The Sinful Young Master

The torchlight revealed a scene from the deepest circles of hell. The main chamber of the mine opened like a grotesque maw, its rough-hewn walls slick with moisture that caught the flickering light like tears. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, blood, and despair.

Scattered throughout the chamber were dozens of workers—men and women who barely resembled humans anymore. Their bodies were skeletal, skin stretched tight over protruding bones, marked with a lattice of fresh wounds and old scars.

They huddled in groups, chained together by heavy iron manacles that had rubbed their wrists and ankles raw and bleeding. Their eyes, when they dared to look up, held the vacant stare of those who had given up hope of salvation.

Jolthar's grip tightened on his sword hilt as he took in the scene, his knuckles white beneath his gauntlets. The torchlight caught the tears that had begun to form in his eyes, turning them to liquid gold.

But it was what he saw next that made his blood boil.

In the centre of the chamber, a man dressed in rough bandit leather held a small girl by her hair.

She couldn't have been more than seven or eight summers old, her once-pretty dress now reduced to filthy rags. Fresh welts criss-crossed her exposed arms and legs, and dried blood matted her dark hair.

Despite her obvious pain, she remained silent, having learned that crying out only brought worse punishment.

The bandit yanked her hair sharply, using her as a human shield while keeping the other workers in check. "Stay where you are," he snarled at a woman who had tried to crawl forward—presumably the girl's mother.

The woman collapsed back, her sobs echoing off the stone walls.

Something snapped inside Jolthar.

The careful discipline of his training, the measured response he had been taught to maintain—it all vanished in a red haze of fury.

A sound escaped his throat, more animal than human, as he charged forward.

"Jolthar, wait!" Lady Maena's command came too late.

The bandit barely had time to register the armoured figure bearing down on him.

He tried to pull a knife to use the girl as leverage, but Jolthar was moving with the speed of righteous rage. His long sword, a masterwork of his own creation, described a perfect arc through the air.

The blade caught the bandit just below his jaw, continuing through in a clean sweep that nearly separated his head from his shoulders. His grip on the girl loosened as he crumpled, dead before he hit the ground.

Jolthar caught the child before she could fall, cradling her against his armour with a gentleness that seemed at odds with the violence of moments before.

"It's alright," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "You're safe now. No one will hurt you anymore."

The girl looked up at him with eyes too old for her young face. Her small hand reached up to touch his cheek, leaving a smudge of dirt and blood. "Please," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "my mama... save my mama..."

Jolthar mind filled with rage as he watched her dirt-streaked face, her plea for help tugging at his heartstrings. "What's your name, little one?"

"Mira," she managed, then winced in pain.

Behind them, Baroness Cleora stepped forward, her elegant dress incongruous in the grim setting. "What is happening here?" she watched the horror with wide eyes.

Then they heard a loud noise coming from a tiny entrance that resembled a hole. There were stairs towards the entrance.

"That's where the vault is," Cleora cried, pointing to a tunnel that sloped upward. "It leads to the higher levels... to the vault." Something in her voice suggested she was choosing her words carefully.

"My husband has hidden his wealth there, along with..." She trailed off, glancing at Mira with an unreadable expression.

Lady Maena nodded sharply. "Eran, take ten men and follow the baroness. Jolthar, you and the others secure this area and help these people."

The company split, with Maena leading one group up the sloping tunnel while Jolthar remained below.

He gently carried Mira toward the sobbing woman who had tried to reach her earlier.

"Mama!" Mira called out, trying to squirm from his arms despite her injuries.

The woman looked up, hope blazing in her hollow eyes. She tried to stand but couldn't, her legs too weak from malnutrition and abuse. Jolthar knelt beside her, still holding Mira, and the girl threw herself into her mother's arms.

"I'll get you out of here," Jolthar promised, his voice thick with emotion. "All of you. You'll see the sun again." He stood, drawing his sword once more. "But first, I need to deal with them."

At the far end of the chamber, the remaining bandits had grouped together.

That's when one of the bandits came forward, into the light, then removed his mask with deliberate slowness, revealing a face that belonged in nightmares.

Grey-green skin stretched over massive tusks that protruded from his lower jaw. Brutal scars crossed his face, and his yellow eyes gleamed with cruel intelligence.

A half-orc, this far from the northern wastes, wearing bandit leathers instead of tribal furs—something was very wrong here.

The orc rolled his massive shoulders, muscles rippling beneath his leather armour. He had to be nearly seven feet tall, and his arms were thick as tree trunks. In his hands, he held a massive warhammer that looked like it could crush a man's skull even through a helmet.

"Knight," the half-orc growled, his voice like stones grinding together.

"You should have stayed with your lady." His tusked mouth split in a horrific grin. "Now you die here, in the dark."

Jolthar gripped his sword tighter, keenly aware of the people behind him.