The sun beat down like a punishment, turning the sand to fire beneath Levi's bare feet. His shoulders burned from the weight of the water skins slung across them, and his tunic clung to his back with sweat and grit. But he didn't stop. Every time they called for help—he was there. When Rusk shouted for someone to haul crates, Levi was already moving. When a wheel stuck in the sand, he grabbed hold before the others could react.
He wasn't strong yet. Not really. But he was quick, willing, and always watching. And more importantly—he didn't complain. Not when his hands blistered, not when the water spilled and he got cuffed for it, not even when his knees buckled under a crate twice his size. He just got back up.
Let them see. Let them notice.
Anything to stay out of the mines.
The caravan reached the outpost at dusk. It was little more than a ruin—crumbled walls, rusted chains, and stone pens buried halfway in drifting sand. The slavers liked it that way. Isolated. Forgotten. Easy to do business without questions.
Levi helped unload supplies, keeping pace with older boys twice his size. His arms shook. His back screamed. But he didn't stop. Then he heard it. he saw the new arrivals. There were six of them, chained at the ankles, dust-smeared and sunburned. Most were older, silent with shock or resignation. But only—one stood out. She fought the whole way.
A voice—sharp, furious, unafraid.
"Get your filthy hands off me!"
Levi turned, squinting through the haze of dust and torchlight as two guards dragged a girl across the clearing. She kicked hard enough to make one stumble, twisted like a wildcat, and nearly bit the second man's hand when he tried to clamp her jaw.
Her clothes were torn, her hair a tangle of blonde matted hair, blonde was rare..she has to be a noble of some type,and her face—though smudged with dirt—burned with defiance and pride of a noble.
"Little brat clawed me," one of the guards muttered, wiping blood from his arm. "Should've knocked her out."
"She's got spirit," the other grunted. "Might fetch a better price if she keeps that mouth shut."
The girl spat at his feet.
Levi paused with a sack slung over his shoulder, unable to look away.
She met his eyes. Just for a second.
And in that second, something passed between them. Not a greeting. Not a plea.
A dare.
"What are you staring at?" A slaver yelled.
Levi looked down quickly and kept walking. But the heat in his chest wasn't just from the sun anymore.
She was trouble.
And trouble had a way of changing everything. And getting people hurt. The guards shoved her into the rusted pen hard enough to make her stumble, but the girl caught herself before she hit the ground. She spun on them, fists clenched, chest heaving with fury. One of them chuckled, wiping a thin line of blood from his forearm where she'd clawed him.
"Should've gagged her from the start," he muttered.
"She's got spirit," the other said, slamming the gate shut with a clang. "Might fetch a better price if she doesn't bite a buyer's fingers off."
She didn't flinch. Didn't cry. She stood in the center of the pen like she owned it—chin high, bare feet planted in the dust, her blonde hair wild and matted with sweat. Her shirt was torn at the shoulder, the hem frayed from whatever fight she'd put up before they dragged her here. Rope burns ringed her wrists, red and raw, but she didn't show pain—only fury. Controlled. Focused.
Across the camp, Levi saw all of it. He tried not to stare. He still had work to do—bags to haul, ashes to dump, bowls to scrub—but something about her twisted the air around her. Like she'd pulled on a thread that didn't belong in this place, and the whole camp was unraveling, slow and quiet.
She paced like a caged animal, kicking the bars, muttering curses under her breath that Levi didn't recognize. They were low and sharp—words that sounded like knives tucked behind her teeth. Not just angry. Dangerous. Or even a different language.
He remembered the way she'd fought the guards. Wild. Unyielding. Most kids screamed or cried when they were caught. She bit.
Levi forced himself to turn away. He couldn't afford distractions. Not now. Not ever. He had to be useful. Had to stay near his mother. Had to be needed, or they'd send him to the mines.
When Rusk barked for fires, Levi jumped to help, grabbing branches from the cart. When another boy fumbled a pot, Levi caught it before it hit the dirt, earning a grunt of approval from the trader overseeing the prep. That was good. That was what he needed. He repeated it like a prayer in his head: Be fast. Be useful. Be invisible.
No distractions. That night, the camp sank into its usual rhythm—fires low, guards gambling, the chained too exhausted or scared to speak. Levi moved through it all like a shadow, carrying another dented bucket of slop from the cook's tent.
He passed the last wagon again and heard movement.
"Hey," a voice whispered sharply.
He looked. She was there, gripping the bars of the wagon, eyes glinting in the dark like a cat about to prance. "You've been working all day," she said. "You one of them?" He frowned. "One of who?"
"Traders. Spies. Bootlickers." He shook his head. "I'm a slave."
"Then what the hell are you doing carrying water for the ones who own you?"
"I'm surviving," he muttered. She snorted. "By fetching? Sounds like dying slowly."
"You have a better idea?"
"Yeah," she said, leaning closer. "Run. Or fight. Or bite someone's fingers off if they touch you."
"You do that, and they throw you in the pit. Or worse—the mines." Her expression faltered for half a second. Then the fire returned. "Still better than groveling."
Levi stepped closer, voice low. "You ever seen the mines?"
"No. But I've heard—"
"You've heard wrong. No one comes back from there the same if they can even make it out. I'm not going. I'll scrub floors and carry piss buckets if that keeps me out."
She stared at him through the bars, then nodded once, grudgingly.Sera leaned against the bars, arms slung over the top like she wasn't trapped at all. "So, what do they have you do? Scrub chamber pots? Shine boots? Kiss their feet?" Levi shot her a look. "Haul buckets. Stack crates. Clean whatever they tell me." She raised a brow. "Sounds thrilling."
"It keeps me out of the mines."
"That again," she muttered, twisting a rope-burned wrist. "You talk about those mines like they've got teeth."
"They do." Sera smirked but didn't press. She dragged her fingers along the bars absently. "Still think I should've bitten that guard harder." "You left a scar," Levi said without thinking. That made her grin. "Yeah? Good." He hesitated. "They'll remember that." "I hope they do."
Levi didn't answer right away. He studied her, the way she moved like she wasn't afraid. The way her voice didn't tremble, even now. It wasn't just bravado—it was fire.
"Where are you from?" he asked that was out of pocket for him, but her bravado was mesmerizing.
"Nowhere important," she said quickly, then shrugged. "Small village near the border. Not like anyone's gonna find it on a map. What about you?" He could tell she was lying not just anyone has blonde hair, or so from what he heard from the slave traders. It was more known for nobles.
Levi looked away. "I was born here."
Sera stopped. Her playful expression faded. "Here? You mean in the camp?"
He nodded once.
She stared at him like he'd said the sky was fake. "You've never been out? Never seen trees? Rivers? Real sky, not just through bars?"
"No." Her lips parted slightly, but no words came. She looked at him, not just a boy with a bucket and cautious eyes, but a piece of the machine that had never been anywhere else. A child made by the system instead of stolen into it.
"That's…" she trailed off. "That's messed up."
Levi didn't answer. He didn't know how.
They stood in silence for a moment. Then Sera huffed and looked back toward the guards, her voice dropping into something wry and sharp. "Well. Guess I'll have to get us both out, then."
Levi blinked. "What?"
"Nothing," she said, flashing him a crooked grin. "Go on, bucket boy. Before they make you lick boots for real."
He lingered one second longer, she was atleast two years older then him now looking at her. And she had a metal choker on that prevents people from using magic, and she's has a smooth pale complexion… easy to burn. He then turned, her words echoing behind him as he slipped back into the dark.
Levi slipped through the canvas flaps at the back of the kitchen tent, careful not to let them rustle. The air inside was thick with smoke and the sour stench of stew left too long on the fire. His mother stood near the iron pot, stirring slowly. Her movements were mechanical, distant, like her thoughts were somewhere else entirely.
She didn't turn. "You're late."
"I—I had to take the buckets back. And the slop ran over again, so I had to clean it."
She didn't answer, just kept stirring. The firelight cast shadows across her face—tired, worn, and thinner than last week. Everything about her was thinner lately. Levi hesitated. "There's a new girl. They brought her in earlier." That made her stop. Her head turned just slightly. "So?" He swallowed. "She… talked to me."
Now she faced him fully. The ladle clattered against the rim of the pot as she let go of it.
"You talked back?" she asked sharply.
Levi flinched. "I—yeah. Just a little. She started it."
"You talked to her?" Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper as she crossed the space between them. Her hands caught his arms, not hard, but firm. Her eyes were wide, wild with a kind of fear that went bone-deep. "Levi, do you know what would've happened if a guard saw you?"
"She was behind the pen. No one—"
"No one?" she cut in. "No one saw this time, but what about the next? What if she had a mouth on her? What if she shouted your name? What if they thought you were helping her?" He stared at the floor. The dirt between the floorboards. His fists clenched at his sides. "She's not like the others." Her breath caught. Her hands dropped from his arms.
"You think that matters?" Her voice was brittle now. "You think being brave or different or loud keeps you alive in a place like this?"For a moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was the soft bubbling of stew behind her. She shook her head, voice low and broken. "You've spent your whole life learning how not to be seen. I've taught you that. Because that's how we stay alive. Not by being clever. Not by talking to strangers who'll be sold off or punished or killed before next week. And don't think I haven't noticed you doing extra work, and talking to the slaver traders more about what you can do to help out, you need to quit! if you mess up once they will kill you."
"She's not stupid," he muttered. Not caring about the other part. "No," she said, "but you are if you think you can get close to anyone here. You are if you think they won't use that against you." Levi's throat burned. He hated the way her words landed—cold, sharp, true. "I'm just trying to survive," he said, barely above a whisper. "Then don't make it harder than it already is," she said, her voice cracking. "Don't give them a reason to take you from me." He looked at her then, really looked. At the trembling in her fingers. The fresh burns hidden under stained bandages. The desperation buried under exhaustion. Not anger—fear. "I'm sorry," he said.
She nodded slowly. "Wash up. Rusk wants the bowls clean before dawn."
Levi moved to the basin, the water biting at his raw hands. Behind him, his mother turned back to the pot, stirring again in silence. But her shoulders were tense, and the rhythm of her motion was uneven.