The sound of the river was faint, like a whisper calling him back to the world. The boy's eyelids trembled as sunlight filtered through the trees above. His small hands clutched the muddy grass, body trembling. Every breath came heavy and uneven.
When Ron opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a clear blue sky—beautiful, endless, and strange. He didn't remember how he'd gotten there. His body ached, his clothes torn and soaked. He tried to stand, but his knees gave in. The ground felt cold.
Footsteps echoed nearby. A man's voice broke the silence.
"Hey there, little one… what are you doing here in this terrify caynon
Ron lifted his head weakly. An old man stood there, carrying a wooden cane and wearing worn-out clothes. His eyes were wrinkled but not unkind.
"Come now," the old man said softly, helping him up. "You shouldn't be out here alone. Where are your parents?"
Ron shook his head, his voice a whisper. "I… I don't know…"
The old man sighed and patted the boy's hair. "Poor child. You're safe now. You can rest at my home tonight."
Ron followed silently. They reached a small wooden hut near the edge of the forest. The man gave him food—dry bread and water—and laid a blanket over him. For the first time since waking up, Ron felt a flicker of warmth.
He smiled faintly. "Thank you, mister…"
The old man smiled back. "Sleep well, boy. Tomorrow will be better."
Ron nodded and soon drifted off, his small hand clutching the blanket tightly.
But when night fell, the house was filled with another voice.
A low whisper came from outside the door. "You sure about this, old man?"
The old man's tone turned cold. "He's just a kid. Nobody's looking for him. You said five hundred Cyan, right?"
A man in a dark cloak stepped out of the shadows, tossing a pouch that jingled softly. "As promised. He'll fetch more once delivered. Keep quiet and no one will ask questions."
The old man caught the pouch, his eyes gleaming faintly in the candlelight. "Deal."
He glanced at the sleeping boy—peaceful, unaware. For a moment, guilt flickered in his expression, but it vanished as quickly as it came.
---
Morning came with soft sunlight through the cracked window. Ron's eyes fluttered open, expecting to see the small room—but instead, he was lying on hard wood. His wrists ached. He tried to move, but the sound of metal rang in the air.
Chains.
He blinked rapidly. The smell was strange—wet hay and dust. He was inside a carriage.
"Mister?" he called out weakly. "Where… where am I?"
The door creaked open. The old man stood outside, arms folded, beside the same cloaked man from last night.
The cloaked man smirked. "Morning, kid. Hope you slept well."
Ron looked frightened. "Where's my home? Mister, I want to go back…"
The old man didn't reply. His eyes were empty.
Ron reached his small hands through the bars. "Please! Help me!"
The cloaked man grabbed him by the collar and yanked him forward, then beat him blood coming from Ron's mouth, his grin widening. "You still don't get it, brat? That old fool sold you off for five hundred Cyan!"
Ron feeling pain from beating hard by cloaked gu
Ron's eyes went wide. "N-No… he said I was safe…"
The old man chuckled softly, his smile twisted. "You were—for a price."
Ron shook his head in disbelief, tears falling. "Why…?"
The cloaked man's face hardened. "Quiet!" He struck the boy across the face, throwing him backward against the wooden wall. Ron whimpered, blood trickling from his lip.
The old man only watched, that faint cruel smile never fading.
Ron's trembling hands clutched the chain around his wrists. "It hurts… please…"
"Should've stayed quiet," the cloaked man muttered, slamming the carriage door shut.
---
Hours passed. The road grew rougher. Ron sat in the corner, chains clinking as he trembled. His small voice broke the silence.
"...Mama?"
Only the wind answered.
He tried again, softer. "Papa… where are you…?"
No one replied.
His tears fell silently, tracing down the dirt on his cheeks. The warmth he'd felt last night—the hope—was gone. His chest hurt in a way he couldn't understand.
Thunder rolled in the distance as rain began to fall. The carriage wheels splashed through the mud, carrying him farther from everything he once knew.
Ron feeling pain from beating, bruises in his body crying weakly.
He pressed his tiny hands to his heart and tears in his eyes, whispered again, barely audible through his sobs.
"Papa... Mama..."
And somewhere in that storm, the boy named Ron Raiger lost not just his freedom—but his past.
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(END OF CHAPTER 3)
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