Ystal watched him closely, nevertheless feeling under infinite observation, as if he were studying him.
He noted with curiosity the color of the cloak, too bright compared to when he had seen it at home; Was it possible that he had found time and a way to change?
He took a deep breath, to regain control of himself. After a few seconds spent trying to regulate the beat, he barely parted his lips to speak.
"Do you need something ...?" he asked fearfully, in the friendliest way he could find. He had no idea how people talked in places like the Capital or in those towns that the King had urbanized, so the effort was somewhat inhuman. He tried to hide his own dialect, the barbaric and uncultivated cadence of a simple and poor peasant, blushing at the failure.
The man moved, approaching the shore; the sun made his cloak shine, a fabric Ystal did not understand the weaving, despite the years he spent pursuing this art with his mother and older sisters.
"Yes, even if more than something, I would say someone." the man confirmed, pointing in his direction with one hand.
At that statement, the child's heart skipped a beat, and then began to run frantically; anxiety and terror took possession of him, as had not happened for years.
"Who, if I may ask ...?" he whispered, fearing an answer to say the least obvious.
The man smiled, with such obviousness as to hurt, "You, little boy. Come on. I don't intend to get wet, carrying you."
Ystal stiffened entirely, chilling under that exclamation. It was not yet his time. Why did that man want to take him away?
"I-I haven't seen the fifteenth winter yet ..." he stammered, trying to justify himself, in a vain attempt to make him give up. The man raised his hand, silencing him. In that gesture, Ystal saw something familiar again, which he couldn't place anywhere in his memory.
"I know, little boy. That's exactly why I chose you."
"My parents will worry if they don't see me coming back. I- ..." he looked desperately for an escape route, stepping back again, staggering. The mud and the stones were suddenly more slippery, the water even more invasive and chaining.
"They won't. I've already warned them. And rewarded for the trouble." he dismissed his escape attempt with a wave of his hand. "You don't want to run. I'm far faster than you, and you risk getting hurt."
Ystal stopped looking around, focusing his eyes - tearful and frightened - on the figure of the man. He wasn't all wrong, but in his heart he never wanted to agree with him. He hadn't listened to the opening part of the speech, so he was totally ignorant of the act his parents had done; he was still firmly convinced that he was being forced to abandon them without any warning.
"Really, I'm no good. I'm too small!" he snapped, afraid.
"That's enough, little boy." the man interrupted him a second time, beckoning him to come closer.
In that way of speaking, Ystal recognized a voice, rooted in his memory. Immersed in that reasoning, he approached the river bank, going out at a brisk pace, finding himself now in front of the man.
He swallowed.
He wasn't the one who moved his body, he was sure of it. Rather, it was as if the water itself had pushed him and spat out.
He looked up, looking for the man, finding only his smile, satisfied and proud. He saw him lower his hand to his head, giving him a little caress.
- Still, there is something familiar about all this ... - thought the child, feeling suddenly sleepy.
He slowly closed his eyes, losing stability on the ground. Before he even knew it, he was lying on the ground, about to lose consciousness. He threw a last look at the man, with what little clarity he had left.
The last thing he saw before he passed out entirely was the blade of a glittering dagger.