The Other Half

A man grasped a boy's small, trembling hands, forcing a blade into his grip. Together, they faced a wounded creature lying motionless in the dirt before them. The animal's body was sheathed in a creamy, plated armor, its hardened shell a blend of quartz and stone. The plates glistened faintly in the dim light, betraying the subtle beauty of its design. Most striking, however, were the dorsals sprouting from its back, jagged and crystalline, like fractured glass reaching for the sky.

It was a lesh—a runt of the litter, small and frail compared to others of its kind. The creature whimpered softly, its breath shallow, its life slipping away.

"Go on now," the man urged, his voice rough and unsympathetic. "This is for its own good." He guided the boy's hands, pressing the tip of the blade closer to the dying animal's side.

The boy shook his head, his voice quivering. "I don't want to," he squeaked.

His father's grip tightened, yanking his arms forward with a sudden jerk. "You need to put it out of its misery," the man growled, the smell of resin smoke curling from his breath as he exhaled.

Tears welled in the boy's wide eyes, trembling on the edge of spilling. He shook his head again, more forcefully this time. "No. I don't want to. Please…"

The man sighed, dragging on the thick reed-like pipe clamped between his teeth. He exhaled another cloud of resin smoke, the acrid scent clinging to the air. "You'll do it," he snapped, his tone sharper now, brooking no argument.

The boy flinched, his hands trembling as he stared down at the helpless creature. The weight of the blade felt like iron in his small fingers.

His tears fell, silently streaking his dirt-smudged cheeks as his father forced the knife forward. The blade sank into the lesh's side, its weak, pained sounds cutting off abruptly. The creature stilled, its crystalline dorsals reflecting the boy's tear-streaked face like a broken mirror.

The boy stared down at his bloodied hands, his small chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.

Veneres held the dagger tightly, his knuckles white from the strain. His voice was faint, almost inaudible. "But why, Father? It wasn't hurting anyone… We could have nursed it back to health."

His father's lips curled into a thin, humorless smile. "You needed to learn this lesson," he said simply, as though that explained everything.

Veneres' head lowered, his tears dripping silently into the dirt. His voice cracked as he asked, "But why? Why did it have to die?"

The man crouched down, bringing himself to his son's level. His shadow loomed over the boy, oppressive and unyielding. The thick stench of resin clung to him like a second skin.

"Dry your eyes, boy," he barked, his tone clipped and sharp. "Men of Reem don't cry. We endure. We persevere through struggle, no matter how hard it gets."

The boy looked up, his teary gaze searching his father's face for any semblance of kindness or warmth. He found none.

The man jabbed a finger at the dead lesh, his voice lowering. "That creature would've eaten through our rations, leaving us with nothing. But now, we'll use it to fill our stomachs for weeks."

Veneres flinched at the mention of food, the hunger pangs in his belly flaring like a fresh wound. He whispered, barely audible, "It could've had my share. I didn't need to eat…"

His father snorted, pulling the pipe from his lips to blow out another puff of smoke. The resin clouded the air, thick and choking. "Bah, you fool boy. You'd let yourself starve for a worthless creature?" He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "I've raised a mistake. Bell, you should've lived, and I could've been happy." His voice softened with regret as he spoke to someone who wasn't there, his glazed eyes staring past Veneres.

The boy edged backward, putting as much distance between himself and his father as he dared.

The man's voice grew faintly slurred, the effects of the resin creeping into his tone. "If there's one thing you should remember, boy, it's this." He jabbed a finger into Veneres' chest, the force of it making the boy flinch. "The gods don't care about us. They're nothing but stories—no better than us, and no worse. People do cruel, vile things, and the gods don't stop them. They don't judge."

The man leaned closer, his crooked smile exposing yellowed teeth. "We're already punished, boy—punished with the karnen. That's the gods' way of laughing at us. So take what you can from life and enjoy it where you can."

Veneres stared at him, silent and still. The words sank deep into his mind, mingling with the hunger, the shame, and the weight of the knife in his hand.

Then, the man grinned, a humorless, twisted thing. "But you already know that, don't you? Because you're my son. The greatest joke of my life."

Years later, Veneres awoke with a start, his heart pounding against his ribcage. A book lay across his face, its spine pressing against his nose. He pushed it aside, dragging it down to rest on his lap without opening his eyes.

The faint scent of resin lingered in his memory, clinging like a phantom he couldn't shake. He whispered to the stillness of the room, his voice low and bitter. "I wonder if you're still saying that, wherever you are."

The chair creaked softly as he shifted, his body leaning forward. His fingers brushed over the edges of the book absentmindedly, his mind elsewhere.

His father's voice echoed in his mind, harsh and unrelenting. The lessons he had been forced to learn as a child—lessons of hunger, survival, and the cruel indifference of the world—had stayed with him, shaping him into the man he had become.

Power. That was the difference between then and now. Back then, he'd had none. He had been at the mercy of a man who used cruelty as a tool and justification as a shield. A man who laughed at the gods and treated his son like a burden.

But not anymore.

Veneres opened his eyes, their sharp focus fixed on the dim light filtering through the window. He had power now—enough to make people listen, to make them act. Enough to ensure no one would ever shove a knife into his hands again, forcing him to do their bidding.

He folded his hands together, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared into the middle distance. The memory of the dead lesh flashed across his mind, its lifeless eyes a reflection of his own when he was that boy.

Never again.

The world was indifferent, yes—but he was no longer powerless within it. That was the lesson he had chosen to take from his father's teachings. Not the bitter ramblings about gods or suffering, but the truth hidden beneath it all: power was the only currency worth having. Without it, you were nothing.

And Veneres had no intention of being nothing ever again.