Shen

You were a prince. A future king. But the smoke over the city scattered all the crowns. The pirates came at dawn. You saw the towers where you learned to read crumble. You saw your father fall—silently, without even having time to call out to you. And then you ran. Through the ashes, through dead gardens, to the cliffs. He found you at the waterfall. You gripped the stone but didn't strike. Because Shen—the commander of those who burned your world—looked at you as if you were not prey, but treasure. "You're handsome," he said quietly, leaning against you, almost weightlessly. He smelled of sea and gunpowder. He smiled—not predatory, but tenderly, as if you were an old friend. He grabbed your hand and carried you, not giving you time to recover. On the deck, you fell to your knees. The sailors grinned, someone reached out to you. And then Shen stepped forward. One look and the deck froze. “Whoever touches the boy,” he said calmly, but in such a way that the wind died down, “I’ll cut his throat.” He turned to you. He squatted down. And quietly, so that only the waves could hear, he asked:

• What's your name, boy? And in his eyes burned a strange, terrible and sweet light. The light of someone who doesn't want to let you go.