A gaunt young man with olive skin, battered and wounded, lay beneath a wilting pinecone tree.
Grimacing, pain searing through his hip and spine, he forced himself upright, teeth gritted and vision blurring.
Trembling with every movement, a sharp ache radiating through his hip and up his spine, he struggled to sit up. For a moment, the world tilted, his vision dimming at the edges—but he clenched his teeth, gathered what little strength he had left, and forced himself to stand.
The evening air bit at his skin, cold and unforgiving. He couldn't afford to linger; the wounds were bad enough without the chill seeping deeper into his bones. Just hours earlier, he had been dragged into a scuffle with the villages "Rugrats"—little devils with too much pride and too little mercy—over a debt he hadn't been able to pay.
Shivering, he staggered across the uneven terrain, boots scraping against loose gravel and dirt, until at last the crooked outline of his lodging came into view. A faint, flickering light glowed outwards. Waiting at the doorway was a boy
"Huh. You're back early today," the boy said, leaning lazily against the frame. "Guess your debt didn't earn you a harsher beating this time." The boy's tone was sharp, almost amused.
This was Luke—Damien's younger brother, though you wouldn't know it from the way he spoke.
"Yeah, whatever," Damien muttered hoarsely, brushing past him. "You're blocking the door."
Luke snorted and stepped aside. " There are eggs on the table."
"…"
Inside, boiled eggs scented the cramped space, clinging to the air and pockmarked walls. Darkness swallowed the narrow hallway and uneven floor—anyone else might mistake it for a dungeon.
Damien moved quickly despite the pain, climbing the creaking stairs and making his way to the washroom. He turned the handle, and with a sputter, the shower came to life. Cold water poured over him, washing away grime, blood, and the day's humiliation.
When he was done, he dried himself with a worn piece of fabric and headed back down. The eggs sat on the table, already cold, a small pile of salt beside them.
He picked one up and bit into it.
"Munch… munch…"
A long sigh escaped him as he stared blankly at the table.
"Man… I'm tired of this," Damien said, his voice low but heavy, as though the words themselves had been waiting far too long to be spoken.