Lial grunted as the blade punctured his abdomen. He had noticed the blade glinting in the firelight, but by then it had already been too close to him to do much about it. The mercenary blamed his battle fatigue for making it easy to his assailant to catch him off guard, but if he survived his wound—he would not because the healer had already gone home—he would kill himself from embarrassment: it was a kid who had done it.

The kid had to have been only nine years old. Dirt covered his face, making his piercing blue eyes stand out even more. He growled as he yanked the blade out of Lial’s belly, and he took a step back, trembling with fear and rage as he wanted the mercenary double over with pain. Tears and snot poured down his face, leaving clean streaks on his cheeks.

“That’s for killing my mother!” the boy cried.

Lial wished that jogged a memory, but even if his head was not so preoccupied with the pain wracking him, there were too many mothers kings and lords had paid him to kill. Despite everything, Lial chuckled. Part of him was proud of himself for holding back screams. Another part of him wanted the boy to plunge the knife into him again, just to make him die faster.

The boy only watched him until he collapsed, falling into an eternal sleep.