The next morning didn't come with light.
It came with fists, boots, and barking orders. Cold breath clung to the lips of broken children as they were dragged from the damp earth they had collapsed on. The sky was still a bruise—grey, swollen, motionless. Even the sun didn't want to bear witness.
Ravian awoke with pain before awareness. His ribs screamed with every breath. His back, where the whip had landed the day before, pulsed like a wound that hadn't closed. His eyes wouldn't focus at first. Only when a boot slammed into his side did he remember where he was—and who he no longer was.
"Up," the man spat. "Or I carve out your spine and string it like a necklace."
Ravian didn't speak. He didn't cry. He just moved.
He rose on shaking limbs, joints grinding like rusted hinges, chains dragging through the mud. The iron around his ankles had rubbed the skin raw. He could feel the skin splitting when he moved, the warmth of blood against his cold flesh. But he didn't stop.
Pain was constant now. Familiar.
The other children stirred, rising in silence. No one spoke. No one screamed. Not because they weren't afraid, but because fear had hardened into something worse—expectation.
The men circled them again. Same faces. Same cruel delight. Like vultures waiting for a fresh corpse to twitch.
The circle began anew—running, shackles biting into raw skin, bodies dragging through churned mud and frozen grass. Whips snapped, not for disobedience, but for rhythm.
Crack. Step. Crack. Step. Bleed. Repeat.
Some fell. Some were dragged. Niaz fell.
Ravian saw him stumble, a sharp twist of limbs and a thud. Before instinct could become action, a hand seized the back of Ravian's neck and yanked him like a stray dog.
"You want to play hero again?" the man hissed.
Ravian couldn't answer. The grip cut off his breath.
Then came the whip.
It fell across his back in three rapid strokes. Skin tore. Fire bloomed under his skin. He screamed without knowing he was screaming. A hoarse, broken sound that no longer belonged to a child.
The world shrank to agony. Time didn't pass—it dripped. Second by second. Whip by whip.
He didn't remember how long it lasted. Only that when it stopped, he was face-down in the mud, blood pooling under him, the man's breath in his ear.
"You understand now?"
Ravian nodded. He didn't know what he was nodding to.
He got up.
He ran.
The day didn't progress—it dragged itself like a dying animal. They were not given food. Again. Not even water. The children could barely walk. Eyes glassed. Mouths cracked. They didn't speak anymore.
They obeyed.
And then came the bread.
One small, crusted, crumbling piece—dropped into the clearing like bait.
"Only one gets to eat," said the man. "Fight."
No command had ever echoed louder.
The children hesitated—but not for long. Hunger was louder than shame.
They surged. Clawing, biting, elbowing. Screams. Blood. Bone against bone. Ravian didn't move at first. He stared, frozen, as the madness unfolded.
Then he saw Niaz.
The boy was on the ground, curled into a ball. A larger child was kicking him—again and again, lips twisted with starvation and rage. Niaz sobbed. Helpless. Small.
Something broke in Ravian. Something snapped.
He rushed forward without thought. He slammed into the bigger boy, was thrown back, hit again. Blood in his mouth. He got up. Again.
And he fought.
His fists were too weak. His body too broken. But he fought with desperation, not technique. With madness, not skill. He clawed and screamed and bled. And he won—not because he was stronger, but because he didn't stop.
When it was done, the other boy lay stunned beneath him. Niaz stared at him like he was seeing something terrible and holy.
Then came the laughter.
Mocking. Cruel.
"Well, well. The little dog bites."
Ravian was dragged to the center. The piece of bread was held up like a trophy.
"Your prize."
He didn't want it. It felt cursed.
"Eat," the man commanded.
Ravian didn't move.
The man grabbed him by the collar, shoved him to the ground. "Eat or I make you."
And so he ate.
Dirt-stained. Blood-slicked. Stale.
He chewed slowly. Mechanical. Each swallow was a wound. Each bite carved something out of him.
By the time it was done, he couldn't feel his own face. Only shame. Only nausea.
He didn't cry. Crying was too human. He just stared at the dirt, wondering if he could bury himself in it.
Niaz didn't speak. Just sat beside him, broken and silent. And in that silence, something darker than pain settled between them.
Then came the cage.
Dragged into the clearing like an altar to suffering. Iron bars. Leather straps. Chains. It was built for one thing: breaking minds.
The first child was chosen. Screams followed. Ravian didn't look. He didn't need to. He could hear what the cage did.
They made them run again, dragging shackled feet through mud and blood. With every fall, the lash. With every limp, a kick. The cage loomed behind every command, a shadow that grew closer by the hour.
When they finally stopped, Ravian collapsed. Not from exhaustion. From acceptance.
A man knelt beside him. "Your turn's coming."
Ravian didn't respond.
He couldn't.
He wasn't Ravian anymore.
He was the shell they were carving.
And the cage was waiting.