: the candle melted like butter in the sun. Smelled like disappointment.

ㅤㅤClass two: air shield to block projectiles.
ㅤㅤResult: a kid lost a tooth. The teacher said the stone had “too strong of a will.”

ㅤㅤClass three: levitate a spoon.
ㅤㅤThe spoon did move. Because I kicked it.

ㅤㅤI never went back.

ㅤㅤI finally confirmed that parlor tricks wouldn’t be enough. Violence would have to.

༺═─–⸻–─═༻

ㅤㅤI tried to keep my steps short and even. Not too fast—which suggests urgency, and not too slow, inviting suspicion. Just a sick child. Nothing more. Invisible.

ㅤㅤBut the air was denser than the day before.

ㅤㅤIt screamed.

ㅤㅤNot with voices. With its atmosphere. With glances, absences, with the weight of something dangerous floating in every corner.

ㅤㅤAnother poster was still there. And beside it, a scene.

ㅤㅤA man no longer screamed. His tears were gone.

ㅤㅤTwo guards held him. Bloody lip, bruised face. He didn’t even struggle. He was already defeated.

ㅤㅤ“Why are they arresting him?” someone asked behind a half-opened door.

ㅤㅤ“He is a suspected accomplice for Lord’s death” someone replied, as if being suspected was enough.

ㅤㅤIt was.

ㅤㅤToday, it was.

ㅤㅤMy heart was pored in gasoline. It was just waiting for a spark to ignite.

ㅤㅤThey dragged him down the street, head bowed and hands tied. No one did anything. No one said anything. They just watched.

ㅤㅤ“He’s the fifth they’ve taken this morning,” a woman near me whispered. “They’re going after the young ones. All of them. The miller. The blacksmith’s apprentice. The innkeeper’s son.

 ㅤㅤThey take them… they don’t come back.”

ㅤㅤ“They say there will be hangings,” added another. “A whole line, to set an example.”

ㅤㅤI felt something in my stomach. Not guilt. Rage. Like a fire that doesn’t know where to spread.

ㅤㅤI had to remember why I came. I had a goal: find information about the Capital. If I was going, I needed to know what I was up against.

ㅤㅤI walked a few more streets, arriving to a small shop with an uncolored hanging sign:

𝐈𝐧𝐤𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐬 & 𝐌𝐚𝐩𝐬

ㅤㅤThe door creaked as I opened it. The place had more dust than a nameless tomb. 

ㅤㅤAn older man with magnifying glasses and ink-stained hands looked up. He showed little interest.

ㅤㅤ“What are you looking for, boy?” He asked, as if I had fallen astray.

ㅤㅤ“A map. Of the kingdom.” I replied. “One that has… routes.”

ㅤㅤHe frowned, but didn’t ask why. Opened a drawer and carefully pulled out a rolled parchment. He spread it on the counter, weighing it down with two stones.

ㅤㅤ“This one covers the Central Kingdom. Here’s Marvalen. Here, Nolvar. And much farther north… the Capital. The imperial city. The center of everything.”

ㅤㅤI took out the few coins I had hidden in my sleeve. Just enough.

ㅤㅤAs I counted them, the man spoke, almost to himself.

ㅤㅤ“Beyond these lands rest other kingdoms. The Kingdom of Salt and Storm, to the west. The barren lands of Jur-Had, to the east. The archipelago of Vathmora, south. But this map only covers the stable part. The part that, at least in theory, answers to the Emperor.”

ㅤㅤ“And the soldiers?” I asked. “All these guards… do they obey him?”

ㅤㅤHe let out a dry laugh.

ㅤㅤ“They obey whoever pays for their bread.” He replied. “But there are others. The Defenders of the Kingdom. Sworn knights. Eight in total, unless any have died in recent years. The strongest. The most loyal. When one of them shows up, wars dissolve before they begin. No sane noble faces them. Not inside or outside the kingdom.”

ㅤㅤI carefully stored the map. The name of the Defenders stuck with me. Eight. The Emperor’s sword.

ㅤㅤI left the shop with the weight of knowledge pressing down on my shoulders. And then, I saw something. Something that I already had lived.

ㅤㅤA square.

ㅤㅤSeveral ropes.

ㅤㅤA line of people.

ㅤㅤThe line was long. 

ㅤㅤThe ropes few.

ㅤㅤI could now recognize the smell. It was not exactly the smell of fear; it was the smell of anticipated death.

ㅤㅤI would’ve rather looked away. But I didn’t.

ㅤㅤEven having been the bogeyman itself, this level of cruelty was an orgy of violence without equal.

ㅤㅤMy spot from the day before was now taken by guards. My mind screamed plans and strategies, but my young body could barely carry them out.

ㅤㅤThere wasn’t enough time.

ㅤㅤEven if I wanted, I couldn’t do a thing.