The Demon lifted his sword, holding it upside down in a stabbing motion.

The boy flinched, closing his eyes as he feared the next moment that would lead to that sword finding it’s place in his head.

He instead heard the sword cut down into the eath, and the soil, mere inches in front of his head before the sounds of unsheathing, another sword swinging trhough the air with it’s resonant sharpness. And the men who held him down went limp, releasing him. He realised they were dead.

Everything moved faster than he could properly keep track with he moved to get up but he felt the demons foot, he felt his hair being grabbed and tugged “open your eyes child” the voice commanded, and he had no choise but to obey.

He saw the sword. The blade shining in the moonlight, reflecting all across its surface save for the dulled blood stained areas that spotted along its length. “See this sword.”

The next words opened the boys mind and put a void in his heart. “This is the sword that killed your mother. The is the sword that killed your father.” his voice was smooth, speaking of the act as he would the weather, on how clear this night was, as though he hadn’t just sundered an entire cities way of life. “This sword killed your family. And has slaughtered countless people this night.”

His eyes wet themselves with tears as he couldn’t blink, the pain built in his soul as despite his innate desire to dissociate. To lose himself to the moment of emotional loss he felt his mind hold tight and listen with some manner that he lacked the proper words to describe

“You feel sad, that is as you should be. But even now I know somewhere in that soul of yours you feel it, child. Anger, hatred, others will tell you these are dangerous, but they lie.” The grip on his hair kept firm “Hold to that anger, keep that hatred. Use it, weaponise it. Take that sword; train with it, every day as often as you can. Even though it killed your friend know now it will be the reminder you need.”

His body shivered as he listened, something ached in his body to stay awake despite the trauma bearing down on him emotionally and physically “I know you hate me, child” The Butcher leaned in closer, the voice dripping like poisonous honey in his ear “and when you are ready, I know you will find me. Or let your anger best you” he then pushed him into the dirt and kicked him hard. Concious left him, the sleep uneasy and unkind.