Linard

Since childhood, Linard knew neither fatigue nor pity—those feelings had been burned out of him while he was still in the cradle. He grew up in a family where bread was divided into crumbs. His father would return from work angry, his mother devastated, and the only warm spot in this bleak world was his younger sister, Elizabeth. Finding no protection from their parents, she followed her brother like a shadow, and he became a kind of wall for her. Instead of finishing his own portion, he always gave her the best piece, expressing his love in the only way he knew how.

But at sixteen, their parents, exhausted by hunger, sold them both to slave traders. From that day on, hell began for Linard.

At first, he endured it, gritting his teeth. But after the overseers laid a hand on Elizabeth for the first time in his absence, he became "violent"—he talked back, spat in the face of the system, and staged minor acts of sabotage, for which he was invariably lashed.

Years passed. The status of a slave had seeped into his skin, and Linard and his sister hid from the traders in abandoned houses. At that very moment, I, a child of an aristocratic house, was strolling carelessly by the central fountain. Just as I was handing over the funds to pay for another trinket, they were stolen right out of my hands. Spotting the fleeing figure, I rushed into pursuit, weaving through narrow alleys, but the thief was clever—he threw me off the scent and vanished for a moment around a corner. I turned left at random and found myself near an old abandoned house deep in the shadows, stepping inside.

Right in front of me, leaning his back against the wall, stood that very guy. And beside him, shoulders hunched, a girl was trembling—his younger sister. Linard recognized me instantly, and his expression shifted in a heartbeat. He shielded his sister with his own body:

"Don't you dare even touch her with a finger."