Most couldn’t tell if it was night or day. The torchlight flickered, casting the whole place in an eerie, half-alive glow. Inside the cells, the slaves’ faces were the same: tired, defeated, suffocating. Their eyes locked onto nothing—too exhausted to care. I never thought we’d be back in a cell. I figured we’d work ourselves into the ground, crash in a barn somewhere with the animals, maybe sleep on hay and scratch our backs against the walls like the cattle. But here I was again, back in the dark. It felt like a sick joke, like déjà vu, but worse.


    And then, there it was. The black cat. Back again. How? How the hell had it found me? It had disappeared earlier, like it’d vanished into thin air. But now? Now it was creeping along the bars of the cell, no one noticing it—least of all the guards.


    Rook snorted. “What a cat. Did it just jump back over, like you said?”


    I nodded, feeling it press against my hand as I offered it a strip of jerky. It sniffed the food, sniffed it again. Then turned its nose up at it, like it had better things to do.


    “Yeah, picky little thing, but I kind of like it. At least it doesn’t pretend, y’know? Doesn’t fake liking the food.” I shrugged. “But I wish it would eat. It’s kind of a waste.”


    “Waste?” Kastor’s voice was low, irritated. He stood across from me, arms crossed, while Elzir, the quite girl beastman, leaned against the wall beside him, looking bored. “You just wasted food. That’s what you did.”


    I glanced at him. Just a quick look.


    Kastor had a talent for making simple things complicated, and right now, I had less patience than usual. He didn’t even need a reply—if I gave him one, this conversation would spiral into oblivion. And honestly? I wasn’t ready to deal with Rook having a heart attack over it. Slave life was miserable enough without losing our best source of bad jokes.


    Instead, I focused on the lone man in the center of the space. There was a noticeable gap between him and the rest of us—like even the newcomers knew to keep their distance.


    A few seconds passed before he finally looked up. His eyes were downcast, heavy. Even without a word, the weight of them hit me. A deep, quiet sadness that crawled under my skin.


    "Would you look at that?" Rook muttered, leaning in too close. "Doesn’t he remind you of that dying kid in Halrath?"


    I frowned. Not exactly. This guy wasn’t frail—his body wasn’t wasting away. He wore dark clothes, still intact, not ragged or torn. His long, curly hair was a mess, sure, but he had a presence, something steady. Even so… Rook wasn’t entirely wrong. The expression was the same.


    I shot him a quick warning look and put a finger to my lips. "Shhh."


    Before I could process anything else, the man lifted his head and spoke.


    "Pets don’t visit cells," he said, voice smooth but edged with something unreadable. "It’s rare to see a cat in here."


    Beside me, the black cat flicked its tail and, for a split second, met his gaze.


    "I didn''t think that cat was yours. Probably just decided to follow you." He let out a quiet laugh, something small but enough to crack the loneliness he carried earlier.


    And he wasn’t wrong. The cat had followed us here for reasons unknown.


    "This one’s not mine, mister," I said, scratching the cat behind its ear. "But yeah, seems like it took a liking to us."


    "That’s interesting," he mused, studying the animal like it was some kind of omen. "What’s your name?"


    "Galt, mister. And you?"


    He chuckled, low and amused. No clue why. Like I''d just told him a joke I didn''t know I''d made. Or maybe he was just crazy.


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    "Unfortunately," he said, still smiling, "I don’t have a name. People call me Lefty. You can too, if you want."


    "Lefty?" Rook cut in, eyebrow raised.


    "Yep. Lefty. See?" He lifted his left hand and gave a little wave. Then, slowly, he raised his right—except there was no hand to raise.


    The limb ended at the wrist, a mess of scarred-over skin and the faint curve of bone beneath it. Cut off. Chopped. Gone.


    "Guess I had it coming," he said, completely unfazed.


    Boy, look at that. The stump where his hand used to be. What kind of life hands you a wound like that? A warrior? A thief? My gut leaned toward the latter, but I didn’t ask. The beastmen were locked in too, and I barely had a second to brace before Rook—goddammit—blurted out the question.


    “How—how did that happen?” He jabbed a finger at the missing hand.


    “He’s probably a thief,” Kastor said, always the tactful one.


    Honestly? Same thought crossed my mind. In Halrath, if you saw a severed hand, it meant someone had sinned. Theft was the usual crime. The real kicker? The one who got robbed decided the punishment. Brutal, sure, but nobody stole twice.


    Lefty chuckled, amused at our little guessing game.


    “Most would say I’m a thief, and they wouldn’t be wrong.” He paused, his expression shifting. “Not until my family was burned alive by a Fellkin.” His eyes flicked between us. “Do you believe in Fellkin? I’ve seen one with my own two eyes.”


    “Fellkin?” Rook scoffed. “Aren’t they just a myth?”


    I’d heard the stories. Creatures that walked among humans, wearing their faces, whispering in the dark. Always scheming, always waiting. Some said they’d destroy the world. Others, like the priests, claimed they were inside us already—lurking in the souls of murderers, rapists, monsters. Me? I never bought into it. But this guy… he had the look of someone who’d seen something he couldn’t unsee.


    “I thought the same,” Lefty said. “Until I saw one flying. At first, I thought—dragon. But dragons are long gone.” His voice dropped. “No, it was a man. A burning figure, laughing while it slaughtered an entire village. I got caught in the fire. My hand—” He flexed the stump. “I cut it off myself.”


    A laugh came from the next cage over.


    “Don’t listen to him. He lost it a long time ago.”


    Lefty turned, smiling like he was in on some joke. “You, beastman. You’re of the Black Lion lineage, aren’t you?” His gaze locked onto Kastor. “That thick mane says so.”


    Kastor’s jaw tightened. “What if I am?”


    “You know about them, then. The Fellkin.” Lefty leaned forward, voice sharpening. “Your kind was hunted by them. You should know exactly what I’m talking about.”


    Something shifted. His tone, his pacing—it wasn’t just a story anymore. It was a provocation.


    Kastor moved fast. Fist clenched, stride purposeful. In a blink, he had the man by the collar, yanking him close.


    “Say another word, and I’ll cut your throat.”


    Lefty just laughed, even as Elzir rushed in to pull Kastor back.


    I’d known Kastor for years. Straightforward, blunt—yeah. But violent? Not like this. He never let words get under his skin.


    But then before it escalated to something else the man showed up again. The short one. Some called him a dwarf, but he wasn’t one—just short. A capped little menace who liked to act bigger than he was.


    Kastors'' fingers had already curled around the bastard’s collar, but he just stood there, unbothered. Eyes roaming, like he was looking past me—past all of us.


    "Be careful who you associate with," he murmured. "There will always be devils near us."


    Great. A philosopher. Just what we needed.


    The slaves had warned—called him crazy—but he wasn’t wrong. The devils were always there, whispering. Scraping their voices along the edges of your thoughts, waiting for you to lean in.


    The real question was: will you listen?


    "Finally found the witch," the short man then grumbled, leading us forward. He always complained about it, about how long it took, about how much trouble it was. Then, just as quickly, he’d go quiet again.


    We walked. Past the coliseum—empty now, silent and eerie in a way it hadn''t been before. Further still, until we reached what looked like a makeshift camp. Rows of tents, a few stone buildings scattered between them. The ground was flat, the grass surprisingly green. The sky—Gods, the sky—was an endless blue. I hadn''t seen it like this in years.


    Something caught in my chest. How long had it been?


    Then, the smell hit me. Meat, roasting over open flames. My stomach twisted with sudden hunger, an ache so sharp it nearly made me dizzy. Around us, workers moved in steady lines, some heading toward the coliseum, others toward wherever we were being taken.


    “Slaves, oh slaves are passing through,” some bastard sang, dragging out the words like it was the funniest joke he’d ever told. The others laughed.


    Packed streets. Too many eyes. Too many voices whispering, jeering, grinning like we were put on display for their entertainment. It felt like a market—except we weren’t the buyers. We were the cattle.


    I gritted my teeth and kept walking.


    “Move, idiots!” Garit, the short bastard leading us, swung his arms like he owned the place.


    For a second, I almost laughed. The way people scrambled aside, we could’ve been nobles on a parade. Ridiculous thought. Maybe I was just hungry. Hunger did that—messed with your head, made the world blur.


    But then we reached the end of the crowd, and all the useless thoughts faded.


    The noise dulled. The bodies thinned.


    Ahead stood a house—stone-built, sturdy, medium-sized with a chimney that probably hadn’t seen smoke in a while. Nothing grand, nothing poor. Just… there.


    Garit knocked. “Once inside, keep your damn mouths shut,” he muttered. Then he grinned. “The witch doesn’t like noise. Unless, of course, you’re ready to be burned alive.”


    The witch. Again with the damn witch. I’d been hearing about her non-stop—whispers in the forest, murmurs in the slaver’s camp. Some sorcerer who could summon fire with a snap of her fingers. No flint, no grinding sticks together, just raw magic.


    I’d never seen a sorcerer. Never met anyone who could do more than swing a sword or break a bone. The way people talked about them, you’d think they floated above the ground, too important to step in the same dirt as the rest of us. Nobles with magic instead of money.


    The door creaked open. A little girl stood there. Blonde pigtails, a tattered brown dress, bare feet against the cold stone.


    I frowned. This was the witch? No. Maybe she was a hundred years old, cursed to look like a child. Maybe she was some nightmare wrapped in innocence.


    I kept that thought to myself. If Rook heard me say it, he’d laugh, and then we’d both be dead.


    Garit leaned in. “Little girl, the sorcerer inside?”


    The girl hesitated, then stepped aside. And behind her—


    Now that was a witch.


    Dark hair streaked with crimson. Weathered tan skin, a faint scar tracing down her face, another slashing across her collarbone. Eyes like molten amber, sharp and assessing. She wore deep purple robes, slit high at the leg, with boots that looked made for walking over bodies. Taller than Garit. Taller than most men here. But then she looked very young.


    She barely glanced at us. “What can I do for you?”


    The little girl flinched at the sound of her voice and darted behind her robes.