Atlas, a twelve-year-old boy, lay beaten and bruised on the ground. Five tall men with strong Nebas stood over him, their faces twisted with cruel delight.
They laughed and jeered, their swords gleaming ominously in the dim light. Atlas's face was covered in bruises, blood trickling from his split lip, and his eyes swollen from repeated blows.
He cried out, his voice barely a whisper. "Please... someone... help me," he sobbed, but his words were drowned out by the mocking laughter of his tormentors.
"Help you?" one of the men sneered, kicking Atlas in the ribs. "You think anyone cares about a little Zeten like you?"
Atlas winced in agony, his body convulsing with pain. Why was this happening to him? What had he done to deserve this? All he had done was steal a loaf of bread. He was starving, desperate to survive. His stomach had been empty for days, and the gnawing hunger had driven him to this desperate act.
