《Requiem of Hell》


 Chapter 1: Cattle for the Wolves

    I''ve gotten used to the stench. The foul mix of piss, sweat, and rot clung to the air, thick enough to taste. The cell walls were damp, the straw reeked of mold, and the iron bars held the kind of chill that seeped into your bones.


    This place was built for children, people who have nowhere to go. Not to keep them safe¡ªno, that would be too kind. It was a holding pen. A market. They took us in chains, lined us up like cattle, and sold us to the highest bidder. Some became workers, slaving away until their lungs gave out. Others¡ªwell, their fates weren¡¯t much better. When one of us died, they didn¡¯t mourn. They didn¡¯t even pause. They just bought another.


    And it wasn¡¯t just children. Half-breeds, the ones with animal blood, were dragged in too. Some still fought when they were taken. Others had already learned the truth¡ªresistance only made it worse.


    This was normal here. Accepted. Expected. The history books claimed the first conqueror of the Black Iron Empire outlawed slavery, that he ruled with an iron hand and no tolerance for corruption. If that was ever true, it didn¡¯t matter now. The devils had won. The empire was theirs.


    Beside me, a boy¡ªabout several years younger¡ªsat curled against the wall. He was new. Fresh meat. He hadn¡¯t been here long, but starvation had already carved deep hollows into his cheeks. He looked like a walking corpse, his ribs pressing sharp against his skin.


    I knew that look. I¡¯d seen it before.


    Despair.


    The kind that settled in your bones when you realized no one was coming to save you.


    Maybe he was still holding on to hope. Maybe he thought someone out there would care enough to tear this place down brick by brick. I almost envied that kind of delusion. But I knew better.


    This world didn¡¯t care about the weak. It chewed them up, spat them out, and moved on. If you wanted to live, you endured. Simple as that.


    The cell was small. Cramped. Four of us barely fit, and when the slave operator felt particularly cruel, he¡¯d shove in eight. No room to stretch, no space to breathe. This was where we pissed, where we slept, where we ate¡ªwhen they bothered to feed us.


    They had to, of course. A buyer wouldn¡¯t waste coin on something half-dead. We weren¡¯t people to them. Just stock.


    ¡°That one¡¯s not gonna last,¡± Rook muttered beside me. He was another prisoner, a scrawny kid with an authoritative voice tone and an empty stare. His skin was pale and sickly, covered in old bruises and lash marks. A dark gray eyes and an ash-brown hair, unkempt, always falling into his eyes. And his most notable feature, a deep scar across his neck. He nodded toward the boy curled in the corner, his ribs showing, his skin gray with sickness. ¡°Think so too, Galt?¡±


    I didn¡¯t answer. Just exhaled, slow and steady, then pushed myself up. My legs tingled from sitting too long, the dirt beneath me dry and packed hard. When I moved, the outline of my body stayed imprinted in the filth. How long had I been sitting there? Too long.


    Then came the sound.


    Footsteps. Heavy. Measured.


    Every breath in the cell stilled. We knew that sound. Knew it too well.


    The slave operator.


    He only came down here for four reasons¡ªto toss us stale bread, to remind us we were filth, to put another slave inside, or to drag one of us off for the auction block.


    "Wake up. We¡¯ve got customers incoming."


    His voice cut through the stale, suffocating air, thick with years of smoke and liquor. Gravelly and hoarse, I¡¯d heard it too many times, memorized the face behind it. If I ever got the chance, I''d carve that face off his skull and walk out of this hell myself.


    A white beard, patchy and unkempt. Balding scalp shining under the dim light. Bloated gut sagging over his belt, probably from years of drowning himself in cheap booze.


    Around me, the others stirred. Coughing. Groaning. Some still dead to the world, only to be shaken awake by the more desperate ones. They knew better than to ignore him. If one of us didn''t get up, we all paid for it.


    "Three," he grunted. "Three of you get a shot at the auction this week. One of you might even see daylight again."


    I barely heard the rest. My attention flicked to the kid I¡¯d been watching earlier. His coughing had gotten worse¡ªdeep, hacking bursts that shook his frail frame. Each one rattled in his chest. His ribs jutted out under paper-thin skin, and his hands were more bone than flesh. Veins bulging. Lips cracked. Mucus smeared across his nose.


    Huff.


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    Huff.


    Every breath looked like it might be his last.


    The bastard in charge finally looked his way. I followed his gaze, tense. Was that pity in his eyes? No. I knew better. Years of this place had taught me exactly what that twitch of his brow meant. Disgust. Contempt.


    And then¡ªan almost amused scoff.


    I nearly opened my mouth, nearly did something reckless. Maybe if I spoke, I could pull his attention away, keep the kid from whatever came next. But then I stayed put.


    "You little sick¡ª" He grimaced. "Come on."


    The cell door groaned open. Not ours.


    The bastard grabbed the kid by the arm and yanked him to his feet. He barely reacted¡ªtoo weak to fight back, too sick to do anything but stumble forward. The man hauled him toward another cell. Empty, except for the bones.


    "Here. Stay there. Unless you stop coughing, you ain''t getting out."


    The kid didn''t respond. Not because he didn¡¯t want to, but because he couldn¡¯t. Even nodding looked impossible.


    The man didn¡¯t care. He turned back to us, stepping toward our cell next. Metal screeched as the door swung open, and for a moment, the air shifted. Tension. Hope. Dread. All mixed together.


    He grabbed three of the others, dragging them out. Their eyes flickered with something that almost looked like relief. A chance¡ªhowever slim¡ªto breathe fresh air again. To see sunlight.


    Then he turned to me and Rook, still sitting in the dark.


    "Unlucky," he muttered. "Customers want younger ones. Guess the older ones bother ''em lately. No idea why." He chuckled to himself, like it was some inside joke only he understood.


    Then he left, the three behind him following in stiff, nervous silence. Their expressions were a mess¡ªhalf-smiles, half-terror. They knew what this meant. One of them might get out. The other two? Back here. Left to rot until someone decided they were worth something.


    Rook let out a breath beside me. ¡°That bald bastard.¡± He sighed, shaking his head. ¡°I¡¯ll never get used to that smirk of his.¡±


    I glanced at him, giving a small smirk of my own. Not because I found it funny, but because it was the closest thing to agreement I could manage. That¡¯s when I noticed it¡ªhow different he looked. Older. Worn down. His face had that hollowed-out look, like a man twice his age.


    Then again, I probably wasn¡¯t much better.


    I didn¡¯t bother saying anything. He wouldn¡¯t care, and I didn¡¯t see the point. Instead, I looked back at the kid, slumped in the empty cell.


    ??


    Days passed.


    One of the slaves got bought by a merchant. The other two weren¡¯t as lucky. They were shoved right back in here with the rest of us, left to rot in this piss-stained hole.


    I never thought I¡¯d end up a slave.


    Back then, I was just a kid. No parents. No one looking out for me. I walked the streets without a care, no idea how the world worked. Never crossed my mind that someone could snatch me off the road and sell me like cattle.


    I wasn¡¯t the only one. Some of the others here probably had it the same way. A few were kidnapped. A few¡­ were sold off by their own families.


    Like Rook.


    His father had debts. Couldn¡¯t pay them. So he handed over his own son to settle it.


    They still took a piece of him anyway. The old man lost a hand for being short.


    When Rook told me that, I realized something.


    That people are really rotten to the core.


    Days blurred together. The cycle continued. More slaves bought. More slaves thrown in. And we were still here.


    Nothing changed. Not the stench choking the air. Not the damp rot clinging to the walls. Not the hopeless, hollow stares. The only thing that ever shifted was the weight of despair pressing down on everyone¡¯s shoulders. Some slumped against the walls, backs bent, eyes vacant. Others whispered, muttered¡ªanything to distract themselves. A few fought, clawing at each other like animals, desperate to feel something.


    I didn¡¯t flinch at any of it. Didn¡¯t feel disgusted. At some point, I stopped questioning whether this was temporary. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was all life had left for me¡ªa number on a ledger, a body in a cell.


    Then came the footsteps.


    The usual operator, but he wasn¡¯t alone this time. The murmurs in the cell quieted as the door groaned open, torchlight spilling into the suffocating dark. A man stepped in, cloaked in black. Long hair, strands falling loose over his forehead. He carried a lamp, its glow stabbing through the gloom, forcing our aching eyes to adjust.


    The operator barely looked up. "Pick whoever you want. Go on."


    The cloaked man moved the lamp closer, scanning the room. His voice was low, steady. "They all look sick." A pause. Then his eyes landed on the boy curled up in the corner. "That one. Is he dead?"


    "Not yet," the operator grunted. "But he¡¯s not for sale this time. Kid¡¯s barely breathing. I¡¯ll be tossing him soon anyway."


    The man ignored that, shifting his attention to the rest of us. His hand lifted, gesturing toward the cells. "This batch¡ªavailable?"


    The operator sat at the barrel in front of the cell. ¡°that''s right, you could take a clearer look at them, they won''t bite.¡± he said.


    "As long as they''re available," the cloaked man said.


    The operator blinked. "What do you mean?"


    "I''ll take everyone in this cell."


    For a second, nobody reacted. It had to be a joke. A bad one. Nobody bought an entire cell¡ªhell, most barely had the coin to buy one or two at a time. And this guy? He didn¡¯t have the look of a noble, not even close. If anything, he looked more like a beggar, but his voice? Steady. Clear. No hesitation. He wasn¡¯t joking.


    Who was this man? How did he plan to get us out of here? Did he have that kind of money? Or was he working for someone who did?


    The operator lazily picked at his ear with his pinky. "Did I hear that right, mister?"


    "You did." The cloaked man didn¡¯t waver. "Of course, I expect a fair price. Considering I''m taking all of them."


    That got a reaction. The bodies strewn across the cell stirred, eyes flickering with something dangerously close to hope. They¡¯d heard it too. Seen what I¡¯d seen. Even Rook¡ªwho hadn¡¯t so much as twitched for hours¡ªhad gone stiff, his hand pressing against his chest like he was making sure his heart was still beating.


    He reached out, tapping my shoulder, his fingers ice-cold.


    The operator, still frozen in place, suddenly let out a nervous little laugh. "Ah¡ªoh! So you''re serious?" The confusion melted off his face, replaced with something sharper. Hungrier. Excitement.


    Because if this man was serious, he was about to make a fortune.


    If I had to describe the feeling crawling up my spine, it was this: the cloaked man radiated something strange. Not power, not exactly, but a presence¡ªan energy that made the air feel heavier. I had no idea why he was buying an entire cell of slaves. Maybe he was starting a business. Maybe he needed cheap labor. But he didn¡¯t look like a merchant.


    The operator moved fast, almost tripping over himself to grab the keys. He hesitated for a split second, casting one last glance at the cloaked man before shoving a key into the lock. The heavy door groaned as it swung open.


    I watched the keys jingle in his hands. The same set I¡¯d spent years dreaming of stealing. Planning my escape.


    "Ah, mister, this is¡ª" The operator paused, his excitement barely contained. "To be honest, my first time handling a bulk order!" He actually clapped his hands together, practically vibrating. A few slaves shuffled forward, cautious, unsure if this was real. The rest of us followed, falling into line.


    "And it might be your last," the cloaked man said flatly.


    The operator¡¯s face twitched. "How so?"


    Seven of us stood there¡ªtwo beastmen, the rest human. Filthy, reeking, bones barely holding us together. Yet, despite the stench of piss and sweat, there was something in their faces once again. A spark. A dangerous thing in a place like this.


    Hope.


    "Oh," the cloaked man murmured, tilting his head. "News hasn¡¯t reached this far, huh?"


    The operator wiped his brow, feigning indifference. "Been too busy to keep up. What¡¯s this about?"


    The man took a slow step forward. Then another. The only sound was his boots grinding against dirt, the weight of each step deliberate, unhurried. He stopped by the operator¡¯s barrel, resting a gloved hand on it.


    "It just broke out," he said. "But I¡¯d suggest relocating." He let the words sink in before continuing. "Rumors say an unknown organization is wiping out criminal enterprises. And if your boss comes back to find this place in ashes?"


    The operator swallowed hard.


    "Let¡¯s just say," the cloaked man murmured, "he won¡¯t be happy."

 Chapter 2: Where the Wild Things Watch

    The region of Halrath had always felt like it was missing something. Maybe warmth. Maybe life. The air carried a permanent chill, a reminder that somewhere above us, an ice-covered land loomed. That was what the stories said, at least¡ªthe ones whispered in the streets, passed from voice to voice like secrets. I wouldn¡¯t know. I¡¯d never left Halrath. Never gone beyond the maze of alleys where people moved like clockwork, lost in their own routines, untouched by anything outside their own survival.


    This place bred beggars like rats. Everywhere you turned, another body hunched in the shadows, hands outstretched, eyes hollow. Growing up here did something to you. Warped the way you saw the world. When you lived at the bottom, you noticed every crack, every stain, every inch of rot. When you were drowning in filth, everything looked filthy. The people. The streets. Even your own thoughts.


    That was why my fists clenched every time I saw the rich pass by¡ªuntouched, unbothered, as if the weight crushing the rest of us didn¡¯t exist in their world.


    The old ones used to say Halrath wasn¡¯t always like this. Once, it stood proud, a city of wealth and ambition, nearly rivaling Karnevrien¡ªthe empire¡¯s beating heart. But time eroded everything. Rulers changed. Laws twisted. The streets rotted from the inside out. Thieves became bolder. Murders more common. The scent of blood and decay never truly left the air. I¡¯d seen it firsthand, watched the city unravel thread by thread.


    Not that I¡¯d ever seen much of the world beyond these crumbling streets. Even if I could afford to leave, my circumstances wouldn¡¯t allow it.


    Because now, I was a slave.


    Locked away for years, trapped in the stench of unwashed bodies and damp stone. And yet, for the first time in what felt like forever, I saw the night sky. Stars, scattered like shattered glass across the darkness. No city smoke to smother them, no bars overhead.


    The world was quiet. Just the hum of the wind and the steady chorus of insects, whispering to a sky that had never known chains.


    Rook stood beside me, head tilted back, eyes locked on the night sky. I felt it too¡ªthat strange, fleeting moment of peace. The cold pressed against my skin like a quiet blessing, sharp enough to make me wrap my arms around myself. The others did the same, but no one spoke. We just stood there, lined up, while the cloaked man¡ªour handler¡ªspoke to someone new.


    The person was taller, sword strapped to his side, posture rigid with authority. More figures flanked him, standing at attention like guards. A few weren¡¯t even cloaked, their faces visible in the dim light. Near them sat a massive carriage, its entrance shaped like a pentagon, a curtain drawn across the doorway.


    Rook turned to me. ¡°That man must be rich.¡±


    He didn¡¯t sound impressed. Just curious, that same easy smile on his face, as if we weren¡¯t standing at the edge of the unknown.


    I didn¡¯t argue. ¡°No surprise. The rich always find new ways to own people.¡±


    The others kept quiet, but I could still see it in their eyes¡ªexcitement, or something like it. Minutes passed before the guards barked out an order, shoving us forward. One by one, we climbed into the massive brown carriage.


    Inside, it was¡­ empty. No crates, no goods¡ªnothing that hinted at trade or transport. Just a wide, open space built for movement, not cargo. The air was thick with an odd mix of scents¡ªfruit, something floral, and beneath it, a rot I couldn¡¯t place. If I had to put it into words, it was like stepping into a field of flowers where something had died.


    In the center sat a single large bottle, probably water, with a few cups beside it. Nothing else.


    The curtain at the carriage entrance yanked open without warning.


    A man stood there, half-lit by the moon. Black beard, trimmed short. A nose too big for his face. Small, tired eyes sunken beneath dark circles. He held the curtain open with one hand, peering inside like he expected something¡ªwhat, I had no idea.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it dark in here?¡± His voice was gruff, thick with something I couldn¡¯t place. Then he jabbed a finger at us. ¡°Need some company?¡±


    Before he could finish, another voice cut through.


    ¡°We¡¯re leaving!¡±


    The bearded man flinched, gripping the curtain like he wanted to rip it down. His teeth clenched, and he muttered, ¡°Agh, that bastard¡­¡± before finally yanking it shut.


    Yeah. Creepy.


    A jolt ran through the carriage as the wheels lurched forward. The movement was slow at first, then picked up speed. The others settled in¡ªsome drifting off to sleep, some shifting in place. Rook and I stayed awake. Not that I had a choice. The whole thing rattled like it was held together with string and wishful thinking. The only sound was the ceaseless creak of wood grinding against rough roads. If the bumps in the terrain didn¡¯t kill us, the splinters might.


    Rook nudged me, nodding toward the ones who had managed to sleep. ¡°Look at them. I wish I could do that.¡±


    I sighed. ¡°Don¡¯t hold your breath. At this rate, we¡¯ll be lucky if we don¡¯t wake up with concussions.¡±


    He let out a low chuckle but didn¡¯t disagree. A moment passed before he spoke again, still stuck on the same thought from earlier. ¡°I still think that guy¡¯s a noble.¡±


    I smirked. ¡°Or maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªhe¡¯s a merchant with a deep, dark secret. Like, I don¡¯t know, a closet full of wigs and a crippling fear of peasants making eye contact with him.¡±


    Rook snorted, then outright laughed, clutching his stomach. I meant it as a joke, but I¡¯d seen stranger things. Some merchants treated their wigs like family heirlooms, guarding them with a paranoia that would¡¯ve been funny if it wasn¡¯t so pathetic.


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    "Wanna bet? Merchant or noble?" Rook grinned, still riding the high from his laughter.


    I gave him a look. "Bet?"


    This was his thing¡ªturning every little mystery into a game. I¡¯d learned that much. Maybe he got it from his father, who had a nasty gambling habit.


    "What are you betting? Your portion of food again?" I asked, already knowing the answer.


    He nodded. "Come on, you never know what they''ll serve later."


    I didn¡¯t want to think about it, but the way he said it stirred something in me. Hunger, maybe. Or just morbid curiosity. What kind of slop did they give slaves where we were headed?


    "Alright," I muttered, absently scratching at my leg until red streaks marked my skin. "So you¡¯re betting he''s a noble?"


    Rook nodded, completely sure of himself. "Without a doubt." He paused. "What about you? Merchant? Or you wanna get creative?"


    I smirked. "I bet he''s just another slave. Or¡ªno, wait." I tilted my head. "A worker. Some poor one running errands for a noble."


    Rook raised a brow. "A worker?"


    "Yeah. A guy who looks important but isn¡¯t. Someone who takes orders, not gives them."


    Rook rested his chin on his hand, clearly thinking it over. ¡°Huh. Never thought about that.¡± Then he gave my shoulder a light tap¡ªlight for him, at least. It still made me shift where I sat. ¡°Alright then. What¡¯s your bet?¡±


    I smirked. ¡°How about this¡ªif you win, which is impossible, I owe you a favor. Like last time.¡±


    His grin widened. ¡°Good enough, cocky fox.¡±


    We kept talking, debating our bets, throwing out guesses that got more ridiculous as we went. A few laughs here and there. But as the wagon rocked on, exhaustion crept in. The ones who¡¯d been eavesdropping earlier had all drifted off, even Rook. I should¡¯ve done the same, but I couldn¡¯t.


    I didn¡¯t know how long the ride would last. My ass was numb from sitting too long, which was unlucky because I was still awake enough to feel it. But sleep wasn¡¯t an option. Not with the sound of hooves crunching against the dirt, the occasional snap of reins. Not with the stories I¡¯d heard¡ªbandits stopping wagons like this, cutting throats before anyone could scream.


    The boredom got to me, so I shifted and pulled back the curtain.


    Riders. A handful of them trailing behind us, their cloaks swallowing most of their features. The moonlight barely touched them, just enough for me to tell¡ªit was the same men from earlier.


    They didn¡¯t look at me. Didn¡¯t look anywhere, really. Just stared straight ahead, their horses keeping a steady pace behind ours.


    No stops. No signs of slowing.


    I just hoped we were close.


    I kept the curtain open longer than I should have. Didn''t expect the man to notice me, but he did. The one on the left¡ªa broad, heavy-built bastard¡ªlifted a hand and gave a slow, deliberate wave. Not a greeting. A command. Close it.


    I did. No point in testing whatever unspoken rule I¡¯d just broken. Whether it was intimidation or just some adult man trying to put a slave in his place, I didn¡¯t know.


    Hours crawled by. The wagon rolled on until, finally, they decided to stop. A break after what felt like an eternity of travel. Most of the others were still out cold. No surprise¡ªI was still awake.


    The same man who bought us earlier¡ªhim¡ªchecked inside, only to find me sitting up, eyes open. He smirked like that was amusing. Then he jerked his chin toward the open air. ¡°Get out. You¡¯re coming with us.¡±


    For what? He didn¡¯t say. But I wasn¡¯t dumb enough to ask.


    I climbed out and followed, boots crunching against damp earth. The camp they¡¯d set up was simple¡ªringed by medium-tall trees, a clearing blanketed in fallen leaves, a few hefty rocks acting as makeshift seats. Three men lounged there while the rest of us gathered wood. The horses rested nearby, barely moving.


    When we¡¯d finally piled up enough branches for a fire and collected water from a nearby stream, the hunters returned¡ªfive of them, hands full of limp white rabbits. Blood dripped in thick, lazy drops as they yanked out arrows.


    ¡°There they are,¡± one of the men, Harlowe, the one who commanded me to help announced, pointing toward the hunters.


    The others laughed, like he¡¯d cracked some inside joke.


    There are a total of twelve men. But the hunters didn¡¯t seem offended by the laughter. If it were me, I might¡¯ve tossed a rabbit at them just to be petty. But I doubted they saw it that way. Brotherhood, probably. Every single one had a weapon too. Short knives, used for carving branches or skinning game. But most of them? Swords.


    "That''s a hell of a lot of rabbits. What, no deer? No boars?" The guy next to Harlowe was built like a warhorse, voice deep and edged with amusement. He looked serious, but I think he was just messing with them.


    "Night hunting¡¯s a bitch," one of the hunters grumbled, tossing a rabbit onto the pile. "If we¡¯d brought the sorcerer, we¡¯d be eating boar or something worth a damn."


    "Right. Blame the mage instead of your own shitty aim," the big guy shot back, yanking down his hood. Dark brown hair stuck up in spikes, and a faded tear tattoo sat under one eye.


    The hunter didn¡¯t argue, just kept skinning. Harlowe ordered them to clean the kills, and within minutes, a fire crackled in the clearing, the wood we''d gathered feeding the flames. Smoke curled upward, twisting through the trees, carrying the scent of burning bark and fresh meat.


    I¡¯d never eaten rabbit before, but I knew it was common for hunters and people living out here. They were fast, tricky to catch, but ultimately just another meal. The smell seeped into the air¡ªsmoky, a little sweet, already rich with grease.


    I stayed where I was, leaning against the carriage wheel, watching them work. Occasionally, I glanced inside at the others¡ªstill dead asleep, oblivious.


    Eventually, they all sat down, tearing into the roasted rabbit. Most had pulled their hoods back now, faces fully visible in the firelight. Dark hair, some streaked with brown, rough features carved by experience¡ªthese were men who¡¯d seen battle, lived through it. Beards, scars, thick arms made for breaking bones. They had the look of seasoned killers, which perfectly fit the descriptions of how murderers or warriors looked based on stories I''ve heard.


    And I''m not gonna lie¡ªwatching them stirred something primal in me. Hunger. I forced myself to look away, but my nose betrayed me. The smell was obscene, rich and smoky, the kind that clawed its way into your skull and wouldn¡¯t leave. I could almost taste it.


    Didn¡¯t matter. I wasn¡¯t about to beg for a scrap.


    Judging by their faces, though, rabbit wasn¡¯t exactly a treat for them. They chewed mechanically, more out of necessity than enjoyment.


    ¡°The Red Feast,¡± Harlowe said suddenly, still gnawing on a rabbit leg. ¡°We skipping it?¡±


    Across from him, a guy with short, bristled brown hair leaned back, flicking a bone into the dirt. "What? You crazy? Boss needs more guards¡ªmore guards means more pay." His voice was higher than I expected for a huge guy.


    Some of the others smirked at that. Harlowe just wiped his hands off and made a crude gesture. "I''d rather spend that time fucking than standing around holding my rod all day." A sharp grin flickered across his face.


    Laughter erupted around the fire. Loud, reckless. It echoed through the trees, bouncing between the trunks and into the night. A little too loud for comfort.


    Something twisted in my gut. Maybe it was paranoia, maybe just instinct, but my mind whispered warnings. I thought that laughter like that had a way of calling things. Beasts. Worse things.


    I pushed the thought away, finally standing. Enough watching.


    A glance at the carriage¡ªsome of the others stirred in their sleep but didn¡¯t wake. Still dead to the world.


    Boredom gnawed at me, so I ended up back inside the carriage, waiting for them to get moving again. But the minutes dragged. When I peeked past the curtain, most of them were still either sleeping or poking at the fire with sticks, milking the last scraps of rest before the journey continued.


    The stillness got to me. My eyelids grew heavy, my body sinking into the lull of exhaustion. Might as well shut down for a while¡ªat least until the wheels started turning again.


    Sleep didn¡¯t last long.


    A noise snapped me awake¡ªfaint, but enough to claw its way into my subconscious. My eyes cracked open. A few others stirred too, but outside, the entertainment had already begun. The men were laughing, jeering, toying with the slaves for their amusement.


    More laughter, sharp and grating.


    I ignored them. My focus locked onto that sound from before, the one that had pulled me from sleep. It was subtle, but there. A rustling in the grass.


    I tensed.


    Could¡¯ve ignored it, could¡¯ve rolled over and forced myself back to sleep. But curiosity had its claws in me now, and I wasn¡¯t about to rest easy with my mind chewing on unanswered questions.


    Sliding down from the carriage, I crept toward the rear, letting the shadows swallow me. The firelight didn¡¯t reach this far, leaving the back of the wagon cloaked in darkness. My lower half was hidden, my upper body barely peeking out as I scanned the area.


    Something moved.


    The grass stirred, just beyond the edge of my sight. My heart knocked a little harder. I squinted into the blackness, waiting for my eyes to adjust. Then¡ª


    ¡°Meow.¡±


    I exhaled, tension draining in a slow, amused sigh.


    It was just a cat.


    "Hey, look at this beastman! She can move both her ears so damn fast!"


    The men¡¯s laughter died down as I stepped closer. Their amusement didn¡¯t interest me. The cat did.


    I couldn''t see it clearly¡ªtoo dark¡ªbut I could hear it shifting, making small sounds.


    "Shh," I murmured, lifting my hands halfway, reaching blindly.


    The air was colder than before. Had it always been this freezing? Goosebumps prickled up my arms, the kind you get when something isn''t quite right. But I didn¡¯t stop.


    Then movement. A shadow shifting within shadows. Two golden eyes flared to life, glowing against the black. No doubt about it now¡ªdefinitely a cat. Its body melted into the darkness, its fur near invisible except for where the faintest light caught its shape.


    "Shhh¡­ meow." I whispered, mimicking its sound. Yeah, I probably sounded ridiculous, but I wasn¡¯t about to spook it. If it thought I was some predator, I had to prove otherwise.


    "There, there," I murmured, finally brushing my fingers over its head, then down its back¡ª


    It moved. No¡ªjumped.


    Next thing I knew, my feet weren¡¯t under me anymore. A flash of movement, a startled yelp, and¡ª


    Thud.


    Flat on my ass. A sharp ache bloomed where I hit the ground.

 Chapter 3: Black Omen

    I stayed where I was, hands pressed into dirt and dead leaves, watching the small black cat inch toward me. Its golden eyes caught the light, shifting to a pale yellow glow. That was the first thing I noticed. The second was the wounds.


    Deep, fresh, and too many to count.


    My mouth had gone dry. I swallowed hard, pushing myself up with one hand against the carriage. The cat didn¡¯t move. It just sat there, staring at me.


    There was something unsettling about its gaze. Not in a threatening way¡ªjust¡­ off. Different.


    Street cats usually looked half-dead, ribs poking through filthy fur, bodies covered in dirt and scabs. They weren¡¯t pets. They were pests. People ignored them, kicked them away, let them starve. But this one¡ªthis one didn¡¯t look neglected.


    Sleek black fur, despite the wounds. Not fat, but not skin and bones either. And its eyes¡­ sharp. Intelligent.


    I didn¡¯t think. I just moved. Kneeling down, I pulled a strip from my sleeve, hands working before my mind caught up.


    Who did this to you? A person? Some kid messing around?


    The cat didn¡¯t flinch when I touched it. Didn¡¯t lash out, didn¡¯t even twitch. Just sat there, letting me wrap the makeshift bandage around one of the deeper gashes. Too calm for a stray. Too trusting.


    I wasn¡¯t an animal person. Never had a pet. Never wanted one. But I wasn¡¯t blind, either. People liked to pretend animals were just dumb creatures, like they couldn¡¯t feel pain or fear. But they did.


    And this cat¡ª


    It was looking at me like it knew something I didn¡¯t.


    The laughter had died out. Only the crunch of boots on dry leaves remained, fading into the distance as the men walked away. The other slaves shuffled toward the carriage, heads low, shoulders hunched. I followed, the cat pressed against my chest, its warmth seeping through my torn shirt.


    Inside, Rook was still asleep, sprawled out with two other slaves. I slid onto the hard wooden bench, tucking the cat into the shadows beneath me¡ªsomewhere dark, somewhere safe.


    Footsteps neared.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know slaves could be fun,¡± a man chuckled, his voice thick with amusement, though not quite slurred. Not drunk¡ªjust an asshole.


    ¡°Wait till you see the dwarves. Those little bastards are hilarious,¡± another voice answered, laced with excitement.


    The others climbed into the carriage, their eyes landing on me. Suspicious. Accusing. I hadn¡¯t done anything, but their stares made me feel like I had.


    They sat. Fell silent. Waited.


    The horses snorted outside, men grumbling as they adjusted saddles and reins. Then, the curtain snapped open.


    That same bastard from before. The one who liked to watch. His eyes dragged over each of us, slow and deliberate.


    ¡°Behave,¡± he said, letting the curtain hang open this time. ¡°We¡¯re almost there.¡±


    I exhaled. Kept still. Just needed to stay quiet, keep the cat hidden, and¡ª


    ¡°Meow.¡±


    Shit.


    I clamped a hand over its mouth, fingers pressing firm against soft fur. My other hand covered its nose, just for a second. Not to hurt it¡ªjust to stop the sound. To keep it safe.


    Did he hear?


    ¡°What was that?¡±


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    Yeah. He heard.


    His head turned, eyes scanning the carriage. The other slaves stiffened, some glancing around, some staring at me. Searching for the source.


    I pressed harder, the cat¡¯s tiny body trembling beneath my grip.


    Don¡¯t move. Don¡¯t breathe.


    Come on. Just this once¡ªstay quiet.


    ¡°Did I just hear a damn cat?¡± the man muttered, scanning the carriage. His eyes swept over the other slaves, waiting for someone to crack. But they just sat there, stiff and silent, avoiding his gaze.


    Meanwhile, I was pressing my hand over the cat¡¯s mouth like my life depended on it. Because, in a way, it did.


    Then Rook stirred. Probably woken up by all the noise. His bleary eyes met mine, groggy and unfocused.


    So, I did what any reasonable person would do.


    I pointed at him.


    The man squinted. ¡°That so?¡±


    Rook looked at me like I¡¯d just stabbed him in the back. To be fair, I kind of had.


    I gave him a look that said, Just go with it. Nothing serious. No reason to dig deeper.


    The man hesitated, then grumbled something under his breath and stepped away when the coachman called him back.


    Crisis averted.


    For now.


    ¡°What the hell, man?¡± Rook whispered, scratching the back of his head. ¡°Why¡¯d you point at me?¡±


    I met his stare. He looked more confused than angry, but there was a flicker of something else¡ªconcern, maybe.


    I sighed and reached into the shadows, carefully pulling out the cat. Its little head bobbed as it glanced around at the others, ears twitching at their stunned expressions.


    Rook blinked. ¡°How the heck did that cat even end up here?¡±


    ¡°Found it earlier,¡± I murmured, keeping my voice low. ¡°It was wounded¡­ so I took care of it.¡±


    His gaze flicked from me to the cat, then back again.


    ¡°¡­You¡¯re an idiot.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I said, scratching the cat behind the ears. ¡°I know.¡±


    At first, the others hesitated. But curiosity won out. One by one, they edged closer, reaching out with tentative hands to stroke the cat¡¯s sleek fur. It didn¡¯t flinch, didn¡¯t hiss¡ªjust sat there, eerily calm. Too calm.


    I watched it, suspicion coiling tight in my gut. For a stray, it barely made a sound. The one meow from earlier had been its only noise. Now? Nothing. Just those golden eyes watching us like it understood more than it should.


    Still, the ride wasn¡¯t as mind-numbing this time. The cat gave us something to focus on, something to distract from the endless road and the stink of too many bodies crammed together.


    But not everyone was keen on it.


    The beastmen in the group kept their distance, their expressions unreadable. When Rook asked why, one of them finally muttered, ¡°Black cats are bad omens.¡±


    Rook frowned. ¡°What, like¡­ bad luck?¡±


    ¡°Worse.¡± The girl beastman tail flicked, uneasy. ¡°Sickness. Misfortune. Early death. We don¡¯t touch them.¡±


    I¡¯d heard that kind of superstition before. In the streets, in hushed whispers. Black animals, black beasts¡ªhell, even black objects were sometimes condemned as tainted. Some fanatics even tied it to demonic cultivation, like the color itself carried some kind of curse.


    Superstitious bullshit. Probably.


    Still, the way the cat sat there, completely unfazed, made my skin itch.


    We rode on for hours. The terrain finally evened out, the constant jostling replaced by the steady rhythm of wheels against flat earth. No more bumps. Just the wind, the creak of the carriage, and that cat¡ªsilent, watchful, like it was waiting for something.


    I ran my thumb over the cat¡¯s head, absently tracing the space between its ears. ¡°You¡¯re a quiet little thing, huh?¡± I muttered, half-expecting it to respond.


    The cat finally looked at me.


    For the first time, I got a clear view of its eyes¡ªpure gold, gleaming like polished metal. Not just a trick of the light, not a dull yellow like most cats had.


    I¡¯d seen them a few times, but they still caught me off guard.


    ¡°I won¡¯t be surprised if a storm rolls in,¡± Kastor muttered, still hung up on his damn superstitions. The way he said it¡ªdead serious, like he was bracing for the worst¡ªalmost made me laugh. Didn¡¯t suit him.


    Kastor was one of the two beastmen crammed into this carriage with me. Eighteen, two years older than I was. But it wasn¡¯t his age that made him stand out. Unlike the usual feline beastmen, he came from a rare and dying lineage¡ªblack lions.


    Tall, pushing six feet. Broad-shouldered, but wiry, the kind of build that came from too many years in a slaver¡¯s cell. His fur, jet black with deep crimson undertones, was thicker than most beastmen¡¯s, giving him an almost intimidating presence. Underneath, his skin was dark bronze, rough with scars. His hair¡ªa wild, unkempt mane¡ªfell around his shoulders in tangled waves, still matted from years of neglect.


    If anyone here looked cursed, it was him.


    Exhaling and shaking my head. ¡°Come on, Kastor. If bad luck was real, we¡¯d have run out of it a long time ago.¡±


    I pulled back the curtain, letting the cold air in as I looked out.


    Kastor clicked his tongue. A sharp, deliberate sound. I didn¡¯t need to turn to know he was shifting in his seat, restless.


    ¡°That¡¯s the thing about bad luck,¡± he muttered. ¡°You don¡¯t run out of it. It just finds new ways to fuck you over.¡±


    I glanced his way. His yellow eyes¡ªsharp, predatory¡ªflicked toward the curtain I¡¯d left open.


    ¡°You might want to close that,¡± he said. ¡°Don¡¯t tempt fate.¡±


    Across from us, Rook shot a look our way. Probably already bracing for another one of our pointless arguments. Kastor and I had a habit of bickering over the dumbest shit¡ªculture, superstitions, whether a word meant the same thing in different regions. It passed the time when we were locked in a cell.


    I scoffed. ¡°What¡¯s fate gonna do? Rain on us?¡±


    Outside, the riders on horseback sped up. Before, they¡¯d been trailing behind, distant shadows against the road. Now, they were nearly level with the carriage. Close enough that I could see the tension in their shoulders.


    I closed the curtain. Kastor went quiet. Rook looked relieved.


    But in that brief moment of distraction, I missed something.


    The black cat¡ªonce curled in my lap¡ªwas gone.


    My eyes darted around, scanning every corner of the carriage. Where the in the world did that cat go?


    A sudden voice cut through my thoughts¡ª


    ¡°WE¡¯RE HERE!!¡±


    A minute passed. Then the carriage jerked to a stop.


    The curtain snapped open, and a bald man peered inside¡ªwrinkled face, sharp nose, a jaw shaved down to stubble. His gaze swept over the seven of us, pausing for just a second before he shut the curtain again without a word.


    The carriage lurched forward.


    I barely noticed. My focus was elsewhere, scanning the floorboards, the corners, anywhere that damn cat could¡¯ve gone.


    Nothing.


    Rook was the only one who looked remotely concerned. The others didn¡¯t care¡ªhell, they probably forgot the cat existed. But it¡¯d find its way home. It always did. I was just glad I had the chance to tend to its wounds.


    With the curtain shut, all we had left was darkness, the sway of the carriage, and the faintest sliver of light slipping through the cracks. No view of where we were going. Just movement, faster now. A few of us shifted, uneasy. Rook cast a glance toward the curtain, like looking would change anything. Like any of us had a clue what waited on the other side.


    Then the noise hit.


    A wall of human voices¡ªcheering, roaring¡ªtoo chaotic to make out words, but the intent was clear. Excitement. Anticipation.


    Then came the drums.


    Deep, pounding beats that rattled the wooden frame, vibrating through the floorboards, through my bones. The closer we got, the worse it became¡ªso loud it wasn¡¯t just sound anymore. It was a force. A pressure in my skull.


    I clenched my jaw and pressed my palms against my ears,


    but it didn¡¯t help. The others did the same, wincing. Even Rook.


    The echoes of the drums burrowed into my head, relentless. And I wasn¡¯t sure if it was just the noise that was getting to me.

 Chapter 4: First Visit

    There was an old tale whispered in the streets¡ªa story no one cared to hear. The kind that got lost in the noise of passing carts and hollow footsteps. The storyteller? A beggar, ragged and ignored, spinning his words into the cold air for no one in particular.


    It was a story about a starving wolf pack.


    Winter had them in its grip¡ªprey was scarce, and the cold gnawed at their ribs. At the head of the pack was an old Alpha. Not young, not fast, but strong. He had led them through worse. But hunger? Hunger made even the loyal forget their place.


    Then came a gift from the gods¡ªa wounded stag, half-buried in the snow. An easy kill. A rare salvation.


    But before they could take it, the young wolves turned on each other. Teeth flashed. Fur ripped. It wasn¡¯t just about food anymore. It was about who ate first. Who led. Who was worth following.


    The Alpha fought. Held his ground. But he was outnumbered. His own kin tore him down, shattered his fang, left him bleeding in the snow. The strongest feasted while the weak watched, knowing their turn might never come.


    The cycle would repeat.


    Tomorrow, another wolf would fall.


    But the broken-fanged wolf did not die. He crawled, starved, and learned. Not strength. Not size. But patience. And when the time was right¡ªwhen the pack was weak from their own greed and fighting¡ªhe struck.


    He wasn¡¯t the strongest.


    But he was the last one standing.


    That story stuck with me. Even after I became a slave, it lingered in the back of my mind¡ªunshaken, unwelcome. Strange how something told by a nobody could stay buried so deep. But this¡­ this moment brought it crashing back.


    The coliseum loomed before us, a monstrous ring of stone. Walls towering high, packed with people. Thousands, maybe more. Their voices merged into a deafening roar¡ªcheers, jeers, cries of excitement, a few groans of disappointment. But beneath it all, the same sick anticipation.


    In the center of that pit, a battlefield of sand.


    Five beasts stood there¡ªhuge, monstrous things. Pale-skinned, scarred, their fangs like daggers. Ogres.


    And against them? Humans. Ten of them. Starved, hollow-eyed, their ribs jutting out like knives through thin skin. They ran, staggering, gasping for air, but they had nowhere to go. The ogres toyed with them, swatting at their broken bodies like a bored child with insects.


    The crowd loved it.


    At the highest seat in the arena¡ªthe center of all attention¡ªa man lounged on a throne-like chair. He wore lavish gold and silver robes, his hair cut in a ridiculous bowl shape. Big eyes, a small nose, a mouth too wide for his face. He watched with a smirk, barely interested, as if this slaughter was just another dull afternoon for him.


    The frenzy in the stands grew.


    Two of the ogres cornered a man, their hulking forms circling like predators drawing out the fun. Another human was crushed underfoot¡ªjust a casual misstep. Blood sprayed across the sand, though the rising dust swallowed most of it. But when the haze cleared¡ª


    I nearly choked.


    Bones, fresh blood soaking into the ground, pieces of what used to be people.


    And the crowd? They roared louder.


    Some placed bets, laughing, calling out numbers, wagering how much longer the others would last before they were torn apart.


    "That one''s fast."


    "Eat them! Eat them!"


    The shouts chased us, blending with the frantic slap of bare feet against stone. The arena loomed in the distance, its jagged walls swallowing the dim light. Ahead, a narrow entrance¡ªno door, just a weathered stone archway¡ªmarked our destination. A man led the way. Not one of our captors. Short. Wiry. His face mostly hidden beneath a battered brown cap. His robe¡ªonce blue, now a washed-out husk of color¡ªhung loosely, neither long nor short, just enough to obscure the shape of him.


    "Line up," he ordered.


    We did. No hesitation.


    The roars from the arena still echoed as we stepped inside. The air thickened, damp and stale, carrying the scent of sweat, rust, and something deeper¡ªsomething lived-in, old, and familiar in the worst way. The corridor stretched ahead, carved from the same rough stone as the walls. Weapons lay scattered in metal baskets¡ªrusted blades, splintered shafts, things barely worth the name.


    People passed, some entering, some leaving. A few spared us a glance, their expressions unreadable but heavy with something close to contempt.


    The man barely looked back as he moved.


    "This way," he said. Again and again, his voice clipped, unbothered.


    We passed men training with real swords¡ªsharp steel, not the dull imitations handed to slaves. Others moved with quick, purposeful strides, weapons in hand¡ªdaggers, clubs, whatever they favored. Everyone was busy. Focused. The kind of world that mirrored the one we came from, just stripped of the pretense. Gambling. Corruption. People with dark agendas pulling the strings while the rest of us danced for their amusement.


    And what could I do? Nothing. We were puppets. Step out of line, and the strings tightened¡ªuntil they cut deep enough to kill.


    We kept walking. A few turns later, we reached a set of massive doors¡ªstone, like everything else here, but made of black brick, towering over us like a mausoleum entrance. The man leading us turned, holding up a hand. Silent. Stay quiet. Then, without hesitation, he knocked three times.


    A pause. Then he pushed the door open and strode inside, same as before¡ªconfident, controlled, like nothing in this place could touch him. He flicked a hand, telling us to follow.


    The stench hit first¡ªrotting sweat, old alcohol, and something worse, something sour. The room itself was proof of what happened when greed and power drowned a man past the point of saving. Polished stone floors, but barely visible under the mess. Clothes¡ªfilthy, discarded. Papers scattered. Stains, some wet, some dried into permanence.


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    And at the center of it all, a man slumped in a wooden chair. His long, thinning hair clung to his scalp, his beard unkempt. His eyes sagged, half-lidded, barely clinging to wakefulness. A bottle dangled from his fingers, legs propped up on a heavy wooden table covered in crumpled documents and a single oversized stamp.


    Another batch of slaves had arrived. The short man in the brown cap leaned on the table, both hands pressed against the stained wood. "Wake up, Edon. The night¡¯s still long. We¡¯ve got work to do."


    Edon didn¡¯t move. Didn¡¯t even twitch. He just sat there, slumped in his chair like a corpse left out too long. Then, after what felt like forever, one eye cracked open, bloodshot and unfocused, locking onto the man in front of him.


    The short man wrinkled his nose. "Filth¡ªdid you piss on the table?"


    He yanked his hands back like the wood had burned him, then sniffed his fingers just to be sure. His disgust was instant.


    Edon laughed. A slow, dragging sound, thick with exhaustion and whatever poison he¡¯d drowned himself in. Rook flicked a glance at me before turning his attention back to the drunk.


    "Err¡ªI¡­ I need women. Get me some piss-maids."


    The short man clenched his jaw. "This bastard¡­" His voice carried that thin edge of restraint¡ªlike a thread about to snap. Then it did.


    Boots scraped against the stone floor as he closed the distance in three heavy steps. He grabbed Edon by the collar and yanked him forward, their faces inches apart.


    "I''m having a shit day, and If you don¡¯t get your gods-damned eyes open, I¡¯ll make you eat that whole damn bottle!"


    Slap.


    The hit wasn¡¯t light. Edon''s head snapped sideways, a fresh red imprint blooming across his cheek.


    Didn''t seem to do much, though. The bastard was too deep in his drunken stupor to feel anything but regret in the morning.


    Honestly, if the guy really wanted him awake, a bucket of water would probably do the trick. But judging by the way his fists clenched, I got the feeling he was seconds away from skipping straight to breaking Edon¡¯s nose instead.


    The capped man let go of the drunk¡¯s collar, straightening with a sigh before knocking the bottle from his hand. It hit the ground with a dull thud, the liquid inside sloshing onto the ground. The low laughter from the slaves in front of me cut off fast¡ªlike they suddenly remembered breathing too loud could get them killed. Not that I blamed them. That capped guy probably didn¡¯t take kindly to being mocked.


    Not my problem. Slaves didn¡¯t watch out for each other. No one did.


    Well, maybe Rook. I cared about him¡ªjust a little. But the rest? If they got caught slipping, that was their own damn fault.


    The drunk stirred. Not a quick jolt awake, but something worse. His eyes pried open slowly, unfocused, like some rotten corpse reanimating in real-time. He rubbed at his face with both hands, then slapped himself across the cheek.


    Thwack!


    That one did the trick.


    He sucked in a breath, his whole body twitching like he was pulling himself together piece by piece. The capped man stood by the window, not sparing him a glance. Still, the drunk scrambled. He lunged for the fallen bottle, snatching it up quickly, trying to stop the alcohol from leaking out.


    "Oh, for fuck¡¯s sake," Edon groaned, tilting the bottle toward his eye. "You don¡¯t have to do that every damn time."


    The short man lifted a finger, his tone dry. "First," he said, "maybe consider not getting piss-drunk in the middle of work, you bloody idiot." Then he shook his head, just slightly.


    ¡°You¡¯re acting like you¡¯re not used to it, Garit. This one''s worth a gold, and you just slapped it away?¡± Edon clutched the bottle.


    Garit snorted. ¡°And you think I have all the time in the world to wait for you to wake up from drowning in that rat piss of yours?¡±


    ¡°Rat piss?¡± Edon scoffed. ¡°Didn¡¯t you hear me? Worth. Gold. Damn you.¡±


    ¡°You think you¡¯ll afford more of that when the Pit Lord finds out?¡±


    Silence. The kind that made the air thick. We weren¡¯t watching, not directly, but every ear in the room was tuned in. The argument had started loud, but now it was cutting deep.


    Edon straightened, bottle barely hanging from his fingers. Whatever fire had been in him a second ago flickered out. Garit, standing with his back straight, unmoved, knew it.


    ¡°Then let¡¯s not waste any more time arguing over nothing,¡± Edon muttered, placing the bottle down, careful now, like it had turned to a relic. ¡°What do you want?¡±


    Garit grinned, slow and knowing, then dropped himself into Edon¡¯s chair. ¡°That¡¯s more like it,¡± he said, letting the words settle before continuing. ¡°I¡¯m here because the Warden wants you to mark the new slaves.¡±


    Edon turned his gaze toward the line of slaves in front of him. I stood in the middle, with Rook behind me and the two beastmen at the rear. The two men¡ªEdon and Garit¡ªwatched us with the same bored, uninterested expressions.


    Edon moved toward us at a slow, measured pace. Now that I saw him up close, he looked like a man in his forties¡ªmaybe even fifties. The years hadn¡¯t been kind, and the alcohol hadn¡¯t helped. Still, he managed to crack a smile.


    "Only seven?" he asked.


    "Seven¡¯s enough," Garit replied, still rocking lazily in his chair. "That makes it an even thirty dregs."


    Edon chuckled, then turned to face us fully. "Alright. Now, tell me¡ªhow would you like to get branded?"


    Silence.


    A few nervous glances. Someone scratched the back of their head. I wasn¡¯t surprised. Slaves knew about branding, but most had never gone through it¡ªat least, not until they had an owner. This was different. Once branded, we¡¯d belong to one master. No way out. No arguing.


    Not that I had any complaints. Survival came first.


    "Pick a number," Edon said, holding up three fingers. "One, two, or three?"


    The slave in front of me turned to whisper with the others. No one asked our opinion, but it hardly mattered. Majority ruled. If they picked wrong, we¡¯d all pay the price.


    Most muttered, "Three."


    If it were up to me, I¡¯d have picked two.


    Behind me, the beastmen¡ªKastor and Elzir¡ªstayed quiet. Rook, though, had already thrown in his vote, siding with the rest.


    Edon grinned. "Three, huh? Would you believe that, Garit?"


    Garit barely reacted. "What?"


    "Magic branding it is!" Edon laughed, a wild, almost giddy sound. He turned back, grabbing his bottle again.


    Garit sighed. "So what? Brand them already. What¡¯s so damn funny?"


    "Relax, Garit. Magic branding isn¡¯t my thing. If they¡¯d picked one or two, I¡¯d be working by now. But they picked three, which means¡­" He smirked, walking back towards his chair. "You¡¯re the one who has to go find a sorcerer. Now, get your ass out of my seat."


    Garit studied Edon for a moment, his gaze sharp as he processed the information. Then, with a slow shake of his head, he stood up. ¡°A sorcerer? That red-tailed brat?¡±


    Edon gave a short nod, the corners of his mouth curling slightly. He sank back into his seat. ¡°That''s right. Means I¡¯m not the one branding them. Should be her.¡±


    Garit glanced at him, brows furrowed. ¡°So, you don¡¯t have a clue where I could find her?¡±


    ¡°Unlucky for you, I don¡¯t,¡± Edon replied with a smirk, tossing back the last of the bottle¡¯s contents. His grin widened. ¡°Looks like you''re gonna be a little busier tonight, huh, Garit?¡±


    Garit¡¯s lips twitched, a dry edge to his smile. ¡°At least I¡¯m moving like a man, not like you, Edon.¡± He reached into his pocket, pulling out a copper coin, and dropped it onto the table with a clink. ¡°Buy yourself a drink. Something that doesn¡¯t taste like piss. Let¡¯s hit the cells first.¡±


    Without waiting for a reply, he turned, striding toward the door. We followed in silence, the atmosphere still thick with the weight of the conversation.


    As we stepped outside, a harsh voice cut through the cool night air. "I¡¯ll cut your neck off, you dwarf!¡±


    Garit didn¡¯t even flinch, just kept walking. The noise didn¡¯t faze him. And neither did I. We pressed on, heading toward the slave cells.


    The place felt different from where we¡¯d been. The walls here were lined with flickering torches, their light dancing across the stone floors. It wasn¡¯t the damp, claustrophobic stench I was used to¡ªno urine-soaked corners or fetid air. This place had been maintained. The ground was solid stone, smooth except for the occasional discarded scrap, but it was clean enough. No grime clung to the walls. No rats scurried in the shadows.


    The cells stretched out in a straight line, each holding a figure or two. They watched us as we passed, eyes darting between our group, hands resting on the bars. A few made low noises, tapping lightly on the metal, their calls muted in the thick silence of the corridor.


    Garit didn¡¯t stop, didn¡¯t acknowledge them. He moved forward, his boots clicking against the stone, the rest of us falling into step behind him.


    I could feel their gazes, though¡ªheavy, hungry. But I didn¡¯t let it show. Instead, I studied the prisoners. Some were still young, their faces hollow with hunger. Others, older, bore the weight of too many years under chains. I wondered how long it¡¯d been since they¡¯d seen daylight.


    One man, his arms thin and sinewy like old rope, snarled through the bars at a guard. The man didn¡¯t even flinch when Garit¡¯s eyes flicked over him, just kept on, his face an unreadable mask.


    No one spoke as we walked deeper into the cells. The sound of chains scraping against stone filled the space, each step carrying us further into that quiet, oppressive darkness.


    "You all be staying here for a while," the man said, pointing to a cell at the far end. Inside, a single figure hunched in the middle, head down, unmoving. "Until I find that woman."


    I wasn¡¯t surprised. We were locked up again¡ªlike it was ever any different. I¡¯d seen this routine too many times. Some of us tried to fight it, to plan, back when I was new to this life. Back when I thought there was a way out. But that¡¯s the thing about hope¡ªit gets beaten out of you until there¡¯s nothing left but the dirt beneath your boots. Some of us accepted the prison, the chains, the silence. It became normal. You don¡¯t fight what you can¡¯t beat. You survive it. That¡¯s all.


    I stepped into the cell, glancing at the lone figure sitting in the middle. His posture was slumped, shoulders heavy with the weight of whatever thoughts chained him. His face was hidden, but there was no mistaking the look of defeat. The look of someone who¡¯d given up fighting long ago. I knew that look. I used to wear it.


    Then, a sharp tap on my back snapped me out of my thoughts. I almost jumped, my heart lurching.


    ¡°Alright, alright,¡± Rook¡¯s voice broke through the silence, his tone teasing. ¡°The bet. You¡¯ve won again this time.¡±


    I blinked, then cursed myself for not remembering. Damn him, always so eager to remind me. If he hadn¡¯t said anything, I probably wouldn¡¯t have cared. But Rook¡ªhe liked to keep score, liked to win. He probably hadn¡¯t stopped thinking about it. Me? I barely kept track of the bets anymore. What was it this time?


    The bets never really mattered. But Rook? He made them into a game, a way to feel like something¡ªanything¡ªmattered in this godforsaken place.


    I muttered under my breath, ¡°You¡¯ve just lost a portion of your food. That¡¯s depressing.¡±


    Rook laughed softly, the sound a little too loud for the atmosphere. ¡°Surely is. But I just don¡¯t get why you¡¯re so good at this.¡±


    "That''s why you need to stop with these betting games," I muttered, voice low. "You always lose more than you gain. You get that? It''s stupid."


    Rook didn¡¯t miss a beat. "Alright, alright," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "But seriously, stop. You sound like some old, bald bastard preaching about morals. Cut it out." He chuckled, that same laugh that always rubbed me the wrong way. But I let it slide.


    Hours passed, stretching longer than they had any right to. I couldn¡¯t see the moon, but I figured it was already morning. At least midnight, for sure. We¡¯d been waiting for food, but it never came when we thought it would. So we waited until morning, because that¡¯s what you do when you''re locked up. You wait. The food, when it finally showed up, wasn¡¯t bad¡ªif you didn¡¯t mind the taste of disappointment. No surprise there. I wasn¡¯t expecting a feast, but damn, I¡¯d hoped for something better than a chunk of jerky and a bowl of what looked like puke. Still, I ate it. Couldn¡¯t afford to let my stomach growl louder than my pride.


    I glanced at the man sitting in the corner. He hadn''t moved since we walked in. Was he dead? Or asleep? His stillness was unnerving, and I couldn¡¯t decide which was worse.


    ¡°Hey, Galt, there¡¯s that damn cat again!¡± Rook shouted, too loudly, too eagerly. His voice bounced off the stone walls, drawing the attention of the other slaves in nearby cells. And, unexpectedly, waking up the man who¡¯d been completely still up until then.


    The cat? The black one with the golden eyes?

 Chapter 5: A Hand for Fire

    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¡ªtoo 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 d¨¦j¨¤ 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¡ªleast 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¡ªif 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¡ªlike 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¡ªhis 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¡ªexcept 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¡ªgoddammit¡ªblurted out the question.


    ¡°How¡ªhow 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¡ªlurking 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¡ªdragon. 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¡ª¡± 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¡ªit 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¡ªyeah. 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¡ªjust 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¡ªpast 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¡ªcalled him crazy¡ªbut 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¡ªempty 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¡ªGods, the sky¡ªwas 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¡ªexcept 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¡ªmessed 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¡ªstone-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¡ªwhispers 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¡ª


    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.