Torn threads

The silence was heavy, broken only by the sound of stones sliding across the polished chessboard in a room shrouded in shadow, overlooking a softly lit night scene.

A broad-shouldered, large man sat on a heavy wooden chair. His thick, untrimmed beard framed amber eyes that did not blink. His right hand, scarred by battles, pushed the black queen forward with a confident step.

An old wound ran from his upper lip down to his chin, as if his mouth had been carved by a sword.

Before him, only one part of his opponent appeared — a single hand emerging from the heart of the shadows. A wooden hand, its joints cracked and still, as if caught between life and death.

The shadow spoke in a broken voice, like an old man conversing with his soul after a century of torment:

"Your son has left the palace, Bach. He has set foot on a ship... its destination..."

The voice paused, then continued mockingly:

"The Dust Continent."

Bach laughed harshly, a sound that seemed to ignite the air:

"Hah. The Land of the Wanderers? You truly never tire of that old joke?"

Then the shadow glared with disdain and said slowly:

"You come to my territory, hiding in the shadows of my place... trying to deceive me?

Not only in this game, but beyond it."

Bach lowered his head toward the chessboard, disapproving his opponent's moves:

"Messenger, I may lack the skill of your master, but to cloak yourself in hatred of your own kind for the light to cheat and defeat me?

That is a poor attempt.

Know this — I am no fool to be fooled by such a trick.

And any attempt from your master, or even the council he belongs to, against my child...

Will be met with a response that will not be gentle."

Bach ran his fingers over his wounded chin, then smiled bitterly:

"This cut that splits my mouth... will not be the last wound on my body.

And your dead master's friend... will not be the last man to die by my hands."

He pulled the black queen he had won and crushed it in his fist until it crumbled like black dust.

Then he whispered in a stern tone:

"And by the way...

The Dust Island?

You know as well as I do... its sands do not move without my watchful eye.

Any strange step there... even if it comes from a hidden hand...

will be answered with an unforgettable sound."

Elsewhere... where the echoes of this game do not reach, and where light pierces only woundedly...

The first assistant tied Sartor to a chair in a cabin far from the crew's quarters before removing the cloth that had covered his eyes.

"What happened? Who are you? How did you get here?"

The masked man slapped Sartor to silence him:

"I speak, I ask, and finally... I give orders here."

Sartor remained silent, head bowed, eyes scanning the grimy cabin filled with wooden crates, mops, and coiled ropes stacked on the small cabin's right side.

"Know this, spoiled boy... I will not kill you.

Your screams will not reach anywhere; the sound of the waves will swallow them.

You must listen to me."

Sartor nodded, lowering his shoulders lightly — a glance the kidnapper noticed, pleased to believe the boy before him was a fool, easy to break.

If he screamed, trouble would be certain.

"So, little one... tell me, what is your relation to the captain? And what is your purpose in going to Dust Island?"

Sartor kept his head bowed, trembling, making his captor believe he was afraid.

Then he stammered, his words falling slowly:

"I... I... sir... don't know the captain.

Today is the first time I see her.

I am headed to Dust Continent... on a mission from my family."

The masked man laughed, then slapped him again:

"Are you mocking me, boy? Tell the truth!"

Sartor began crying, his voice breaking with sobs:

"I swear, sir, I'm telling the truth... I really don't know the captain before today."

The man fell silent for a moment, staring into Sartor's face as if testing the truth of his pain.

Then he sighed and finally untied him.

"I apologize, young master. It was my mistake... it won't happen again.

But know this — if you tell anyone what happened today... your punishment will not be kind."

Sartor nodded like a chicken, expressing understanding, which made the masked man leave confidently through the door, leaving Sartor alone in the cabin.

Sartor stood, dusted off his clothes, then smoothed any wrinkles from this ordeal.

He took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face, leaving himself in his finest appearance.

He paused for a moment before a rusty metal mirror, looking at his face without interest, then sighed softly.

"Sartor... I know you're there."

He stepped out of the cabin, looking toward the shadow to the right of the door.

"My dear Yasmin, your hiding is excellent... but the thirst for blood you spill betrays you.

I forbid you to lay a hand on that clown."

Yasmin emerged from the shadows, biting her lip, her eyes fixed on the marks of the slap on her cheek.

She laughed at what she had done before her smile turned into a soft mockery.

Sartor, adjusting his shirt collar, said:

"Don't be angry, Yasmin. I was the one who provoked him.

Besides, we don't want to make the captain miserable because of one crew member's actions... before we reach Dust Island."

Then he pressed his words with biting sarcasm:

"Know this... I will not stop until I know what you are hiding from me.

This... is only the first step."

Sartor noticed Yasmin's angry features — her lips tight, her eyelids trembling gently.

"My dear Yasmin... you mustn't wear that face.

Your hiding of all these things... will make me seek the truth, even if that means sacrificing my dignity."

Yasmin raised her head, eyes still glistening with tears, speaking calmly:

"But... young master..."

Sartor cut her off, anger slipping between his teeth:

"As if you would tell me everything I want to know."

Yasmin nodded, as if admitting her helplessness.

In her sad face, something broke inside his heart.

He approached her, then whispered as if apologizing for an unintended wound:

"I'm sorry... but I will keep searching."

Then, without another word, he embraced her.

He hugged her with all his strength.

The child who barely reached her waist... had now grown enough to offer his chest for her to rest on.