Ikarn was knocked to his knees, next to his sister and his mother, who were laying against the wall, crying desperately for mercy. A single torch carried by one of the soldiers illuminated the room: the tear-stricken faces of his mother and sister, the black attire of the soldiers, the look of anger and fear upon his father’s face. His father was in the center of the room, struggling against the masked men, but he was quickly overwhelmed. The men had their faces hidden by tight black leather masks and black hoods; they wore black leather armor and a black cape. Six of them had broken into the house at the break of night, hidden in the shadows. These masked men now held his father and forced him to the ground with a strong blow to his head and a kick to his knees; while two of the warriors held his father down, a third masked man came and placed heavy iron shackles on his wrists and legs, immobilizing him. 

Ikarn was filled with rage at the sight of his father’s helplessness and the cruelty of the mysterious men who had attacked them in the night. Pulling a small dagger from his boot, he lunged at the soldier standing closest to him, who’s back was turned towards him as he towered over his father. The guard sensed him coming, however, and just when Ikarn was going to thrust his knife into the man’s back, he skillfully dodged out of the way, but Ikarn managed to produce a large cut on the guard’s right arm. Ikarn quickly turned around to attack the guard again, but a large, powerful man grabbed him from behind and pinned his arms. Then, lifting Ikarn up like a doll, he tossed him against him the opposite side of the room. 

As Ikarn hit the wall, he felt a violent snap in his back, and a second later a flood of pain washed over his body, as if dozens of wasps had stung him on the same place and their poison was spreading over his body like boiling water coursing through his veins. He tried to get up, but he was completely paralyzed from the neck down. He laid on the cold stone floor with his body half facing the room. He raised his eyes to look at his mother and sister, and his eyes met his mother’s. His mother was no longer crying... her silent face, white with fear, stared at her helpless son with emerald eyes, while hot tears rolled down her face; her face was that of a mother who had accepted the inevitable. Ikarn attempted to give her mother a reassuring smile, but a new burst of pain reminded him of his injury. 

Three soldiers approached his mother and sister, and, grabbing them from their hair, they lifted them up to their knees; while two of the soldiers held the woman and the twelve-year-old girl up, the third one unsheathed a long black knife from his belt and raised it towards his sister’s throat. Ikarn tried to yell at the guard, but no sound left his mouth; he knew that no amount of crying would stop the guard from carrying out his intentions. Ikarn watched in horror as the guard ran the knife along his sister’s throat and immediately a line of red appeared where the knife had been. The guard holding her up allowed her to drop to the ground as she sputtered and drowned in her own blood. 

Ikarn felt hot rage rising from the pit of his stomach to his face, and he let out a scream of desperation, anger, and despair. He inhaled air and made another attempt to push himself up, but it was a pointless effort — he still could not move his limbs. He turned his head in time to see the guard turn towards his mother... Ikarn began crying and begging the guard for mercy. The guard’s knife slowly moved towards his mother... the guard was enjoying every second of pain he caused and every drop of blood he drew... the knife was flat against his mother’s neck. Ikarn noticed the blood on the guard’s arm... he was the same one he had tried to kill before. And then the knife was gone; blood was gushing out of the wound like water from a fountain, and her body dropped to the ground, next to the body of his sister. A pool of blood surrounded the two bodies, dark red in the dim light. 

Ikarn then looked back at his father, who was on his knees facing the two dead bodies. His eyes were no longer ablaze with courage, but rather glassy... absent... like two infinite holes which hid the suffering in his heart. Ikarn wanted to say something to his father... anything... whatever it took to bring hope back to his heart... but the words died before he could open his mouth. The guards began exiting the house; two of them grabbed his father’s arms and dragged him out violently, his chains ringing and clashing each other. 

“What about the boy?” one of the guards asked. The guard who had murdered his mother and sister approached him. He seemed to be the leader. The guard brought his leg back to kick him. Ikarn, unable to stop the blow, closed his eyes and prepared himself to endure the pain; he then felt as if a pile of rocks slammed into his ribs. Ikarn knew that some of them were probably broken.

“He’s as good as dead.”

Ikarn kept his eyes closed as the guards marched out of the room; he kept them closed until all he could hear was the wind shaking the trees and the soft splattering of the rain upon the roof and the windows. When he finally opened his eyes, he was alone.