The Man with the Beast Tattoo
The man with the beast tattoo was afraid of the light.
He had stayed awake all night; lying on his makeshift bed inside the tiny cupboard turned into a room. Darkness cradled him, thick and unyielding, almost tangible. He was never disturbed by it. Darkness was safe. Free men and women always came with their light. They were afraid of it.
That’s why he liked it.
No sound travelled to him through the darkness, beside the familiar creaks and groans of the old farmhouse as it stood against the last autumn winds. He had spent nearly three months on this farm and the familiar sounds of the house had become a soothing background. Almost as peaceful as the darkness itself.
Peace…
He gritted his teeth. This brief time of peace was like tasting a bite out of an exquisite food, only to watch the plate swiped from him. It left him hungrier than before.
By the time the morning light chased the darkness away, the slave with the beast tattoo would be on his way to be sold. It wasn’t a surprise. He had been expecting this. Yet, the decision still hurt like a punch to his guts.
His Owner never hid that she wanted to get rid of him. That was the only reason she had taken him in the first place, and the only reason she had bothered to save his life. The injury had left an ugly scar on his right leg, and yet, he was lucky to still have a right leg.
There was a time when he felt certain he was going to die. He should have been content with death. Yet, he had found himself fighting so hard to stay alive.
Do whatever it takes to win.
He could still hear her voice so clearly in his mind. She wanted him to win Twilight of Infinity and be free. And as much as he wanted to die and find Saradra in Farhome, he also didn’t believe he deserved to see her again.
He had killed her.
With his bare hands.
The slave rolled to his side, facing the wall, though he couldn’t see it through the dark. His eyes burned, and a lump sat on his throat. He imagined Saradra lying next to him, like she did in that tiny bed they shared at Castle Brinescar. The darkness was so thick, he could almost trick himself into believing she was there. He reached with his hand slowly, willing her to materialize, his skin searching for her warmth.
He touched the cold, smooth wall.
His lungs deflated, the air leaving its place to heavy grief.
Olira had nurtured his injury, and the farm work had helped him regain his strength, but he doubted anything could stop the bleeding deep inside his chest.
He still had nightmares. His body remembered how he broke her, though his mind couldn’t. His memory was fractured, chunks of it lost to the Rage that consumed him. What he could remember clearly was the suffocating helplessness when he realized what King Kastian Vogros was about to do.
What he was about to make him do.
He woke up most nights, whimpering and crying, unable to breathe through the weight that pressed down on his chest. He felt her warm blood burning his hands. He heard her bones breaking. Her screams echoed in his ears, leaving him with a raw, visceral pain. His breath caught in his throat as his grief swelled inside him like a rising tide.
When it was too much, the slave with the beast tattoo rolled out of the bed and paced in the small space of the cupboard. He took his borrowed shirt off, too small for his size. Most shirts were too small for his size. The chill of the night bit his skin. He welcomed the discomfort, dropped to his hands and knees, then stretched his legs and started push ups. He pushed himself relentlessly, until all he could feel was the searing ache in his muscles.
When he was spent, he sat with his back against the wall, sweat cooling on his skin, his arms slack at his sides. He gazed into darkness. He lost track of time, and he didn’t even realize when the whispers first started.
He discouraged himself from acknowledging them, and he kept staring into the dark, his eyes unfocused and distant. Every time he had tried to decipher the whispers, they would stop. So, he ignored them.
He hid his amusement at how persistent the whispers became. Nagging for attention, like those relentless twins who had kept pestering him. Whispers became sharper, more urgent. Desperate to keep his thoughts from drifting to other topics. They called out to him.
They called his name.
Lion of Zarall.
“No,” he whispered to the darkness. “That’s not my name anymore.”
He swallowed over the tightness in his throat. Speaking without permission, even when he was alone, was still difficult for him, though he was getting better.
The tone of the whispers flickered briefly. The slave heard the next word very clearly:
Beast.
The slave felt a chill run down his back. He touched the tattoo that identified him as a purebred beast. A warrior bred for the arenas. A tool that was supposed to be numb and obedient.
Beast.
Olira had never bothered naming him. Why should she? She never intended to keep him. He didn’t have a name.
Beast!
The whisper rang with a tone of anger. It wanted him to acknowledge the name.
It wanted him to take it.
As Beast sat still, his gaze drowning in darkness, he felt a tug at the back of his mind. He started drifting, similar to how he used to send his mind to that place and leave his body behind. But this time, he was drifting down instead of above. The hard floor beneath him softened like sand, pulling him in.
The noise yanked Beast out of the grasp of the whispers. A soft squeak and click, followed by footsteps.
Olira was up.
He recognised the faint shuffle of her feet as she moved quietly down the corridor. A dim light snuck under the door as she passed by, dispersing the darkness in the cupboard. The warm, flickering light of her lantern chased the shadows to the corner of the cramped space, and Beast shaded his eyes from it. Olira walked past, taking her light with her. He heard her walk outside.
She was up early. He knew what it meant. His time was running out. She would come for him soon.
His stomach churned as he reached for the towel beside his bed. He found the jug of cold water in the corner where he left it. Moving cautiously in the dark to avoid knocking it by accident, he dipped the towel in the water, then wiped the sweat from his face and his chest. He let the chill ground him as he scrubbed away the remnants of whatever nightmare those whispers were. He worked in silence, preparing for what was to come.
He couldn’t let her sell him. He ran the damp towel across his chest, over the four brands that marked his past victories. Four tournaments he had won, each one represented inside a circle burnt into his skin. A horse, a rose, a maiden, and a bird. These brands identified him. Although Olira had no clue what they meant, people outside this farm would surely recognise them. The word would get to King Kastian. And then Beast would be on his way to White Tower.
He couldn’t let that happen.
He had to somehow stop Olira from selling him. He had to go to Euroad and fight at Twilight of Infinity.
Saradra’s words rang in his head again. Do whatever it takes to win.
If he could just win Twilight of Infinity—or die trying—everything would be better. Nothing could bring Saradra back, but she wanted him to be free. She wanted him to live without chains.
The tournament was in Spring. Only a few months away. He had time. He could do this. He could find a way. For now, he just had to stop Olira from selling him.
He pulled his shirt on, folded the towel and left it beside the bed just as he heard Olira’s footsteps.
Pausing outside the door, she knocked softly before gently pushing it open. Her brown hair caught the faint glow of the lantern she carried. Her face, with its strong, soft features, was partially shaded. Her brown eyes were hard and unreadable, and a permanent scowl was etched into her expression. She was clad in layers of clothes and a heavy travel coat against the early morning cold. A second travel coat hung across her arm.
She stood, the silence between them stretching into discomfort. She looked like she was going to say something, her mouth parting slightly. Beast decided he didn’t want to hear her order. Without giving her a chance to speak, he stepped out of the cupboard and took the coat she offered. He slung it over his shoulders as he walked through the house.
Olira followed him without a word. The nervous tension that had settled deep inside Beast’s gut every time he was around Olira hummed quietly. He was still wary of her, of her temper. Of how far she was willing to go for her family. He would have to tread very carefully.
Beast moved through the house as if this was the last time. He pushed open the door that led outside, the cold air hitting him like a mace. The sky was still dark, only with the faintest hint of dawn on the horizon. His breath misted in front of him.
The mule named Warrior stood near the front door, swatting his tail lazily. Gilann was there, checking the straps of packsaddle, preparing it for the journey. The most of the bags were empty. It was clear Olira intended to fill them with supplies after selling Beast.
Gilann didn’t look at Beast. His face was dark, and he kept looking at anywhere but the slave. Beast didn’t try to catch his gaze either. His attention was caught on one of the saddlebags. Something heavy pulled the bag down, coiled at the bottom of the leather pouch. Olira and Gilann exchanged silent words, but Beast ignored them. His eyes were fixed on the familiar outline of what was inside the bag.
His jaw ached as he stared at it for a long moment. There was no shock, no hesitation. Just a grim understanding. Without a word, he reached into the bag and pulled the chain and the collar out. The cold iron felt like a memory, sharp and biting against his skin.
“No need for that,” Olira said. “You don’t need to until we get to Oxreach.”
Beast clamped the collar around his neck. Staring straight ahead, he held the other end of the chain to Olira.
Olira’s brown eyes flicked to the chain, her strong features tightening just a moment. The permanent scowl on her face left its place to distaste. She stared at the chain. Beast willed her to take it. He had known her enough to understand she believed slave trade was disturbing, and she was ashamed to be a part of it. If she was going to do this to him, Beast was going to make it as hard as possible for her.
With a scoff, Olira grabbed the chain, holding it cautiously like it was burning her flesh. She attached it to one of the packsaddle straps.
Just as she stepped back, the door of the farmhouse burst open. The sudden noise started all three, and Olira looked up sharply as her three younger brothers rushed out into the yard.
The twins bolted towards Beast before anyone could stop them. They nearly tackled him, one clinging to his leg, the other to his arm, their small faces twisted in panic.
“Don’t take him!” one of the twins—Andar or Kowas, Beast could never tell them apart, and never bothered to learn—cried, his voice high and desperate.
“Please, Olira!” the other begged, his hands wrapped tightly around Beast’s forearm. “Don’t sell him. Let him stay, please!”
Beast froze, staring down at the two boys clutching at him. His body tensed, unsure of what to do. He’d never expected anything but annoyance from these kids, always buzzing around, asking questions, getting in his way. He had tolerated their presence. Seeing their tear-filled eyes, it made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
Behind the twins, Torren, the twelve year old, came forward with two books clutched tightly in his arms. His expression was serious. “Olira! You can’t sell him.”
“Inside! All of you!” Olira said sharply.
“You need to read the chapter twenty-nine of the Pure Lies of Chinderia.”
“I’ve read that book six times,” Olira scoffed. “I know exactly what it says.”
“It was dad’s favourite book for a reason,” Torren said. “Then you know what it says in chapter twenty-nine about purebreds and their rhoas.”
“Purebreds don’t have rhoas, and the three of you should be in bed. Go back inside.”
“Don’t take him!” one of the twins screeched.
“Andar, let him go. I told you many times don’t get attached to him. You know I have to sell him.”
“Please let him stay.”
“Do you want to starve? Lose our house?”
“The book says that’s a claim made by Domestic Assets Trade Union,” Torren continued his argument. He lifted the other book up. “But the Book of Twelve says every living creature is born with a rhoa.”
“We’ll work harder,” one of the twins said. “We’ll work at other farms.”
“We’ll eat less,” the other said.
“Olira, he’s a living creature too! What if he has a rhoa?”
“He doesn’t have a rhoa. I said get back inside!” Olira rubbed her temples. Her face hardened and her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ve made my decision. We don’t have another choice. Go inside.”
“But he can…”
“She said go inside!” Gilann, who had been standing quietly by Warrior, finally shouted. The firmness in his voice echoed across the yard, silencing the protests. He pulled the twins from Beast, then forced them inside. With shock, Beast noticed the boys were sobbing. A strange tightness sat in his chest.
Olira grabbed Warrior’s lead and started walking down the path leading away from the farmhouse. Torren stood in front of her, the books still in his arms.
“Olira, please. Dad always said Domestic Assets Trade Union had too much control and influence over everything, including the Chambers of Twelve. They would want people to believe purebreds don’t have rhoas. But what if they do?”
Beast couldn’t see Olira’s face, but her shoulders trembled. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but he doesn’t.”
“How do you—”
“I know he doesn’t.”
Beast pressed his lips together. Words flooded to the tip of his tongue. He could speak up. He could tell her he did have a rhoa. That the boy was right. It was all a lie. But it wouldn’t have mattered to Olira. She didn’t care about whether he had a rhoa or not. She had made her mind.
Olira put her hand on Torren’s shoulder and gently pushed him out of her way. “Go back inside, Torren.”
The boy stood and watched as they walked past, still hugging his books, his shoulders shaking and tears spilling down his cheeks. Beast caught his eye as he walked past, just for a moment. Torren’s tears left him feeling off balance.
He had almost killed that boy once.
Burning in fever and lost in a nightmare, he had nearly crushed his throat and squeezed the life out of him. He was only alive because Olira had walked in just in time. And now, the boy was begging for him.
The cold chain around Beast’s neck suddenly felt tighter.
Olira led the mule, Beast following beside, the chain clinking softly. Beast fought the urge to look back at the house, yet as they reached the hilltop, his head turned back. He etched the view into his memory; the farmhouse, and the barn, the fields of odd-looking herbs and plants, and the neighbouring forest that stretched behind the farm.
And the boy who still stood out at the front, shivering in the cold, his books at his feet, watching him leave.
Eddy Rose 