The smell of death and smoke—an invisible memory as persistent as the cold that gnawed at his bones—still clung to Arthur's skin. Crawling out of what remained of the Northwing mansion, he barely felt his bare feet on the rubble. His heart raced, his hands trembled, a wave of anxiety churning his stomach. The ring clutched in his fist, the last memory of his mother's warmth, was a strange weight, a chilling burden that told a story he wished he hadn't lived. He was still wearing his pajamas, now in tatters, a dark blue rag stained with soot and dirt, a brutal contrast to the life that had been destroyed.

He called out. First, a hoarse whisper, almost imperceptible in the biting wind. "Father? James?" And for an instant, the wind seemed to blow an "Arthur, come..." from the void, a familiar and frightening voice that dissolved into nothing. Then, a little louder, his voice choked by the despair that dried his throat. "Mother?" There was no answer. Only the heavy silence of the ruins, the echo of a cry that was only his own. Arthur stumbled among the calcined stones, his small eight-year-old eyes desperately searching for a sign, a body, anything. But the fire had been voracious, and what remained were only shapeless shadows. Where could they be? Alive? Dead? The uncertainty was a black hole in his chest, sucking in the pain that, for a while, hunger and fear managed to suppress.

In the days that followed, hunger became Arthur's master, a tyrant that forced him to forget his grief. Crying was a dangerous luxury, a melody that could attract creatures, or worse, people. His sobs could be heard. His small lungs burned each time he tried to hold his breath. At night, the earth's cold was a cutting embrace, and the fear of being found, a shadow as real as the darkness that swallowed him. One morning, he tried to go back, crawling back to the mansion's ruins, hoping that, upon returning, someone would be waiting for him. No one was. Despair, like a heavy mist, enveloped him. He felt small, lost, an insignificant speck in a world that had suddenly become vast and cruel.

It was on the second night after the incident, as his stomach rumbled in protest, that misfortune caught up with him. Hidden under a cluster of dry bushes, Arthur heard. Harsh voices, the creak of wagons, the clinking of metal. Plunderers. A band of rough men, in leather armor and rusty weapons, whose bonfires shone like hungry eyes in the darkness. They were looting what remained of the villages near the County, leaving an even greater trail of desolation, and the acrid smell of new smoke and fear hung in the air. Arthur tried to curl up, wishing, for an childish instant, that the earth would swallow him.

But fate, or inexperience, intervened. A dry twig snapped under his foot. The tiny sound seemed to explode in the night's silence.

"Someone's there!" the brutal voice of a looter snarled, his fist tightening on his axe.

In moments, Arthur was discovered. Dragged into the bonfire's orange light, his wide eyes met the rough face of a bearded man, with a prominent scar that cut across his right eye and a shrewd, but cruel gaze. It was Kragen D'Elijah, the leader of the band. He always cleaned his dagger's blade with a leather strip tied to his cloak, an almost ritualistic gesture.

"Well, well. What do we have here?" Kragen grunted, a sneer on his cracked lips, as the other looters, like wolves sniffing carrion, surrounded him. "A child in rags. Looks like we found new merchandise for the Bay. A cheap slave for the Black Coast Buyers."

The mention of being sold chilled Arthur's blood. He tried to protest, but the words stuck in his throat, transformed into a knot of fear and helplessness. Kragen pushed him towards the wagons full of plunder. It was then that Arthur's eyes stopped. Hanging around the neck of a burly, yellow-toothed looter—Ragnar, the Brute—was Louis Northwing's necklace. A silver chain with an opal pendant, identical to the ring Arthur clutched in his own hand. A birthday gift from Garling to Louis. The opal, in the flickering firelight, seemed to mock him, shining with a cold glow.

A flash of memory: his mother smiling, gently touching the necklace as she read to him on a winter night. The warmth of the fireplace, her soft voice.

"What a beautiful jewel!" Arthur managed to stammer, his childish voice disguising the fury that ignited him from within. "Where did you get something like that?"

Ragnar, the Brute, let out a harsh laugh, lifting the necklace disdainfully. "This one? I got it directly from the Countess. She was on the ground, kicking like a rat, but she was no match. I was getting paid to kill her anyway, kid, but this one was an extra 'fat bonus' for old Ragnar. Pretty, isn't it?" He dropped it back onto his chest, the opal swinging lifelessly. She was smiling. He was laughing. And Arthur burned inside.

Arthur's world narrowed to a single point. Rage. Cold, cutting, like the wind of his affinity. The pain of loss, once dispersed, solidified into a focus: vengeance. His fists clenched, trembling, but he maintained the expression of a frightened child. He couldn't. He was small. He was alone. This powerlessness was a poison, but also an engine. The "hidden knife," he thought, naming the sensation that ran through his chest. One day. One day he would be strong enough for that knife to cut deep.

The first days of the journey to the Bay were a blur of humiliation and fear. Arthur was tied with the other captives, treated with contempt, fed scraps that barely kept him on his feet. But his mind, despite the pain and trauma, was alert. He observed Kragen and his group, noting how they moved, how they communicated, the weaknesses and strengths of each. Every day, his mind absorbed the rules of this new and brutal world.

Days of travel turned into weeks. Arthur had learned to get by, to move with discretion among the wagons, to be "invisible" to inattentive eyes. He stole small pieces of bread, drank water from dirty puddles, and slept curled up. His skin was more sunburned, his hands rough. His voice, now, was more restrained, his speech more economical. Kragen watched him, a nearly calculating curiosity in his eyes, weighing the boy's "usefulness." He never took his eyes off Arthur for long, an ambiguous presence, almost a strict father, but always threatening.

On a cold night, while warming themselves around a crackling bonfire, Kragen and his lieutenant, Thorne, the Cold Gaze—a thin, silent man who seemed to see more than he said—debated their next target.

"Things have been tight since the Upthere took over the Countdom," Thorne grumbled, spitting into the fire, his restless eyes sweeping the darkness. "Those new-rich. No mud on their boots, but sharp claws. They paid us to get rid of the Northwings and now they're kicking our asses, you don't see any more mercenaries in these lands, they're getting rid of all potential witnesses to the coup. At least they're cleaning everything up, even the old Count's slaves are disappearing. Getting work isn't as easy as it used to be. Walking these lands is getting more and more dangerous." Thorne's voice was a whisper laden with fear, almost superstitious.

The mention of the Upthere, the name of his home's usurpers, resonated within Arthur. He cringed, pretending to sleep, but every word was a dagger. His County. His home. Now in the hands of others, even crueler. A vague memory of conversations in secret castle corridors, about "political changes" and "ambitious new families," now crystallized into adult terror. The seed of revenge planted by his mother's necklace took deeper roots. His Northwing identity was now a death sentence, a secret to be kept with his very breath. Sometimes, when he was alone, under the moonlight, he would twirl Louis's ring on his finger, or gently blow into his palm, trying to feel the wind, the small flame of his affinity.