Valentius didn't know much about it all. He didn't understand why he didn't have a slave rune on his neck, but a dagger in his hand.
But what he did know, however, was that Bert needed Mercy.
He heard the crying from around the corner, and he gripped the dagger—a dagger that was going to kill instantly.
A dagger which had already been plunged into Bartolomeo's throat.
But as he saw Bert hugging himself but not looking so, as if he was preparing to die, Valentius knew he couldn't do it.
"Bert?" The boy had not been in the academy with them. If he had, he had been a year or two above them.
He looked older.
But he was slim. Besides, he looked like he couldn't decide which class he wanted to become, so he had become a little of everything.
"Who are you?" Bert didn't know him either. His eyes were haunted, but there was a spark of defiance in them—a spark that Valentius wanted to nurture.
To bathe in, use its warmth to envelop himself, and never let the other boy go.
