Ironbound

"That kid's nothing but trouble," one muttered, poking at the fire with a stick. "Why's he putting so much effort into him?"

Another snorted, gulping down a swig of ale. "Because he thinks he's some kind of genius. Always talking about strength and survival. Should've just sold the brat when we had the chance."

A third bandit, older and grizzled, leaned forward, his voice low. "You think the boss is happy about it? I saw him yelling at Torik earlier. They're not on the same page."

The firelight flickered across their faces, casting long shadows as their murmurs grew darker.

"He's pushing too far. Mark my words, this'll blow up in his face."

The bandit leader's tent was dimly lit, the heavy canvas muffling the distant sounds of the camp. He stood near a crude map spread across a wooden table, his finger tracing routes and plans.

The flap rustled as Torik entered, his smirk faint but present as he leaned casually against the tent's frame.

"You wanted to see me?" Torik drawled, his voice laced with mockery.

The leader didn't look up immediately. When he did, his expression was hard. "You think you're clever, don't you?"

Torik tilted his head, his smirk widening. "I like to think so."

The leader slammed his fist on the table, his voice rising. "I'm not playing games here, Torik! That boy is a liability, and you're wasting resources on him!"

Torik didn't flinch, his gaze steady. "A liability? You saw him today. He's stronger than half the men here, and he's just getting started."

"Started?" the leader barked. "He's not part of the crew. He's a damn captive. The buyers wanted him, and you turned them down! For what? To feed your ego?"

Torik's smirk faltered, his voice dropping. "No. To create something better. That boy's not just strong, he's different. And if we can shape him, he'll be worth more than any coin those buyers could've offered."

The leader stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "And if he dies before then? What happens when the rest of the men start questioning why we're keeping a runt like him alive?"

Torik's expression hardened. "Then we'll deal with it. But until then, he's mine to handle."

For a moment, the tent was silent, the two men locked in a tense standoff.

Finally, the leader shook his head, muttering under his breath. "Fine. But if this goes south, it's on you."

Torik's smirk returned, faint but triumphant. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

From his cage, Kain watched the camp closely. He saw the glances the bandits threw toward Torik, the whispers that died the moment Torik entered the clearing.

The young girl sat beside him, her knees drawn to her chest. "They're fighting," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Kain didn't respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the firelight flickering across Torik's face.

"Good," Kain said finally, his voice low.

The old man chuckled softly from the corner of the cage. "Good? How's that good for us?"

Kain leaned his head back against the bars, his voice steady. "Because it means they're distracted."

Over the next few days, the tension in the camp grew palpable. The bandits grumbled more openly, their disdain for Torik bubbling to the surface.

"He thinks he's better than the rest of us," one muttered as he sharpened his blade.

Another added, "We're not soldiers. We're bandits. Why's he acting like we're training for war?"

Torik seemed oblivious, or perhaps indifferent, to the growing unrest. He continued to focus on Kain, his smirk unshaken as he pushed the boy further each day.

The camp was quieter than usual the next morning. The bandits moved sluggishly. Kain sat in the cage, his back against the bars, watching the bandits through half-closed eyes.

The young girl was nearby, her knees drawn to her chest as she picked at a loose thread on her tattered sleeve.

"Why are they so angry all the time?" she asked softly.

Kain didn't answer immediately. His gaze shifted to the fire where Torik and the leader were locked in another tense exchange, their gestures sharp and voices low.

"Because they're weak," Kain said finally.

The girl frowned, her wide eyes flicking toward the bandits. "They don't look weak."

"They are," Kain replied, his voice steady. "Weak because they can't control themselves. Weak because they let fear and greed guide them."

The old man chuckled from the corner of the cage. "You've got it all figured out, don't you?"

Kain didn't respond, his gaze distant.

Later that day, Torik called Kain into the clearing. The usual crowd of bandits gathered, their expressions a mix of boredom and annoyance.

"You're improving," Torik said as Kain picked up the wooden staff. "But not fast enough."

Kain's grip tightened on the staff, his knuckles whitening.

"Today, we're focusing on precision," Torik continued. He gestured toward a line of crude targets, small sacks of sand hanging from a rope. "You'll strike each target. Dead center. Miss, and you start over."

The targets swung in uneven arcs, their movement dictated by the wind and the coarse rope suspending them. Kain stood in front of the first sack, his hands gripping the wooden staff tightly. Sweat trickled down his temple, stinging his eyes, but he didn't wipe it away.

The first strike was clean, the staff connecting with a satisfying thud against the center of the sack. Torik nodded slightly, his smirk faint.

"Again."

Kain moved to the next target. This one swung erratically, the rope creaking with each shift. He hesitated for half a heartbeat, his eyes tracking its movement. When he swung, the staff glanced off the edge, sending the sack spinning wildly.

"Wrong!" Torik barked. "Again."

Kain reset his stance, his grip tightening. He struck again, harder this time, but the sack spun out of reach, his blow missing entirely.

"Stop swinging like a farmer chopping wood," Torik snapped, stepping closer. "It's not about strength. It's about control."

Kain's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. He raised the staff again, his shoulders tense. The next strike hit the sack, but it was off-center, the impact dull and unsatisfying.

Torik let out a sharp laugh, his smirk widening. "You think that's going to save you in a fight? Again."

The failures stacked up. Each missed strike felt like a weight pressing down on Kain's shoulders, but Torik offered no reprieve. Each time the staff hit the wrong spot, or missed entirely, Torik ordered him to start over.

The staff began to feel heavier in his hands. His arms trembled with the effort of holding it steady, and his palms burned where the rough wood bit into his skin. By the fifth attempt, the splinters had started to draw blood, red streaks lining his hands.

"Again!" Torik barked.

Kain gritted his teeth, ignoring the sharp sting as he tightened his grip. He struck the sack, hitting its edge once more. His arms trembled, the frustration bubbling inside him like a storm.

"Pathetic," Torik said, his tone cold. "Do it again, or drop the staff and admit you're too weak."

Kain's gaze snapped to Torik, his jaw tightening. His chest heaved, his breaths ragged, but he didn't let go of the staff.

He swung again, and again, and again.

His hands bled, the wood slick with his own blood, but he didn't stop. The jeers from the watching bandits faded into the background, drowned out by the pounding in his ears. His focus narrowed to the sack, its movement the only thing that mattered.

The sack swung toward him, and this time, Kain didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, his body coiling like a spring before releasing with a precise strike. The staff hit dead center, the impact resonating through his arms.

The sack swung back, its movement slower now, but Kain didn't wait. He struck again, the blow just as sharp and deliberate as the first. Then again. And again.

The clearing grew quiet, the bandits watching in silence as Kain struck each target with precision. Blood dripped from his hands, staining the staff, but his grip didn't falter.

Finally, he stood before the last target, his chest heaving. The sack swayed gently, almost taunting him. Kain raised the staff and struck, the blow landing squarely in the center.

For a moment, everything was still.

Then Torik clapped, slow and deliberate. "Now that," he said, stepping closer, "is what I've been waiting for."

Kain lowered the staff, his hands trembling as he leaned heavily on it for support.

Torik crouched in front of him, his smirk faint. "Pain doesn't matter," he said softly. "You proved that today."

Kain was led back to the cage, his body aching with every step. His hands throbbed, the cuts raw and stinging,. He sat against the bars, staring at the staff they hadn't bothered to take from him.

Kain glanced at the young girl, who was curled up against the bars, fast asleep. His gaze shifted to the old man, whose snores filled the silence of the cage.

If he escaped, he'd have to leave them behind. He knew that. They'd slow him down, and he couldn't afford that.

But if he stayed, he'd only grow stronger. Torik's lessons, cruel as they were, were sharpening him.

Kain leaned his head back, staring at the stars through the gaps in the canopy.