"Who are you?!" Lucas demanded, his voice hoarse as the caravan rattled forward. "And what are you trying to do with us?!"
One of the men laughed loudly, leaning back as though amused by a child's tantrum."Sell you, of course," he said casually. "As for who we are? Why do you need to know?"
He glanced at the others."Right, guys?"
Laughter erupted around the wagon—crude, careless, effortless.
Lucas clenched his fists against the ropes."You're selling us… as slaves?" he asked. "All of us? Even the children?"
Another man scoffed."What kind of stupid question is that?" he said. "Of course we are. Every single one of you."
He tilted his head, eyes flicking toward the small bundle cradled near Bereshith."Even that baby. People who can't have children pay real well in the black market."
Lucas' breath caught.
Yareach.
The world narrowed.
Before he could speak, another man leaned closer, his gaze shifting toward Levanah."And this little one?" he said with a grin. "She'll fetch a fine price too. I'd bet she's never been touched."
That was it.
Something inside Lucas snapped—clean and final.
"You," Lucas said quietly, his voice no longer shaking. "You touch even a single hair on any of them… and I swear to God, I'll make you wish you had never been born."
The man smirked."Try us."
He reached out.
His fingers brushed Yareach's cheek—beneath the cloth Bereshith had wrapped around her to shield her from heat and cold.
Lucas didn't think.
The ropes gave way.
With a roar torn from his chest, he lunged forward, wrenching the man back by the throat and ripping Yareach free in the same motion. The man's head struck the floor of the caravan with a sickening finality.
The wagon lurched to a halt.
The others shouted.
Too late.
Lucas moved without mercy—without hesitation. He seized the knife from a man's belt and turned it against them with terrifying precision. One fell. Then another. Panic replaced laughter as men scrambled, tripped, begged.
Lucas did not listen.
When it was over, silence fell heavy and absolute.
Lucas stood there, breathing hard, his body trembling—not from fear, but from the weight of what he had done.
He looked down at Yareach, unharmed but trembling in her sleep.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice breaking."I'm sorry, little one. Your tunic… your brother was meant to protect you. And now it's stained."
He gathered her carefully and laid her back beside Bereshith.
Then he worked.
He cut the ropes binding Bereshith and Levanah. He dragged the bodies from the caravan, stripping them of weapons and clothes, leaving them on the roadside without ceremony or prayer.
When the children still did not wake, Lucas climbed to the front of the carriage and took the reins.
"East," he murmured. "Just as we intended."
The horses obeyed.
Hours later, he stopped near a river. He staggered from the carriage and fell to his knees, plunging his hands into the cold water.
"I killed again," he said aloud, his voice cracking."Why… why do I keep sinning? Why can't I stop?"
His hands shook violently.
Yet still, he rose.
He washed himself. Drank. Then returned to the wagon.
Using the clothes taken from the dead men, Lucas scrubbed the blood from the floor and walls—working until no trace remained. Until the children would wake to a clean space, untouched by the horror meant for them.
Only when the last stain was gone did Lucas finally sit down.
Alone with his guilt.
And the road stretching endlessly eastward.