***
In the small town of Tokshire, within the Volguard Dominion—the most dominant human kingdom—a crowd roared in the town square. The sun had long since set, yet the square was alive with torchlight and fury. Villagers, even children, ran to nearby food stalls, clutching tomatoes, stale bread, mugs of ale, and whatever else they could carry.
Why?
They had gathered for one purpose only. To throw them.
At who?
A young boy stood tied to a wooden stake at the center of the square. He was no older than eight. His body was frail, thin, and starved—bones pressing sharply against his skin. He was bound tightly, ropes biting into flesh already broken and bruised.
Tomatoes splattered against his chest. Mugs shattered at his feet. Stones struck his ribs, his arms, his face. The crowd hurled not only objects, but words—vile, venomous things shouted with unrestrained malice.
"Murderer!"
"Slave!"
"Demon-spawn!"
"Burn him!"
The boy had already been beaten before being tied there. Lashes, bruises, and blood clung to his skin like a second set of clothes. He wore nothing but a filthy loincloth around his waist. Through tears and swelling, he barely managed to open his eyes.
His voice was small. Cracked and desperate.
"I… I had to… I was only defending myself…"
"Lies!" the crowd roared back.
A man stepped forward—burly, broad-shouldered, and shaking with rage. The boy recognized him immediately. Those hands had beaten him before. Not the only ones, but among the cruelest. In the man's fist was a sheet of paper.
"You lowly bastard," the man spat, his voice thick as he began to read. "For the crimes of… killing my brother…" His voice faltered. "…killing your master and his wife, the state has granted me—the village chief—the right to execute you publicly."
The man sneered.
"As a slave, you are property, not a person. You are afforded no trial. And even if you weren't a slave, you're scum unfit to be called human."
Another man approached the fire pit—the only real source of light in the square. He thrust a wooden rod into the flames, pulling it free as a torch. The boy shuddered violently.
"I was only protecting myself!" the boy cried through sobs. "He was going to kill me!"
The chief struck him hard across the face.
"Not another word!"
The boy choked back tears, barely lifting his head to look at the man.
"Please… I'm sorry…"
No answer came.
The torchbearer stepped closer. The flames crackled hungrily. All the boy could do was watch as his death drew nearer.
'Why… why can't I be happy? Mom left. Dad died. They left me with monsters. Someone—please—save me… This isn't fair!'
"I'm human too!" the boy screamed.
The crowd just laughed, jeered even cheered.
The torch finally touched his left hand.
Fire bloomed instantly. It was an agonizing white-hot pain. They were burning him slowly—limb by limb. He screamed until his voice broke, until his throat was raw.
'Please… I want to live…'
He squeezed his eyes shut. The jeers blurred together—until suddenly, they stopped.
Cheers turned into screams and laughter twisted into panic. The next sound was even more off-putting, he heard running feet.
Running away.
After a moment, the boy dared to open his eyes.
Standing in the square was a young human man, no older than nineteen. His back faced the boy. He was dressed in black—cloaked in shadow, his hair a sharp, ashen black rather than midnight. In his hand was a long, serrated dagger. Dripping from it was blood, which he seemed to be adorned with. The red liquid stained over his pale skin. Bodies littered the square. But the boy's eyes locked onto one thing.
The severed head in the young man's grasp.
"Hm…" the man muttered to himself, casual. "Think this was the right guy. Not sure. Maybe his brother? Either way, they'll pay."
He stuffed the head into a pouch slung across his torso like a sash.
The boy sobbed loudly—too loudly to go unnoticed.
"Oh?" The young man turned, then slowly approached. His face was half-hidden in shadow. "Hey… are you okay?" His voice was surprisingly gentle.
The flames consuming the boy's hand had died out. What remained was charred flesh, raw and ruined.
"P-please… don't kill me…" the boy whispered.
"Kill you?" The young man frowned. "Kid, I wasn't here for you. I was here for him." He nodded toward the pouch.
Hope flickered in the boy's eyes.
"Did he… do this to you?" the man asked quietly. "Did he hurt you?"
"Y-yes…"
Just then the dagger rose and the boy squeezed his eyes shut.
But instead of pain, he heard rope snapping.
"You're safe now."
The stranger knelt beside him, tearing a strip from his cloak and carefully wrapping it around the burned hand.
"You got a name?"
"N-no… they never gave us names…" the boy sniffled.
The man's expression hardened—then softened into a grin.
"Then forget those bastards." He extended a hand. "Come on. I've got a place for you."
He took the boy's uninjured hand. Together, they walked through the blood-soaked square as dawn crept over the horizon.
"You carried too much on your shoulders for someone so small," the stranger said softly. "I'm sorry. The world can be cruel."
They stepped past dead bodies, but the little boy didn't care, for the first time in his life a hand reached out to him. All he could manage was to stare up at him.
Suddenly the strangers face lit up.
"Oh—I've got it. A name for you. How about—"
***
"Atlas? Atlas. Wake up."
Atlas stirred as gentle pokes nudged his shoulder. He opened his eyes to Seris standing over him. Night had fully fallen; they were still riding atop Bithorn's massive back. The air was cold, but Atlas barely noticed.
He'd been lying near the dragon's neck, hands folded behind his head.
Nearby, Garruk sat with Ako perched on his shoulders, the beast-kin tugging at his hair and shouting insults toward Lorian—who still had his eyes squeezed shut and hands clamped over his ears.
"What?" Atlas muttered.
"We're close to the Demon Territories," Seris said quietly.
Atlas sat up slowly. His scarred left hand rose, burned fingers scratching at his stubble as he gazed up at the moonlit clouds.
'Drakos… stay outta my head.'