Otter Creek a raft of otters

Stark’s golden eye fixed on Needle as her question settled over him. For a moment, he said nothing, the weight of her words pressing against memories he rarely allowed himself to revisit. His jaw tightened, a flicker of tension crossing his features, but his voice, when he spoke, was calm—too calm, like the stillness before a storm.

“I remember,” he said, the words edged with a cold finality.

His gaze turned away from her then, falling to some unseen point in the distance. His tone grew quieter, his voice threading with something darker, heavier. “It was my father. A lesson, he called it. One I was supposed to learn, though I don’t know what he thought I’d gain from it. Respect? Fear? All it taught me was how to hate.”

There was no bitterness in his words, no outward anger, only the chilling detachment of someone who had relived the memory too many times to let it cut him anymore.

“I was young,” he added after a pause, his voice quieter now. "Perhaps I deserved it. A foolish boy."