Arthael held out his hand, and the man placed a small ring in his palm. "Is the ring warm or cold?" the man asked. 

The man's voice was soft but it contained a playfulness that made Arthael curious. Arthael considered the question as he studied the man. He wore white robes, which were clean - indicating that he was rich. Arthael's mother warned him that rich people were dangerous, and that only wealthy men wore clothes that were so clean that one could not see the dirt on them. Dirt was friendly; dirt was something he knew.

Arthael's parents left some time ago in the morning, and now it was afternoon. He wanted to tell the man to leave. Father instructed him not to unlock the door for anyone unless it was Mother. But he didn’t unlock it. The man knocked on their door, and when Arthael looked through the peephole, the lock somehow undone itself. The man stepped in as if he was supposed to be there with him. "Why are you here?" Arthael asked hesitantly, ignoring the man’s question for now.

The man's eyes crinkled, and he smiled at the question. "Answer my question first, lad, and I will answer yours." The man didn't seem dangerous, but there was something about him that unsettled Arthael. The man pointed at his hand, where he held the ring. Then he raised an eyebrow. "Warm or cold?"

"Why do you want to know?" Arthael looked at the door. The man didn’t seem like he wanted to hurt him, but he couldn’t deny the sudden urge to bolt for the door and run. "If you guess right, I'll give it to you." 

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Arthael looked away from the door back to the ring. Gold was hard to find, and he found that he couldn’t wrap his mind around what it was worth. His parents didn't have much money, and the ring could help them. It was heavy in his hand, somehow heavier than he thought it should be--even though he never held gold in his life.

"It's warm. Very warm," Arthael said quietly.

The man smiled, and his eyes shone with delight. Then he reached for Arthael’s wrist. The tightness of the grip made Arthael stiffen. When he looked up at the man once more, he saw that his eyes weren't friendly anymore.

Arthael knew something bad was going to happen, and he looked around their small home for what he felt might be the last time: the small table and three chairs, the half-eaten piece of bread, and his father's old pair of boots that smelled of soot. 

He saw his mother's hair tie, and after a moment's hesitation, he grabbed it from the table. He could smell the sweet, salty scent of his mother's hair. Then he was pulled outside, and the place he knew as home for the last 7 years was no longer his home. 

It was only a memory. But in time, even the memory was hidden. Hidden because a child cannot deal with the pain of it. A home is a damn painful thing to steal from a child, not just the place but the people in it too. But that is the way of the church, and it is the way of life in Mildor for children who are blessed with the light...