I did my best to breathe through my teeth and push aside the discomfort as a group of armed men entered. Most of them shared similar skin tones and facial features to those I'd seen in the arena, which likely meant they were from Emberland. That realization left me uncertain… Mark had been the only person I thought I knew from there, but that turned out to be a lie. Now I wasn't sure how much of what I believed about Emberland could be trusted.
There were about eight of them, all armed with spears. In these large halls and spacious rooms, they wouldn't be hindered by tight quarters, which put me at a disadvantage in terms of reach. Worse, each of them wore well-maintained armor, a mix of heavy cloth and steel plates. So if I had to strike, I'd need precision and power to cut through.
While I weighed my options, they moved into a half-circle formation, spears leveled at me. They were positioned so that each man had another within striking range meaning no gaps and no easy targets. If I moved to attack one, I'd open myself to a counter from the others. One misstep, and I'd be skewered before I landed a hit.
I must've looked pathetic—slumped, bruised, and barely standing—as each of them gave me that same uncertain look, like they weren't sure what to make of me. Given the wings, I clearly wasn't human, so maybe they didn't know what kind of creature I was. Then again… they had Deva of their own, didn't they? So they had to know.
Still, maybe I could leverage that. Maybe my appearance was just strange enough to give them pause. I didn't remember the other Deva having ash drifting off their bodies, but then again… I only had the one for reference.
It wasn't me who made the first move.
An older man in red and gold-dyed armor stepped into the room. He had to be an officer—the others straightened the moment he arrived. One of the soldiers said something to him in the same language the arena fighters spoke, making it impossible for me to understand.
The officer listened, then turned his gaze to me. His face was stern and carved with deep scars. His brown eyes were sharp enough to cut steel. Just looking into them sparked a primal fear in me. This man had killed more than I ever would… enough to carry death in his stare alone.
But then something shifted. His expression softened in an instant, and he issued an order to the soldiers in a low voice. I couldn't make out the words, but their posture changed again.
Then he walked toward me.
Slowly.
He removed his saber and handed it to one of his men before approaching, knees bent slightly, arms extended like someone trying not to spook a wild animal.
I kept my blade ready, though I didn't attack. I had no idea what he was planning.
As he came within striking distance, he began to speak—softly, slowly, as if trying to calm me. I didn't understand his words, but the tone was gentle… patient.
Still, I didn't like how close he was getting.
I stepped back, limping as I moved. Pain radiated through my wing and down my spine.
He stopped. His expression changed again—this time to something like distress. His eyes scanned over my injuries, and I could see the horror in them.
He muttered something to the men behind him, and one of them immediately ran off.
The officer made no further moves. He simply stood there… watching as I kept limping backward, unsure whether to trust the calm or expect another storm.
"Friend. Me," he said, tapping his chest, his voice thick with a heavy accent.
I furrowed my brows at his words. He must've taken that as understanding, because he repeated it again—slower this time. Then, he pointed at my injured wing.
"Friend," he said again, nodding toward it.
I didn't move. My grip on the blade tightened, and I kept my posture rigid. I'd been burned by blind trust before, and I wasn't about to make that mistake again. Even if I wasn't in any shape to fight, maybe my presence—my height, my posture, the blood still drying on my skin—was enough to keep them from treating me like a slave.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced behind me, gauging the distance to the ledge.
Close enough.
If it came down to it… if they tried to seize me… I could dive off before they got the chance.
The officer must've caught the glance I'd thrown toward the ledge, because his expression changed. He backed up slowly, his face clouded with new concern. Then he spoke a few quick words to his men.
One by one, the soldiers lowered their spears to the floor, each stepping back in sync, deliberate, careful, and nonthreatening way.
Silence followed.
No one moved. We just stood there in that uneasy standoff, suspended in a moment of waiting, until the soldier who had run off finally returned. A woman followed behind him, someone I didn't recognize.
She looked at me with gentle, assessing eyes, then said something in a language I didn't understand. It was different from what the soldiers spoke, a softer, more fluid wording but still unfamiliar. When I didn't respond, she tried again. Another sentence, this one more jittery something I had heard other slaves speak in but I didn't know. Still nothing I could make sense of.
Her brow furrowed in frustration, and she muttered something under her breath.
Then, after a pause, she blinked, like a realization had just dawned on her.