Foran lay awake that night, the single candle in the stables lit. He studied a thin leather notebook full of sketches and questions about sky ships and monsters to ask. Carefully he dipped a feather quill in a pot of ink and added, 

What is a Pyron? Is it bad luck to talk about your ship being attacked before a voyage? 

He paused, then put in a final question,

Why was I sold as a slave?

The thin candlelight flickered across the wet ink words, lighting them up like fire. Foran lay back in the soft hay, waiting for the ink to dry before closing the book. 

He had been only 2 or 3 when his mother had died, leaving him in the care of his aunt and uncle. They had kids of their own, and weren't eager to take him. But he was a nephew, so they looked after him. But something had happened. 

Foran screwed up his eyes, trying to remember what it could have been. A vague memory of playing with his cousins surfaced. They had been outside... yes. The oldest one was teasing him...

But the memory fled and he still couldn't recall what had happened. But his aunt had had enough. Whatever it was he had done was too much. The next market day she had pulled him into town and sold him to some slavers who were traveling to Kreport. 

His last memory of her was watching through the thick bars of the slave wagon as she turned her back and walked home, one hand clutched around the 20 rings he had sold for.

He shook his head. 

Around him horses snuffled softly and a quiet munching noise came from the stall to his right.  The candle dripped a trickle of melted wax onto the hay next to him. 

There was nothing more to do tonight. He closed the book, snuffed the candle, and burrowed into the hay pile. 

Far above the small wooden stables , a white falcon circled. Its golden eyes were fixed below on the light that had just gone out.