the boy end up again with his suffering with a small boet as same as the old one he had he had no other choise the campass turned to the sea
Long days did the boy drift, small and solitary as a fallen leaf upon the endless, merciless sea. The sky bore neither mercy nor light, and the compass, that cursed guide, turned ever toward the open waters. The pirate ship—home once and grave now—vanished into the mists behind him, as if the world itself had swallowed it whole. He had no sail, no star, no soul beside him—only the sea, the storm, and the silent judgment of the heavens.
And then a bigger storm came.
It was no mere tempest, no passing fit of wind and cloud, but a wrathful spirit born of the sea's oldest rage. The sky split asunder with bolts of silver flame. The winds howled like starving wolves, and the waves rose—aye, they rose high as mountains, white-tipped and black-bellied, roaring with fury that no man could tame.
The boat, no more than a splinter in the maw of the sea, fought valiantly, but what is wood to thunder? What is a child to the hunger of the deep?
A wave struck.
Then another.
The mast cracked like brittle bone, and the boy was thrown—body, breath, and broken wood cast into the storm's embrace. He did not scream, for what voice had he left? The salt tore his lips and lungs. His eyes, closed not in fear but in weariness. He sank beneath the waves, and for a time, the world knew him no longer.
But fate, cruel and unyielding, was not yet finished with him.
Dawn broke upon another shore.
A world far from the black forests and bone-covered lands of Gor'Sekra, far from the cursed sea where pirates met their rest. The sky here was veiled in gentle blue, and the mountains in the distance stood proud and quiet like slumbering dragons. Mist curled around the high ridges, and the trees bore leaves shaped like fans, crimson and golden, dancing upon the wind as if they remembered music.
The earth was shaped with care. The stones along the shore were smooth and black as ink, placed by the patient hand of time. Lanterns hung from wooden posts carved with flowing patterns, swaying gently in the breeze. Far beyond the shore, rice fields stretched like sheets of jade, and the rooftops of wooden houses rose with elegant curvature—like the wings of resting birds.
Here, silence was sacred. The only sound was the whisper of the sea, and the soft thud of footsteps upon the sand.
A man walked the shore.
His stride was firm, each step placed with quiet purpose. At his side hung a sheathed blade, long and slightly curved, worn from years of use, yet clean and sharp. His hair, dark as night and streaked with silver, flowed down his back in a single loose braid. A beard, neat yet full, framed his face, and though his visage bore the wear of years and battle, he held a dignity untouched by age.
His brows were thick, arched like swords—shaped not by hand, but by fate itself. His skin was weathered like fine leather, and a thin scar crossed the bridge of his nose—an old mark, perhaps from a time of war, perhaps from a tale he no longer told. He wore a robe of ash-grey, bound simply at the waist by a dull cloth sash. No ornament, no armor, only the strength of a man who needed neither.
But it was his eyes that stilled the wind.
They were soft—not weak, but deep, like still water reflecting the moon. Peace dwelled in them. wisdom of the ages—as though he had lived many lives and found no hatred worthy of keeping.
He walked as he always did, when the sea called to him. Yet on this morn, the tide bore more than shells or driftwood.
He saw the shape of a child at the water's edge.
Small limbs lay sprawled upon the black sand, his legs still kissed by the foam of the retreating tide. The boy's face was half-buried, crusted with salt and grit, his hair tangled with seaweed, golden-brown strands darkened by water. His body, thin and bruised, rose and fell with barely a breath.
The man's eyes widened.
He moved swiftly now—not like a warrior but like a father fearing loss. The sword did not sway at his side; it knew this was not a moment for steel.
Kneeling beside the boy, he placed a calloused hand against the child's back—cold, but not lifeless. The man exhaled softly, as if giving thanks to something greater. He brushed the sand from the boy's face and paused, struck by what he saw.
Not for blood, nor bruises, though both were there aplenty.
But for the lashes.
Long and golden, like threads of sunlight , they rested delicately upon the boy's cheeks, unmoving. No child of this land bore such hair, not in these parts where the night reigned longer than the day. The lashes, damp but unbroken, seemed untouched by storm or sorrow, as though they still belonged to a dream.
He lifted the boy into his arms.
The child's skin was scarred in old places, as though fire and blade had long made a home upon him. His ribs showed beneath torn cloth, and his fingers were curled in half-formed fists, even in sleep. Still, the man held him gently, shielding his body from the morning chill.
He rose, turning from the sea.
No questions were asked, not yet. The man did not wonder where the boy had come from, nor why fate had cast him ashore. Some things need no asking.
The tide receded behind them.
And in the distant clouds, a whisper stirred—something old, something watching.
But for now, there was only the mountain path, the quiet village beyond, and the long road of healing yet to be walked.