# Chapter 2: Dark Coin and the Silent Road
I still sat on the wet wooden planks of that dock, staring at my wrists where the rope burns still throbbed red. The black-robed man had almost disappeared at the far end of the pier.
"Move," one of the Bearded One's men grunted, still standing near me. He stomped his foot on the planks. His voice was still rough, but there was a tremor underneath. Fear.
Their eyes were still fixed on that dark coin, now in their boss's hand. The old man—the Bearded One, who usually looked fierce—now seemed unsettled by something.
With the last scraps of strength I didn't know I still had, my muscles trembled. But the will to live—or maybe just curiosity about whatever new hell awaited—forced me to stand.
I walked, following the man's black silhouette. My feelings were mixed. Relief, but not entirely relief.
No new chains. No orders. Just a distance I had to keep—ten steps behind him, like a faithful shadow. This was the most uncomfortable freedom I'd ever felt.
That evening, we walked away from the noise and stench of the docks, deeper into the city's labyrinth.
The hooded man didn't look back. His strides were long and certain, as if he knew every slick stone, every blind corner. His pitch-black robe didn't get wet from the drizzling rain. The water seemed to reject it, sliding off in droplets that never soaked the fabric.
I was the opposite. Shivering. Goosebumps crawling up my arms. Water seeping through the rags clinging to my body.
There was something strange and hard to understand about walking near him. The air around this man felt heavy. Different.
After a while, I realized: no one was looking at us. Or rather, they were deliberately not looking.
The gazes of Nidhogg's Bay's residents—drunken sailors to pleasure women on balconies—seemed to glide right past us. Sometimes they'd pause on the hooded man, then quickly look away with wary, even frightened expressions.
This man was like a ghost among them. Something they acknowledged existed but preferred to ignore.
After turning into a quieter alley, the hooded man led me through a small gate—one I hadn't known existed in this city. Away from the sounds of city life, he stopped in a narrow street.
In front of us stood a simple enclosed carriage, pulled by two large black horses. The horses were eerily calm. Their eyes were partly covered by leather blinkers. A driver whose face was hidden behind a plain iron mask sat on the front bench, as silent as the horses themselves.
The hooded man opened the carriage's rear door. He didn't say anything. Just waited.
His gaze was still too calm. It made me increasingly uncomfortable.
I hesitated.
What was I supposed to do now? Jump into an unknown darkness? Or stay outside—in a world that had already proven it would eat me alive?
It wasn't really a choice at all.
My body trembled slightly. Then, with the last of my strength, I climbed inside. The carriage floor was cold and hard, covered in dry straw that smelled musty. The door closed slowly but gently, leaving small gaps on the sides for air.
The carriage moved. The vibrations traveled up through the wooden floor, rattling my aching bones.
I curled up in the corner, trying to gather warmth from my own body. Outside, the sounds of Nidhogg's Bay faded, replaced by the howl of wind growing stronger and the constant thud of wheels on dirt roads.
Sleep was impossible. Every bone in my body felt like it was crying. My thoughts spun in circles, trying to understand what had just happened—but always landed on the same thing.
Who was that man? Was he from the Order, in disguise? But his robe was different. Simpler. Emptier. Like his gaze. And the smugglers' attitude earlier? They'd been wary of him. Especially after he gave them that strange coin.
But for some reason—maybe the wind, maybe something else inside this carriage—my mind drifted back to the pig-faced priest's disgusting examination of Leon this morning. What did they want with a boy like that? Then I remembered the cold stares of the royal knights, looking at our bodies like merchandise. And finally, the shadows of four years of miserable suffering.
I hugged myself tighter. I didn't want to look weak in front of that man, even as something hot twisted in my chest.
Why did everyone I met call me a monster? They were far more monstrous than me.
My eyes. That's what made people shun me, hate me, nearly kill me. But the robed man... did he buy me out of pity? Or did he just not care?
---
The journey felt slow. It lasted nearly the whole night. The rain stopped, replaced by the silence of wet grasslands. But thick fog still clung to everything.
Sometimes, through the gaps, I saw the empty road outside. I couldn't ignore that man for even a moment. Haunted by thoughts that kept me alert.
I wasn't sure, but midnight seemed to have passed. I saw pale gray light from the moon, partly hidden by fog—when the carriage finally stopped.
The sounds outside felt different now. An unfamiliar silence. Wind hissing through dense leaves. The smell of wet earth and green plants replaced the stench of Nidhogg's Bay.
The carriage door opened. The robed man stood outside, his face still hidden under his hood. Dim moonlight outlined his silhouette—tall, lean, not heavily muscled but radiating a strong, balanced presence. He nodded, signaling for me to get down.
My legs felt stiff as I touched the ground. We were in a courtyard surrounded by thick spruce forest.
In front of us stood a building that looked more like a neglected small monastery than a countryside house. Made of gray, moss-covered stone, with a shingle roof where several tiles were missing. I saw a short chimney releasing thin smoke that curled upward.
"Go inside," the man said for the first time since the dock. His voice was calm, but now far more relaxed than when he'd spoken to the Bearded One—though still cold.
I followed him through a low wooden door. The interior of this old monastery was simple but clean—very different from its exterior. The main room was a living space and also a small library. Shelves filled with parchment scrolls and old leather-bound books.
A small hearth still burned, radiating warmth that I felt deep into my bones.
There was a rough wooden table, a few benches, and in the corner, a simple bunk bed with straw mattresses. The dominant smells were dust and burning wood, and something else… like herbal concoctions or cold metal.
The man finally lowered his hood.
I held my breath.
His face wasn't what I'd imagined. He wasn't a wrinkled old man or a sharp-featured noble. He was perhaps in his early thirties—about my father's age. Pale face, hard lines around his mouth and eyes. Black hair, cut short and neat.
And his eyes. Pale gray, like cold ash.
Those eyes looked at me with an intensity that felt almost physical. Assessing. Without a single readable emotion.
He walked to the hearth and added some dry wood to build up the flame.
"Sit by the fire," he said. No introduction. "There's water and bread on the table."
I looked at the bread. Hunger and thirst finally won over the vigilance I'd been holding. I crawled to the bench near the hearth and devoured the coarse bread greedily, gulping water from the wooden container until the last drop.
That simple food tasted like a god's banquet on my half-numb tongue.
The man watched me eat, then took a small wooden box from a shelf.
"The wounds on your back need cleaning. If they get infected, you could die. And my investment would be wasted."
*Investment.* That was the word he used. And I just remembered—I wasn't a human anymore. I was goods.
Something inside me hardened, though relief came with it. At least this was honest. No illusion of rescue.
"Who are you?" I asked, my voice hoarse after swallowing.
"Call me Master," he answered shortly, opening the box and taking out clean cloth and a bottle of clear liquid. "And you, for now, are an Apprentice. So try to mind your manners."
"Apprentice? What do you mean?" My body tensed.
His gray eyes looked at me. "Surviving is the first lesson. But you're already quite skilled at that, aren't you? Threatening another boy to stay quiet to avoid the whip. Cruel, but effective—even though you got whipped anyway."
I flinched. He saw that? From where?
"It—" My voice came out soft and stammering. I lowered my head slightly. The man pulled out another bottle—something like ointment—and approached me.
"In Blackwater, anything that keeps you alive is 'necessary,'" he said, almost muttering. "But here, the rules are different. Here, blind cruelty is weakness. And weakness isn't tolerated."
"Turn around."
I stared at him in disbelief, but then obeyed. With movements that were fast and skilled—surprising for someone who seemed so cold—he cleaned the wounds on my back. The liquid stung, but afterward, the ointment felt cool and soothing. It made my thoughts churn in confusion.
"Hunter's Eyes," he murmured suddenly. His fingers barely touched the skin around my shoulder blade. But the words made something inside me beat faster. "A hunted heirloom. Cursed. Hidden. Did they give you a name, boy?"
"No," I answered, trying to sound flat. "Giving a name is giving power. I wouldn't give them that."
"Good," the man said.
"A name is a burden. A burden only slows a person down. You can choose your own name later, or remain nameless. It doesn't matter." He finished bandaging my back with the cloth. "What matters is what you can do. And what I can teach you."
"Teach me? I have nothing. They even call me a monster!" I said, anger suddenly surging out of nowhere, making my breath quicken. "Aren't you supposed to be afraid of me?"
Then—
"Ha-ha-ha-ha."
His laugh echoed through the room. It reminded me of the smugglers' mocking laughter at the dock.
"I said—you're supposed to be afraid of me!"
The laughter stopped.
"Everyone is afraid of me. Everyone calls me a monster. You should be afraid of me too," I said through gritted teeth.
The Master stood. His gaze had returned to calm. He leaned slightly toward me.
"Maybe."
"Maybe?" I shot back.
"Yes. Maybe I should be afraid of you. But not now. Not with a boy who doesn't even know who he is yet." His words made me even more confused. I stared at him with growing curiosity.
"You see the world with Hunter's Eyes. The world looks unstable—like ripples on water. Sometimes things seem to move slower, like faint lines. Mild migraines." He cut in.
I sucked in a breath and jumped back several steps to keep distance.
How did he know? That was my secret. The only thing that helped me survive—to see where guards were careless, to spot the tracks of small animals to steal. My father understood me best. But this man…?
"How do you know that? Are you one of *them*?" My voice caught slightly.
The man looked at me for a moment before turning away to clean up the scattered tools he'd accidentally knocked over.
"You can calm down now. The ones who want your life wouldn't bother treating your wounds. They'd be far more honest," the man said—there was something strange in his words as I caught a odd smirk that disappeared from his lips.
He stood and put the box back on the shelf. I stared at his back, trying to parse his complicated words.
"So you… you're not one of them? And how do I know you're not lying?"
He turned, and I caught a flash in those gray eyes—not anger or mockery, but something… hard to explain.
"Life always demands. Wherever you go, every breath you take forces you to pay its price. Like someone buying a weapon. A tool." He looked at me again. This time his gaze felt intimidating.
"I'm not a tool!" I snapped.
He turned and walked calmly to the small window, staring out into the expanse of dark spruce forest shadows.
"Everyone is a tool," he countered calmly. There was something restrained in his voice. "And tools always serve their owners. Like kings serve the ambitions of nobles. Priests serve their own fears. Everyone serves something. Your only choice now is… to be a dull, replaceable tool—or a sharp, valuable one. One that decides how and for what purpose it's used."
His sharp gaze returned to me. His logic was cutting, impossible to argue against. Because his words pierced exactly the wounds I'd buried for so long.
And he was right.
In Nidhogg's Bay, I was merchandise, bought and sold. Here, maybe I'd become a tool for this strange man. Everywhere I went, every breath felt choked.
"So… what is your real purpose in buying me? Then making me a tool?" I asked, trying to hold his gaze.
He approached again, sitting on the bench across from me. "To watch. To learn. To become something more than just a slave or a victim. I'll train you. Not just your body—though that's also important—but especially your mind and your sight. I'll teach you to read signs others don't see. To understand the invisible currents of power that move the world. To control, little by little, the blood inheritance inside you."
"Why? What do you get from all this?"
"Why?"
"That's what I want to know too," he continued. "And perhaps, one day… an ally. The world is heading toward a turning point. Collapse, or perhaps a rebellion of the oppressed… the right tool in the right hand can change everything. And that question will be answered in the end." He still stared at me.
This man was insane. His words were far more complicated and confusing than any strange person I'd ever met. But inside his madness, he promised me something.
Power. A means to never feel the whip's heat again. To no longer be merchandise bought and sold.
It was almost irresistible.
"And if I refuse?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
His gray eyes glinted coldly. "The door is there. The forest is wide, full of wild beasts—walking on two legs and four. You're free to leave. But remember, the dark coin has been paid. In the eyes of the world, you're mine. If you run, you're still prey. Only this time, it might not be stupid smugglers chasing you."
*Coin?*
The threat was implied, but clear. I looked at the hearth, at the books, then at my thin, wounded hands.
Again, not a choice at all. And running from this man… seemed harder than running from smugglers.
"I'll stay," I said. My voice sounded strange in my own ears, trembling slightly from holding back the storm inside.
The Master nodded, as if he'd known it from the start. "Lessons begin tomorrow. For today, rest. Eat more if you need. There are clean clothes in the chest in the corner. Throw away what you're wearing now—the smell of desperation attracts the wrong kind of attention."
He stood and went into another room beside this one, leaving me alone with the flickering fire.
I sat in silence for a long time, digesting everything. Especially the short conversation that added to the dizziness in my head.
*Apprentice. Tool. Ally?*
Those words spun again. I looked around the room, trying to find clues about who this man really was. The books on the shelves seemed to be in various languages—some with symbols I recognized from the Veridian Kingdom, others with strange, swirling marks. No decorations. No religious symbols. This place was like a hermit's den… or an assassin's, like my father used to describe.
But exhaustion finally won. I changed into the coarse linen clothes provided—itchy but clean—and finally crawled into the lower bunk. The straw mattress was hard, but more comfortable than wet wooden planks or hard ground.
Staring at the small fire in the hearth, my mind flashed back to the dock. To Max, that wannabe hero boy. And to Leon the blond with his empty gaze when he'd looked at me.
What happened to them now? Were they still alive? Had they already learned, as I was about to learn, that softness was poison?
I closed my eyes.
But my thoughts kept spinning—about the Master's words about Hunter's Eyes. About the Master himself. About his cold words that somehow felt honest.
In Blackwater, everyone seemed like expert liars.
And here… maybe I was the only one who didn't know the truth.