What the hell?!" Nox said, louder than he meant to. He winced at his own voice. "Sorry... I just... Are you okay?"
Torven gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable for a moment.
"I am now. But it wasn't always like that. My parents sold me when I was a boy," he said, without emotion. "Didn't even look back. One moment I was theirs, the next, I was property."
Nox didn't respond. There wasn't anything to say that wouldn't sound hollow. He just listened.
"I was bought for my Mark. But I couldn't use it back then. So instead I spent years in chains. Underground, mostly. Fighting. Bleeding." Torven's voice remained calm.
"But that doesn't really explain it. The place... it wasn't just a mine or a pit. It was deeper. You wouldn't even know it was there unless you were taken. No light. No time. You counted your days in numbers of buckets of coal carried in and out. You worked until your body gave out. Then they either beat you back to your feet or left you where you dropped."
He glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if remembering phantom chains.
"Some died the first week. Couldn't handle it. Others lasted longer, but not by much. You weren't just mining. You were made to fight for scraps, for rank, for the sheer amusement of whoever was watching. We were currency. Entertainment."
Torven's voice didn't rise. If anything, it softened.
"They gave us numbers, not names. I was 143. The guy before me, 142 just died in the dust in front of me. I killed my first man before I reached twelve. They made me clean his blood off my own feet while the next match started behind me." Torven calmly explained.
"But then I met Velkan. He was older than me, more mature. And wasn't really supposed to be there, he was captured by accident. He didn't break. And I didn't even realize I'd stopped thinking of myself as a person until Velkan said my name one day. I almost didn't respond.
The way he moved, the way he fought... it kept us alive. One day we escaped together. From a place that wasn't meant to be escaped."
He gave a dry, tired smile. "From hell."
He paused, glancing sideways at Nox.
"I want you to learn that style. Not to impress anyone. It's not that kind of technique. It's built for survival, for getting through the worst and coming out alive."
Nox's brows rose slightly. The way Torven said it left no room for discussion. He then leaned forward slightly.
"I would've asked Velkan to train you himself, but we don't have the time. He can't speak, you see. His tongue was cut out years ago."
There was no pity in his voice, just the solid weight of what had been endured.
Nox nodded slowly.
Torven stood, brushing the dust from his pants with a few firm swipes.
"Let's head back and go into town. I need to get you something that'll help with your training."
He followed in silence, but as they made their way back, Nox couldn't shake the heaviness of what he'd just heard. Torven's story kept replaying in his head. It was hard to picture, not because he didn't believe it, but because Torven carried it all so quietly. No self-pity. Just facts. And that somehow made it worse. And now he was offering to teach him, like it was just another skill to pass on. Nox didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. He just walked, in the silence, not quite sure if it was out of respect or because he was still trying to process it all.
Later in the afternoon, just like they agreed, Nox and Torven set out for the nearby town. More joy than a perspective of visiting the town itself, brought Nox the fact, that he could finally go outside together with Gerhart. Oh, how much pleasure that ride gave him. The rider and the horse were one. Gerhart seemed to sense every subtle shift in Nox's weight, responding instantly without need for commands. Every gallop sent a thrill racing through his veins, the kind of freedom he hadn't felt confined indoors.
Beside him, Torven rode with equal grace on his white mare. The town wasn't really that close, which pleased Nox; it meant they could spend more time in the saddle.
Upon arriving in town, they handed the horses over to the stableman and set off on foot. It was Saturday, market day, and vendors from the town and nearby villages were setting up their stalls, displaying goods in hopes of earning a profit.
"Do you think we'll have some time to look around?" Nox asked.
"Of course," Torven replied. "But first, our appointment. Come with me."
They moved away from the square and turned down one of the side streets. Nox expected a longer walk, but they stopped after only a few steps.
"This is the place," Torven said. "Let's go in."
The sign above the door showed a shoe shop. Inside, the owner was already waiting an older, graying man with a tailor's measuring tape draped around his neck.
"Please come in, please come in. How can I help you?"
"We'd like to buy some shoes."
The shopkeeper looked at Torven and raised his eyebrows.
"I see... you have rather large feet. We'll probably need to make something custom."
"Not for me," Torven interrupted in a slightly rude manner. "We need shoes for this young man"
The shopkeeper seemed to roll his eyes slightly.
"Of course. Please sit down, I'll bring something shortly."
After a moment, he returned with several pairs. Nox tried on one pair after another, but Torven frowned, still dissatisfied. One pair pleased Nox, but he felt he had little say in the matter. Torven only furrowed his brows and looked critically at his feet.
"Do you have other, sturdier models?" he asked.
"I can make something to order... I have one more pair, but they won't be comfortable shoes for a warrior."
"Bring them here. I will be the judge of that."
The shopkeeper, now visibly annoyed, disappeared into the back, then returned with the last pair. The boots were a deep brown and reached just above the ankle. Made from thick, well-tanned leather, they looked solid and elegant. The tongue was hidden beneath lacing and the thick sole was stitched with black thread. Despite their sturdy build, the boots kept a classic line.
Torven examined one of the boots and carefully bent the sole as if testing its flexibility then bent in his knees to help him put the boots on. Nox felt warmth rise in his cheeks. Torven's right hand removed the old boot off his foot while his left one moved a bit higher and one of his fingers slid into Nox's trousers leg brushed against his calf just above the ankle. Nox swallowed and tried to focus on something else.
"Nox?" he heard his name. "Can you stand up?"
He stood cautiously, feeling that the boots were much stiffer than those he had worn before. But they were solid, supported his ankle and they looked like the kind of boots a real warrior would wear.
"Thank you," Nox said quietly, glancing up at Torven. "For everything."