Grack felt the edge of frustration creeping in. The lad had slipped away during the worst of it—Roger's announcement sent the crowd into chaos, people shouting and shoving like the treasure might drop out of the sky. Grack had been jostled forward, caught elbows in the ribs, scraped his shin on a crate corner.
At least the stink helped. The pelts hanging off his shoulders stank of grease, old sweat, and dried meat. Enough to make people ease away without thinking. He moved forward, using the gap.
The front had thinned a little now. Excitement had pulled some away. He scanned once—then saw him.
Small frame, cap pulled low, red hair peeking just beneath the brim. Standing still near the rope line, eyes fixed on the shimmering projection. While the world surged and shouted, the boy stayed rooted.
Grack's grin came back, wide and sharp.
Storn stood beside him, dully glancing around, picking his nose with his pointer finger and a blank look in his eyes.
Grack nudged him with an elbow. "There," he muttered, eyes locked ahead.
Storn followed the motion, slow to track, blinking once before his hand dropped from his face.
Grack leaned forward slightly, the scent of his own skins curling back in his nose.
There you are.
Grack grinned as he pushed forward, slipping between a man with a fur-lined hood and a woman clutching her coat tight across her chest. The stink of old pelts still gave him space—people leaned away without looking. A few muttered as he passed, but no one stopped him.
He reached the front edge of the crowd and settled in just a few feet behind the boy.
Close now.
Close enough to grab.
But he didn't rush. He waited.
There were still too many eyes nearby—too many people loitering, talking, adjusting their coats or rounding up their kids. Grack didn't want witnesses. He needed a cleaner shot.
The lad stood just ahead, cap pulled low, red hair barely visible beneath the rim. His small frame faced the empty space where the projection had hovered only moments ago. He hadn't moved an inch since Roger's death.
The screen had blinked out in a flicker of light and static. The bloody image vanished, and for a breath, the whole crowd had gone still. Then the noise came back in scattered bursts—footsteps crunching on packed dirt, murmured conversations, the creak of someone's boots as they turned to leave.
People were already peeling off in twos and threes. Some looked shaken. Others just looked tired. Talk about treasure and pirates mixed with questions about what came next. But the kid didn't move.
Grack watched him from behind.
He couldn't see the boy's face, but he didn't need to. The stiff posture said enough. Little shoulders held tense, neck locked straight ahead.
Scared. That had to be it.
The execution had been messy—blood on the boards, chains slack across the body, the air thick with that final moment. Most kids would freeze after seeing something like that. The lad probably hadn't expected it to feel that real.
Grack's grin stretched wider. He licked his bottom lip, breathing in the cold air and the scent of meat fat still clinging to his collar.
Meanwhile, James stood there—the smile still burned into his mind, etched like a hot iron pressed into memory. Every blink, every breath, it hovered behind his eyes.
Could he do that?
Roger had looked like a man who belonged there. Like the scaffold had been built for him, not to end his life, but to prove something deeper. He owned the moment. Fear never touched him. He stood like someone who had already won.
James stayed still. The breeze tugged at the hem of his coat. Cold air brushed his cheeks. His eyes didn't drift.
What did that mean for him?
The question hung inside him like weight on a line, quiet but heavy.
One minute passed. Then three. Then ten.
He stayed rooted. Most of the crowd had gone, voices fading down the roads. Only a few figures lingered, faces turned to the ground, breath visible in the spring air.
Then pressure—sudden, rough.
A hand wrapped across his mouth and nose. A thick cloth shoved against his face. The fingers clutched firm, worn and cracked, skin like old hide.
James inhaled.
A sharp scent punched deep into his sinuses—chemical and sweet, like rotting fruit steeped in cleaning fluid. The cloth carried more than that. Sweat. Grease. A sour stink that clung to flesh too long in unwashed clothes.
His arms jerked slightly. His head wobbled.
Voices thinned. The wind seemed to spin sideways. Someone spoke behind him, but the words came warped, like pressed through glass.
His knees folded.
Colors bent. The light narrowed. Everything tunneled inward, pulled tight like curtains drawing closed.
Then everything went dark.
Grack held James under his coat, cradled like a sleeping child wrapped against the cold. From a distance, it passed easily. The boy's cap was pulled low, and his arms were tucked close. To anyone watching, it looked like a tired kid sleeping off a long day.
They boarded the skiff quietly. The boat was plain—wood-planked, worn, just wide enough for four, with a rolled sail tied at the mast and some nets strewn along the deck. A narrow crawlspace sat under the slats, just enough room to lie down if needed.
The sail caught wind, and Gorn gave a satisfied grunt as they drifted free of the cove, the cliffs behind them shrinking.
"Berries, gems, a clean sail south—hah!" Gorn barked a laugh, slapping the side rail. "We finally hit one clean. Worth every frozen night in this shitty kingdom."
Grack chuckled, setting James gently down under the forward shelter. "Told you the little redhead would be worth it. That family's swimming in coin."
"They'll pay it," Gorn said, already grinning. "And we'll be halfway across the sea before they even count it."
The ransom note spelled everything out. The family would row a dinghy out, halfway, drop the chest, and turn back. Grack and Gorn would retrieve it, sail on until Whiteland slipped far behind them, and then leave the boy drifting in his own small boat, pointed toward land.
If anyone followed or tried anything, the boy would die. Simple as that.
James didn't stir. His breath stayed shallow under the coat, the scent of the cloth still clinging faintly—chemical and damp, like something meant to clean tools, not people.
The boat rocked with the breeze, the coast falling behind with each gust. Gorn leaned back, feet stretched, face loose with satisfaction. Grack kept his eyes forward, lips pressed into a steady line.
The payout felt close enough to touch.
Meanwhile…
The spring sun was just beginning to rise over Whiteland, its pale light glinting across patches of wet snow and muddy ground. The estate's stone paths were still slick with melt, the morning chill hanging in the air.
Tomas and Marry were walking back from the temporary stands near the town square, expecting James to already be at the estate. Belinda had taken the younger children back early—too young, she'd said, to watch a man die. Tomas was three, so it's not like he would miss much. He'd probably have fun playing with his cousins, they had figured.
He was mid-story, retelling one of his hunting tales, voice booming above the crunch of his boots. He'd been tracking a small herd of caribou when a grizzly twice his size had come charging out from the thickets. He'd slipped trying to pivot, lost his footing—and his pants—sliding half-naked down a slope with only his spear in hand. The men walking with him were howling with laughter as Tomas raised his hand, demonstrating the spin with exaggerated flair.
Marry walked beside him, listening with a calm smile. She'd mended the tear from that very story. Probably heard it a dozen times. Still, she let him have his moment.
Then came the servant.
He sprinted down the path from the estate house, boots slapping wet stone, breath puffing fast in the cold. His face was pale, and in his hand, he held a sealed note high above his head.
He didn't wait for permission to speak.
The Midas family—Marry's kin—had received a ransom letter. A boy had been taken. Red hair. Green eyes. About three years old. The description left no room for doubt.
The moment the words left his mouth, panic spread.
Aunts gasped. Cousins froze. One of the uncles swore under his breath. A younger cousin burst into tears. The air filled with sharp, overlapping questions—Where was he last seen? Who was watching him? Had anyone checked the vendors?
But at the center of it all, James's parents remained steady.
Marry's hands folded over her stomach. Her eyes stayed fixed on the letter. She didn't blink.
Tomas's arms crossed over his chest, the haft of his spear resting behind his shoulder. His brow didn't twitch. The smile from his hunting story had vanished, but nothing else about him had shifted.
They confirmed it. James was missing.
Tomas didn't move. His arms stayed crossed over his chest, muscles thick beneath the newer, stiffer skins his wife had made him wear. The seams hugged his frame, each stitch clean, the hide creaked faintly as he breathed. When he exhaled, the air around him shifted—cold and dry, with a sharp scent of pine and old stone.
Beside him, Marry stood calm. Her black hair swayed in the breeze, strands catching the light like dark silk. Her dress, newly made from lynx hide, clung to her figure. The leather held a polished sheen, fitted smooth along her hips and tight across her chest. Her breasts rose with each breath—high, full, perfectly shaped beneath the snug collar and shaped bodice. The fresh stitching glinted at the seams, strong and purposeful.
Her emerald eyes swept across the gathered faces once, bright with clarity. Her fingers curled softly at her sides, still and ready. She spoke with steady breath, her voice smooth and deliberate, resting just above the wind's hush.
"I'll see you at home, with our son."
And she walked.
Step… step… step.
Each step pressed into the earth with firm weight, her boots tapping over stone and frozen dirt. The steady rhythm carried across the open path. Her hips moved with quiet strength, coat tail swaying gently. Heads turned in her wake.
Some mouths hung open.
Jaws loose, breaths held. A hush moved with her.
A few eyes widened.
Brows lifted as she passed through them.
She moved forward towards town.
Step… step… step.
Her boots faded into the distance, the shine of her dress catching the evening sun's edge. She never paused.
Eyes returned to Tomas.
His place now empty. The space where he had stood, still and wide. The wind tugged gently across it, like it had swept him away- no one had seen him leave.