The square reeked of blood and burning torch oil. The crowd gathered like a swarm of crows, their eager murmurs blending with the distant clang of the blacksmith's hammer. Odi stood among them, a frail ten-year-old girl with dirt-streaked cheeks and wide, terrified eyes. She wanted to run, to look away, but Oliver's iron grip on her shoulder kept her rooted in place. Oliver, a one-armed man was her master, her master who acquired her and her mom through the forsaken step father of hers because he lost in a gamble. He had used her and her mom as collateral for his gamble game, and he lost. Now, they both belong to the thief Lord, Oliver. Who makes them steal for him or kills them.
She could barely see over the heads of the jeering spectators, but she didn't need a clear view, she knew exactly who was kneeling at the execution block. Her mother.
The woman who had loved her fiercely, whispered bedtime stories to her when Oliver wasn't listening, and promised they would one day escape. But all of that was gone now. Her mother was a thief. A thief who had been caught twice.
Odi squeezed her eyes shut, but the executioner's voice rang through the air, loud and merciless. "For the crime of thievery, twice committed, the sentence is death."
"No, no, no…" she whispered, shaking her head. At that moment she wished she had superpowers, or at least one of those superheroes from the books her mother reads to her would feel her hurt and come to her aid.
A hush fell over the square. The executioner lifted the sword.
Her mother turned her head slightly, just enough for Odi to see her face. There was no fear in her eyes, only sorrow. "I love you, Odi," she mouthed.
Odi's breath hitched in her throat. Then the sword came down.
The crowd erupted into cheers. Odi's scream tore through the noise, raw and anguished, but it was swallowed by the excitement of the execution. Her mother's head rolled, and her body slumped forward, blood pooling beneath the wooden block. Odi collapsed to her knees, clutching her chest as if she could hold in the pain before it consumed her whole.
Oliver yanked her up by the arm, his grip bruising. "That," he said, his voice devoid of sympathy, "is what happens to fools who get caught twice."
Odi's sobs wracked her small body, but Oliver didn't let go. He forced her to look at the remains of her mother. "First time, you lose a hand. Second time, you lose your life. Remember that. Your first job starts tomorrow. You take your mother's place."
She turned away, but the image was burned into her mind, her mother, one arm missing at the elbow, lifeless, discarded. She had lost her hand when Odi was just eight years old, the first time she had been caught. And now… now she was gone.
"Get up." Oliver's voice was as sharp as the sword that had just taken her mother's life. "We're leaving."
Odi didn't move. Her tiny hands dug into the dirt. A part of her wanted to stay there, to curl up and disappear into the cold ground beside her mother. But Oliver wrenched her to her feet and shoved her forward. She stumbled but didn't resist. There was nowhere to run.
She wiped at her tear-streaked face with trembling fingers as they walked back through the narrow, winding streets of the city. People barely spared her a glance. In the slums, grief was an everyday occurrence, not something worth stopping for.
By the time they reached Oliver's den, her legs felt like they would give out. The hideout was nestled deep within the lower quarters, an abandoned building with broken shutters and a sagging roof. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wood, unwashed bodies, and candle wax. Other slaves and thieves under Oliver's domain sat in corners, sharpening knives, sewing stolen goods into hidden pockets, or simply watching Odi with knowing eyes. They had all been through the same thing.
Oliver shut the door behind them and turned to face her. "You have a choice, girl," he said, crossing his arms. "You can cry yourself to death, or you can make sure you never end up like her."
Odi's chin quivered, but she refused to cry in front of him again. She had spent the entire walk back swallowing her sobs, tasting bile and salt.
Oliver crouched to her level, his one arm resting on his knee. "You're small. Fast. You have sharp eyes. But that's not enough. If you don't want to lose a hand, you need to be better than everyone else. You need to be the best."
She sniffled, blinking at him. "You promised we'd be free," she whispered. "You promised my mother…"
"I promised nothing," Oliver cut in sharply. "Your mother was weak. She let herself get caught." His expression darkened. "That is not an option for you."
Odi's hands curled into fists at her sides. She hated him. Hated the way he spoke about her mother, the way he acted like he owned her. But she was powerless. Alone.
"Get some rest," Oliver said, standing. "Tomorrow, training begins. No more mistakes. No more weakness."
She didn't move as he left the room, shutting the door behind him. The moment she was alone, she let out a choked sob and pressed her forehead against the wooden floor. She clenched her teeth to stop the sound from escaping. If Oliver heard, he would only scold her again.
Her mother was gone. And the world didn't care.
She stayed curled up there for a long time, staring blankly at the flickering candle on the wall. Her mind replayed the execution over and over again, etching every gruesome detail into her memory.
Eventually, exhaustion won. Her tears dried. Her breathing steadied. She made a promise to herself that night.
She would never be weak again. She would never be caught. And one day,
somehow, she would be free.