Footsteps rushing as a young boy wandered through the dense forest, his voice hoarse from calling out. “Father? Father, where are you?” His small, trembling body searched in vain for the familiar figure of his father.

The boy’s cries echoed through the trees, growing weaker with each passing moment. Finally, he fell to his knees, the weight of despair pressing him into the dirt. “You lied,” he sobbed, his small hands clenched into fists. “Father, you told me you would be back!”

His tears fell freely now, each drop mingling with the earth beneath him. Memories surged like a flood, pulling him back to a time of innocent hope.

A time before his father ever told a lie.

…Same day, but prior…

The boy clung to his father’s arm, his small fingers wrapped tightly around the rough fabric of his father’s coat. His father, a tall and strong figure, knelt down and ruffled his hair gently. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back, safe and sound.” He assured him, his voice filled with a confidence that should have been comforting.

But the boy could see the tears streaming down his mother’s face, each drop falling like rain. She stood silently behind them, her sorrow unspoken but visible. The two guards waiting on the entrance finally approached, their expressions solemn.

“It’s time,” one of them said.

The father nodded at his wife, a silent farewell passing between them. He gently released his son’s grip and stepped forward, flanked by the guards.

The boy’s heart ached as he watched his father walk away, his form growing smaller with each step.

…

Today was the day the ceremony took place, a grand spectacle it was meant to be, a tradition ingrained in the fabric of their society by their people. Yet it had a darker truth, a truth everyone was a participant in, a truth that made the old crumble and was imprinted in the young who could only watch.

No one was allowed to miss it. No one was allowed to cry or mourn. It was supposed to be a day of joy, a day to celebrate the stars’ favor.

The boy stood beside his mother, her hand gripping his tightly. He fought to hold back his tears, his nose running as he tried to stay composed. Before them, his father was laid on a luxurious bed carried by four men, his arms were lowered, shackles barely visible as they were tied to the ornate frame.

He wore the finest clothes, a mockery of the situation, and was forced to smile at the crowd with happy eyes.

The boy watched as his father’s eyes found his. The man’s smile wavered, and tears began to fall, betraying his stoic façade.

…

Orin woke with a startle, his body drenched in sweat. He cursed under his breath, his hands trembling as he wiped his face. This nightmare from his childhood, plagued him relentlessly. It was a memory he could never escape, a shadow that clung to him despite the passing years.

“Damn it,” he muttered, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He stood up, feeling the weight of his past pressing down on him. “Damn this curse,” he snapped, his voice a growl in the silence of his room.

He knew he had to push through it, to keep going despite the relentless torment of his memories. The past was a chain, but it would not define his future.

Pushing himself out of bed with a grim determination. He grabbed his axe, the familiar weight a comfort in his hands.

As he prepared for the day, a rare smile touched his lips, recalling last night when he helped Zarek escape the fate that had claimed his own father.

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His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps. His apprentice, face pale and eyes wide with panic, rushed into the room. “Master! The elders have captured Zarek! He was trying to escape!”

Orin’s heart plummeted, the shock and terror gripping him like a vice. “What?” he breathed, finding it hard to believe the words he just heard. The news was already spread in the village the day prior, but he kept his mind occupied and blocked everything unrelated to the uninvited guests that arrived.

The boy continued, his voice shaking, “They say his departing ceremony will be held later today!”

Orin’s blood ran cold as the reality of the situation settled in. Without a moment’s hesitation, he changed direction and sprinted toward the hole Zarek was in, the very same place where his father had been held all those years ago.

As he approached, the sight of countless guards swarming the area confirmed his worst fears. Orin pushed his way forward, desperation lending strength to his movements. “Let me through! I just want to speak with him!” he shouted.

The guards, unmoved by his pleas, blocked his path. But their leader, recognizing Orin, shook his head at them. “Let him through,” he ordered, his voice carrying a note of reluctant respect.

Orin rushed past the guards, his heart pounding in his chest. There, in the depths of the place, he saw Zarek. Chains bound the young man’s hands and feet, and he lay on the cold, hard ground, his spirit crushed.

“Zarek,” Orin called softly, his voice a mix of sorrow and determination. Zarek slowly lifted his head from his knees, his eyes meeting Orin’s with a weary gaze. They stared at each other for a long moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them.

Zarek managed a faint smile. “Don’t worry, Uncle Orin. I’ll be fine.”

Orin’s world seemed to crumble at those words. His body trembled as the image of his father overlapped with Zarek’s. He slowly nodded, and yet unable to find his voice, he could only turn away.

As he walked back through the village, tears streamed down his face unconsciously, each step heavier than the last. He left the village, sorrow overwhelming him.

…

Zarek sat there, surrounded by guards who loomed at the edges, their eyes never leaving him. Despite the gravity of his situation, his dark humor was the only thing keeping him afloat. He inwardly mocked the guards. ‘It’s not like I was going to escape,’ he thought. ‘Not that I could.’

‘Everything great must come to an end,’ he mused bitterly. ‘I’m sure my many friends will miss me terribly.’ He chuckled softly to himself, the sound hollow in the cold air.

His thoughts turned to the people who had helped him, a pang of regret stabbing at his heart. He remembered their faces, their kindness, and he cursed himself for implicating them in his doomed escape. ‘I never wanted to involve any of you.’

Hunger gnawed at his stomach, a constant reminder of his plight. He cursed the guards who had confiscated everything he had, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts. ‘Of all the things to take, did they really need my food?’ he thought, shaking his head.

Time was ticking, it waited for no one. The sun rose higher and higher, spreading warmth and light, yet, as time passed, Zarek felt miserable and his desperation and depression seemed to intensify the isolation he felt.

His mind wandered to memories, regrets, and the slim hope that flickered in his chest. As noon’s heat began to creep in, he heard the distant sound of drums, a low, rhythmic thrum that grew steadily louder. He muttered to himself, “So, it has begun.”

Four guards and two women approached his pit. One of the guards threw down a ladder and barked, “Climb.” Zarek understood it was too late to do anything now, and he did as he was told.

Once he reached the top, the guards and the women set to work. The guards removed his shackles, which had left deep bruises on his wrists and ankles. Zarek joked internally, ‘I feel uncomfortable without the shackles. They’ve become a part of me.’

It was then the women’s turn. Without asking for permission, they began to strip him of his clothes. Zarek inwardly blushed, thinking, ‘We haven’t even had our first date yet.’

They stripped him naked and proceeded to wash him. The temperature was cold, and the water was even colder, biting into his skin. Yet, they disregarded his discomfort and scrubbed him thoroughly.

The process was meticulous. The women used rough cloths and cold water, their hands moving briskly over his skin. Zarek clenched his teeth against the chill, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity as they worked.

They then dressed him in luxurious clothes, more extravagant than anything he had ever seen, even on the elders. He wore a heavy tunic that was golden with red stripes, paired with pants of an identical design. The women then smeared pigment on his face, creating black, yellow, and red lines that felt ceremonial but suffocating as well.

The guards pushed him to sit on a palanquin, a bed-like structure with corners to which they reattached his chains. The weight of the shackles returned, and Zarek joked inwardly, ‘This is the best I’ve been treated. They’re spoiling me like a king.’

They lifted the palanquin, and Zarek was carried through the village. Crowds had gathered, the sound of drums filling the air. There was festivity everywhere, a stark contrast to the dread that filled him. Zarek joked to himself, ‘Look at how popular I am. Everyone’s out to see me. I’ll be greatly missed.’