"How dare you dirty my clothes, you lowly commoner."
Baron Cedric's voice roared across the village square, his tone dripping with hate. The man's ornate cloak was barely smudged, but his expression made it seem like Ash Bourne had committed a capital crime.
Ash dropped to one knee, bowing his head low. His rough hands pressed into the dirt, and his muscles tensed beneath his worn shirt.
"I'm deeply sorry, my lord. It was not my intention to offend you."
Baron Cedric smirked, stepping back as though Ash's presence might sully him further.
"Of course, it wasn't. People like you never intend anything. You stumble through life like rats, dragging the rest of us down."
Ash bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to remain composed. His fingers curled against the ground, but he kept his voice even.
"I will work harder to ensure it doesn't happen again, my lord."
"See that you do," the baron snapped. "And remember your place, Bourne. You're lucky I don't have you whipped for this insolence."
The crowd that had gathered to watch whispered among themselves. Some looked on with pity, others with indifference. Ash's apology was enough to appease Baron Cedric, who turned on his heel and strode away with an exaggerated flair. The moment he was gone, the murmurs grew louder.
Ash stood, brushing the dirt from his knees. He turned away from the onlookers and walked to the small fountain, which bubbled lazily. He leaned against the worn stone edge, his reflection rippling in the water.
My name is Ash Bourne, and my parents died when I was ten. Since then, I've been on my own. I've spent my life surviving—no family, no land, nothing to call my own. Life in Redstone isn't kind, especially to someone like me. Without a family name, I'm little more than a tool for the nobility and an oddity to the villagers. Hard work has shaped me, and years of enduring their scorn have honed my wits. But strength and smarts don't change much. To most people, I'm just Ash—the orphan who works harder than anyone and gets nothing in return.
A shadow fell over him, and Ash looked up to see an older man with a kind face and a thick beard. It was Harold, the village blacksmith.
"You all right, lad?"
Ash shrugged. "I'm used to it."
Harold's clapped a heavy hand on Ash's shoulder.
"Doesn't mean you should have to be. That baron's a piece of work."
"He's the law here," Ash replied. "I'd rather bow and scrape than end up in the stocks."
The blacksmith grunted, withdrawing his hand.
"Wise words, but don't let them grind you down too much. You're stronger than most, Ash. Smarter too. Don't waste that."
"I'll try not to," Ash said, offering a faint smile.
Harold meant well, but the older man didn't understand how precarious Ash's situation truly was. Kindness wouldn't change the fact that he was at the mercy of men like Cedric.
Ash spent the rest of the day hauling sacks of grain from the mill to the storage house. The work was harsh, but it kept his mind focused. As the sun set below the horizon, Ash finally set down the last sack and stretched his aching shoulders. His shirt clung to him with sweat, and his arms burned from the effort, but there was a sense of satisfaction in completing the task.
As he walked home, he passed the marketplace. Most stalls were already closed, but a few merchants lingered, chatting or packing up their wares. Among them was Sophia, the merchant's daughter. She was stacking crates of dried herbs and spices, her movements precise and practiced. Her dark hair was tied back, and her simple dress bore none of the extravagance of noble fashion, yet she carried herself with an air of quiet confidence.
"Long day?" she called out, noticing Ash as he approached.
"They're all long," Ash replied, stopping a few feet away. "How about you?"
"Same as always," she said with a shrug. "But at least I get to sit down every now and then. You look like you've been wrestling oxen."
Ash chuckled softly. "Grain sacks, actually."
"Close enough." Sophia wiped her hands on her apron and gestured to the crates. "Care to help? I'll owe you one."
Ash hesitated for a moment before stepping forward. "Sure."
Together, they carried the crates to the back of her family's shop. The work was far easier than what Ash had been doing all day, and Sophia's casual chatter was a welcome distraction. By the time they were done, the stars had begun to twinkle in the night sky.
"Thanks," Sophia said, leaning against the shop's doorway. "You didn't have to help, you know."
"Didn't mind," Ash replied. "Besides, you'd do the same for me."
Sophia smiled. "Maybe. If you ever stop trying to do everything on your own."
Ash didn't respond, but her words lingered in his mind as he walked back to his small, run-down hut on the outskirts of the village. It wasn't much—just a single room with a straw mattress and a small hearth—but it was home. He lit a candle and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the flame as it flickered.
"One day," he whispered to himself. "One day, I'll make something of myself."
The next morning, Ash was awakened by the sound of voices outside. He groaned and rubbed his eyes before stepping out to see what the commotion was about. A small crowd had gathered near the village square, where Baron Cedric's carriage was parked. The baron himself stood nearby, flanked by two armed guards. His expression was irritated, and he gestured angrily at a young boy who looked to be no older than twelve.
"You think you can steal from me and get away with it?" Cedric shouted. "You'll regret the day you crossed me, boy."
The child cowered, clutching a small loaf of bread to his chest. His clothes were ragged, and his face was streaked with dirt.
"I'm sorry, my lord," he stuttered. "I was hungry. I didn't mean—"
"Silence!" Cedric barked. "Guards, take him to the stocks. Let the village see what happens to thieves."
Ash's fists clenched at his sides. He knew better than to intervene, but the sight of the boy being dragged away made his blood boil. The villagers looked on in silence, their faces mixed with fear and helplessness. None dared to speak out against the baron.
Cedric addressed the crowd as the guards locked the boy in the wooden stocks.
"Let this be a lesson to all of you. Disobedience will not be tolerated."
The baron's words hung as he climbed back into his carriage and rode away. Ash remained where he was, his jaw tight and his heart pounding. He couldn't shake the image of the boy's terrified face. This was the world he lived in—a world where the strong preyed on the weak, and justice was nothing more than a tool for the powerful.
But as he turned and walked away, a thought began to take root in his mind. Maybe the old man Harold was right. Perhaps he was stronger, smarter, more capable than they realized. Maybe he didn't have to accept this life.
A chilling smile crept across his face. "One day, they'll see me... and they'll wish they hadn't. "