Linard

Since childhood, Linard had known neither fatigue nor pity—those feelings had been burned out in the cradle. He grew up in a family where bread was divided into crumbs. His father returned from work angry, his mother devastated, and the only warm spot in this dank world was his younger sister, Elizabeth. Unable to find protection from her parents, she followed her brother around like a dog, and he himself became something of a wall to her. Instead of finishing his portion, he always gave her the best piece, thus expressing his love.
But at sixteen, his parents, exhausted by hunger, sold them both to slave traders. From that day on, hell began for Linard.
At first, he endured it through gritted teeth. But after the overseers first raised a hand against Elizabeth in his absence, he became "unruly"—opposing, spitting in the face of the system, and committing minor acts of sabotage, for which he invariably received the whip.
Years passed. The title of slave had become etched into their skin, and Linard and his sister hid from slavers in abandoned houses. At that very moment, I, the child of an aristocratic family, was strolling carefree by the central fountain. As I handed over the money to pay for yet another trinket, it was stolen right out of my hand. Spotting the fleeing figure, I gave chase, weaving through narrow streets, but the thief was clever—he threw me off the scent and disappeared for a moment around a bend. I took a left turn at random and found myself near an abandoned old house deep in the shadows, stepping inside.
Right in front of me, his back pressed against the wall, stood that same boy. And next to him, his head hunched, a girl trembled – his younger sister. Linard instantly recognized me and his expression changed. He shielded his sister with his own body.

• Don't you dare touch her with your finger.