"That's right. I could just go."

I walked out of the stables, feeling an odd numbness in my chest.

I was the son of a merchant, not a murderer or a warlord; that was how I wanted to define myself. There had to be some line to be drawn, some place that was too far. Some profits that weren't worth the risk or the price.

And so I left, I left the barn and the farm and the county.

Eventually I left the country, feeding only on prostitutes, the homeless, safe bets.

Some years later I even managed to open a shop of my own, where I lived safely with a few chosen partners to warm my bed.

A good life, a safe life.

What more could a man want?