Levi looked at the wall, counting the tally marks he had carved into them since he woke up there.
Five months…it's been five months since he got captured and brought from the sand walker village.
Levi lived in a cell now.
Not the kind with sand beneath it or iron bars you could see the sun through. This was deeper. Stone walls, damp and silent. A single slit for air high in the wall, too narrow for even a rat to squeeze through. It smelled of sweat, iron, and mold—like time had forgotten it existed. Like the people who stayed here weren't meant to be remembered.
He didn't leave unless they made him.
And when they did, it was only for two things.
To fight.
Or to be tested.
The place wasn't just a base. It was a guild. A powerful one, known across the continent for its iron discipline and mercenary control. On the surface, it looked like a fortress of law and coin—trading contracts, guarding caravans, selling muscle. But underneath? Beneath the stone, behind closed doors?
It was something else entirely.
They raided villages in the dead of night. Took what they wanted—gold, grain, and people. Those who fought were killed. Those who didn't became assets. Sold. Trained. Broken.
Used.
Levi was one of the lucky ones.
That's what they told him.
He wasn't sold off like the rest. He was kept. Caged. Reserved for more "valuable outcomes." Every few days, they dragged him out—threw him into pits lined with screaming men and sharpened bone, told him to survive or be discarded. He always survived.
He always fought.
Because he didn't know how not to.
The worst part?
Sometimes—just sometimes—they let him see the sky.
Not often. Just enough.
Just enough to remember it.
Sometimes, after a fight, if he'd bled the right amount or made enough coin off the bodies he left behind, they'd give him five minutes in the guild's outer yard. Supervised, always. Chained, always. But there was grass out there. Trees. A thin strip of green growing up against the wall like something sacred.
The first time they shoved him out into it, he couldn't move.
He dropped to his knees and pressed both hands into the earth.
He hadn't expected it. He may have been a prisoner but he got to finally see green, and The way the dirt smelled like something living instead of something dying.
He'd thought he'd never feel grass.
Now he wasn't sure which was worse—never seeing it again…
Or remembering that he still could.
The mage still came.
Less often now, but when he did, he watched Levi like a starving man watching a match spark in the dark. He still asked questions. Still murmured to himself in a tongue Levi didn't understand.
"Has it stirred yet?"
"Do you feel it when you bleed?"
"Does it ache when they scream?"
Levi never answered.
But something did stir.
Sometimes when he fought, the mark on his arm pulsed—hot, ancient, slow. Sometimes, after the third or fourth man fell, the pain in his body dulled like it was no longer his.
He didn't know what it meant.
Didn't want to.
But in the quiet of his cell, when the blood had dried and the noise had faded, he remembered one thing:
Kaan had gotten out.
His mother.
The baby.
They'd made it.
And so long as he remembered that—they couldn't fully break him.
Not yet.
Not ever.
Fourteen," Levi whispered again, quieter this time. Like if he said it softly enough, it wouldn't hurt.
But the cell door scraped open.
Heavy boots clanked down the steps—slow, deliberate, too heavy to belong to a guard. Levi didn't lift his head. He didn't need to. He knew that gait like he knew the ache in his bones.
The mercenary captain.
"Fourteen," the man repeated mockingly, voice rough and low. "Look at that. The monster gets a birthday."
Levi didn't flinch.
A pause. Then a chuckle. "And here I was thinking you'd be dead before thirteen was up."
Levi kept his eyes fixed on the ground.
The captain stepped closer, hands loose at his sides. He crouched in front of Levi like he was examining something broken—something not worth repairing.
"You've been quiet lately," he murmured. "Guess starving you helps."
No response.
"But I was thinking… maybe that silence's not from the hunger." He leaned in, breath sour with wine and dried blood. "Maybe it's from the memory."
Levi's jaw tightened.
The captain smirked. "You remember, don't you? That last night in the sand. Before you got dragged back here in chains. When she looked right past you."
Levi said nothing.
"She didn't even call your name, did she?" The captain's tone dropped, more venom than voice now. "Didn't even flinch when you screamed for her. But when your friend mentioned the baby—suddenly she moved."
Levi's breathing hitched.
"That's what made her stand," the captain said. "Not you. Not her son. But the thing in her belly. That's what mattered."
Levi's hands curled into fists.
The captain saw it—and smiled wider.
"I wonder what she told that baby about you," he said, mock-thoughtful. "If she even mentioned you at all. Or maybe she pretends you never existed. Can't blame her, really."
He stood again, pacing once around the cell, slow and deliberate.
"Who'd want a monster for a child?"
The words sliced deeper than any blade.
Levi stared straight ahead, unmoving—but inside, he was unraveling.
The silence after was thick. Pressing.
The captain finally stopped at the door. "Fourteen," he said again, shaking his head. "Almost a man. Shame you've got nothing left worth being one for."
He turned to go.
Then paused.
"Still… maybe if you live long enough, we'll let you meet that little sibling of yours. See what kind of creature they turned out to be."
The door slammed shut behind him.
And Levi?
Levi stayed curled in the corner, chains rattling faintly against stone, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
The captain's words rang through him like poison.
But so did others—fainter. Older.
You have me.
Do it for the baby.
Please, Mom.
He closed his eyes.
And even though it hurt, even though the hunger and the shame were louder tonight than they'd ever been—
....
They came for him before dawn.
Not with shouts or threats—just the sound of keys turning and chains being drawn taut. Levi didn't resist. He barely moved. Hunger sat like a stone in his gut, and his limbs felt too heavy to care.
They led him above ground. Not to the yard. Not to the field where they sometimes tested recruits.
The pit.
He hadn't seen it in over a month.
The sky was gray, heavy with the kind of cold that settled in the bones. Around the edge of the pit, faces gathered—guild handlers, mercenaries, raiders with half-masks and betting boards. The crowd buzzed low. An ugly hunger. They wanted a show.
The gate on the far side groaned open.
Levi stepped out slowly, barefoot, shoulders thin under his torn tunic. He didn't raise his eyes.
And then he heard it—
Small feet.
Uneven breathing.
The other fighter stumbled forward.
He couldn't have been older than ten.
Gaunt. Barely clothed. One arm bent wrong like it had never healed. No blade. Just a short wooden baton strapped to one hand with fraying twine. His mouth was chapped. His eyes were hollow.
Levi froze.
"No," he whispered.
The mercenary captain's voice boomed above. "Fight or starve, monster. Make your choice."
Levi stepped back.
The boy flinched—then ran at him.
Not because he wanted to.
Because there was a man with a whip at his back.
The baton hit Levi's side. Weak. But enough to trigger reflex.
Levi caught the child's wrist.
"Stop," he breathed. "You don't have to do this. I'm not—"
The whip cracked again.
The boy screamed.
Levi tightened his grip, trying to hold him still. "They're making you—don't—please—"
The boy kicked him in the knee. Bit his arm.
Levi gritted his teeth and threw the baton aside, catching the child's shoulders to stop him from being hurt. "I'm not gonna fight you," he said again, louder now, voice shaking. "I'm not—!"
Another whip. This time it lashed Levi's back.
He cried out—reflex, pain.
He shoved the boy away.
Not hard.
Not really.
But the child was already too weak.
He fell.
Head cracked against the stone post.
The pit went quiet.
The boy didn't get up.
He wasn't dead.
But he wasn't moving.
Levi stood frozen.
His breath sawed in and out.
He looked up—and saw the captain watching, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Didn't even need a blade," he said dryly. "What a gift you are."
Levi didn't reply.
He just stood there, trembling, the boy's shallow breath the only proof he hadn't killed again.
They dragged him back to the cell like they always did.
No cheers now. No jeering. Just the clink of chains, the dull scrape of boots across stone,
The door clanged shut. The lock turned. Darkness settled.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't wipe the blood from his face or tear the crusted dust from his throat.
He just sat. Knees drawn up, back against the cold stone wall, wrists still bound. Breathing.
And then the silence… split.
Not from outside.
But from within.
A whisper—quiet, bitter—flickered in the dark corners of his mind.
"You're not a child anymore."
His mother's voice.
That night in the tent.
The night he found out she was pregnant. The night they argued until her hands trembled and her voice broke.
"You're not a child anymore," she'd said.
And he had wanted to scream that he never got to be.
His fingers curled, slow and tight, until his nails bit into his palms. A breath shook loose from his chest—ugly, cracking.
Then another voice.
Kaan's.
"She's still your mom, Levi."
Was she?
Because that night, all she'd cared about was protecting the baby. Not the boy in front of her. Not the one with scarred arms and too-old eyes who stood there shaking, asking, "What about me?"
He didn't even remember what she'd said back. Only the look. The silence that felt like abandonment.
The first time she truly saw him—and looked away.
Levi dragged his knees tighter to his chest, pressing his forehead to them.
He had begged her to run. To take the baby. To live.
And she had.
But not for him.
Never for him.
A sound tore from his throat—raw, hollow. Not a cry. Not a scream. Just… air. Grief.
And still couldn't cry.
The tears wouldn't come.
Only the memory of her back as she walked away with the baby in her belly. Of Kaan pulling her along. Of Levi watching from chains.
Now he was fourteen.
And all he felt was empty.
He couldn't even remember what his mother's lullaby sounded like. Or how it felt to hear someone say his name without disgust or command. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched him without trying to hurt him.
What was he fighting for?
What was left?
His stomach cramped again—tight with hunger. But he didn't move. Didn't reach for the stale bread left hours ago in the dirt.
He wasn't a boy anymore.
He was a cage with skin.
And maybe… maybe that was all he was ever meant to be.
They opened the cell door without warning.
Levi didn't move. He'd learned not to react to footsteps unless they stopped in front of him. Even then, sometimes it was better to pretend he wasn't there.
But this time—they stopped.
Chains clinked. A body was shoved through the door. Heavy footfalls, a muttered curse. Then the door slammed shut again.
Levi stayed curled on the far side of the cell, his back to the wall. His wrists were chafed raw from the iron. His knees drawn up, chin resting on them. The fire in him was a memory now. Not gone, but buried so deep it might as well have been.
The man who had entered didn't speak at first. Just let out a long, even breath and shook his cuffs, testing the chain length. A few links. Enough to sit. Not enough to stand.
Eventually, the man sat.
Not slumped like most newcomers did.
He sat straight. Controlled.
Levi didn't look at him. Not directly. But in the dim torchlight, he saw enough.
Tall. Mid-thirties, maybe. Broad shoulders under a torn tunic that was too fine for a pit slave. Fit, but not starved. Dirt clung to him, but not the kind that lived in your skin after months of crawling through filth. This was fresh. Surface-level. Fabric frayed in places, but Levi could still see the stitching. Noble cut.
Or something close to it.
Levi tensed.
The man finally spoke, voice low and calm. "Didn't think I'd be bunking with a ghost."
Levi didn't answer.
"You speak?" the man asked after a beat. Not unkindly. Just curious.
Levi's jaw tightened.
The man gave a small, tired laugh. "Didn't think so. I'm thane by the way"
Silence stretched. The new prisoner leaned back against the stone wall and exhaled. The breath didn't rattle like Levi's. It didn't sound like a broken lung. More like someone waiting.
Patient.
Comfortable in discomfort.
Levi hated that.
"You've been here a while," the man added, quieter this time.
Levi's fingers curled.
The man didn't push further. He let the silence return and fill the space. Most did. They always started with noise—boasting or begging or breaking. But this one didn't.
He just watched.
And Levi… watched him too. Out of the corner of his eye.
The man didn't carry himself like a slave.
Didn't twitch at every sound or flinch at every shadow.
He wasn't afraid.
And that meant one of two things.
He didn't know where he was.
Or he didn't plan on staying.
Levi didn't trust either.
Eventually, the man closed his eyes.
Said nothing else.
And in the corner, Levi stayed still—silent, sleepless, and listening. Waiting. Watching.
Because something about this man didn't fit.
And in this place, anything that didn't fit—
Was dangerous.
The torch outside the cell flickered once.
Twice.
Then held.
The man didn't move.
Neither did Levi.
For a long while, the only sounds were the usual: the clatter of chains in far-off corridors, the muffled weeping of someone too new to hide it yet, and the scrape of metal against stone as another prisoner was dragged through the underground tunnels. The stench of mold, blood, and stale sweat clung to everything.
Thane hadn't tried again. He hadn't asked more questions. He just sat with his back to the wall, eyes closed, his head tilted in that strange, thoughtful way that people who didn't belong here always had. Like he was still somewhere else in his mind.
Levi hated it.
He hated the way Thane didn't flinch when footsteps echoed outside.
He hated how his hands weren't callused from cuffs.
He hated that the man smelled like old forest and smoke—not rot and sand and blood.
Most of all, he hated how easily Thane made it seem like the cage wasn't real. Like it was just temporary.
Because Levi had stopped believing in temporary a long time ago.
Still…
He watched.
Out of the corner of his eye. Measured. Careful.
The man's posture was too controlled. Shoulders relaxed but squared, legs folded the way a soldier might sit while waiting for orders. Not a slaver. Not a guard. Not a buyer or a pit-runner. Not with those wrists—bruised but clean. No branding iron had touched him. No lash marks, either.
That meant he was new.
But not soft.
And not stupid.
After what felt like hours, Thane finally spoke again.
"You look like someone who's seen too much."
Levi didn't respond.
"I've seen a few things too," the man went on, eyes still closed. "But I'm guessing not like this."
Levi turned his head a fraction. His voice rasped when he finally spoke. "You're not from here."
Thane's brow lifted. "Sharp."
"You don't smell like a pit."
"I've only been here a few hours."
"Then you will."
Thane cracked one eye open. "Comforting."
Levi didn't blink. "You'll get used to the screaming."
Thane didn't respond to that. But he didn't look away either.
Levi shifted, just slightly. The chain on his wrist groaned.
"You fight?" he asked, not because he cared—but because if the man was going to die in the pit beside him, he might as well know if it would be quick.
Thane gave a faint nod. "When I need to."
"That won't help you."
"Why's that?"
Levi's eyes flicked to the wall opposite. "You don't fight when they want blood. You fight when they want to break you."
"And have they broken you?"
It wasn't a challenge.
Just a question.
Levi didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
The quiet that followed was enough.
Thane finally let out a slow breath, leaned his head back against the cold stone. "They'll try," Levi murmured. "They always do. That's what people like this are built for." Thane hummed back
Levi turned his head again. "You talk like you've seen it from the outside."
"I've seen both sides."
That made Levi narrow his eyes. A flash of something deeper stirred behind his ribs. Suspicion. Wariness.
Or maybe hope.
But he didn't let it grow.
Hope got people killed.
"So what," he said flatly. "You think you're better than the rest of us?"
Thane's gaze met his.
And this time—it wasn't cold. It wasn't smug. It wasn't even cautious.
It was tired.
"No," Thane said softly. "I just haven't forgotten who I am yet."
Levi didn't know what to say to that.
So he said nothing at all.
And Thane didn't push again.
He just sat. Quiet. Still. Like he could wait for days in silence if he had to.
Eventually, Levi curled tighter against the wall, letting the stone seep into his bones.
But before he closed his eyes, he glanced one more time at the man chained across from him.
And for the first time in months—
He didn't feel entirely alone.
The first day, Thane didn't speak.
Not after his first few questions went unanswered. He simply leaned against the stone wall, closed his eyes, and listened—to the chains clinking in other cells, to the sounds of distant screaming, to Levi's breathing as it evened out into shallow silence.
The second day, he tried again.
"You ever see a place called Velmira?" he asked softly, as if the question wasn't really for Levi at all. "Mountains so high the clouds don't bother going over them."
No answer.
Levi didn't even blink.
The third day, Thane told a story. No preface. No warning. Just started talking.
"I grew up in a house with no roof," he said, head tilted toward the low torchlight. "Not because we were poor. Just because my mother wanted to see the stars. Rain would come right through onto the floor. But she said the sky was worth the mess."
Levi stayed curled in the corner.
He didn't reply.
But he listened.
On the fifth day, Thane talked about the market in Elcoran—about a woman who sold roasted chickpeas and could spot a lie just by the way your mouth moved.
A week passed.
Levi didn't say a word.
He didn't look at Thane. Didn't nod. Didn't grunt.
But when Thane mentioned Elcoran again, Levi's eyes flicked once—just once—toward him.
That was enough.
Thane kept talking. Every day.
Small stories. Fragments. A memory of getting caught stealing bread in a gold-trimmed town. A brother who once got locked in a wine cellar for three days and came out laughing. The way the sea near Halden sounded like bells if you listened at the cliffs.
Weeks passed.
Then a month.
Levi never spoke.
But Thane didn't stop.
Not once.
Until—
One night, long after the torchlight had faded and the halls were mostly still, Levi finally moved.
He didn't look directly at Thane. Didn't change his posture. Just muttered, voice low and unused:
"Where I lived… the wind always smelled like ash."
Thane didn't react at first. Just turned his head slightly, listening.
"There were these old fire pits in the dunes. Long dead. But the wind still carried it. Burnt things that never burned away."
A long pause.
"I hated it."
Thane's brow furrowed. But he didn't interrupt.
"My mom used to say it was the desert remembering," Levi said. "That it held onto things. Long after they were gone."
Thane sat up a little straighter.
"I made a hole once," Levi went on. "In the camp. During a raid. I set half of it on fire to cover it. Told Kaan—my friend—to get her out . The dunes shift, but the rocks don't. She wouldn't move, though. Just kept kneeling…"
His voice cracked.
"Kaan said the right thing. Said it was for the baby. That's what got her up."
He shifted against the wall, eyes distant.
"They made it out, I think. The smoke covered them. I held the line. I was supposed to follow, but…"
He trailed off. Footsteps echoed in the corridor.
Thane turned toward the sound.
Keys clanked.
Levi didn't look.
He just whispered, almost to himself: "She never said goodbye."
The cell door creaked open.
"Pit wants him," the guard barked.
Levi stood slowly.
No fight. No resistance.
Just a quiet sigh as he stepped forward and let the cuffs snap into place.
He didn't look back at Thane.
But Thane watched him go, jaw set, eyes unreadable.
And when the cell went dark again, the silence left behind wasn't empty.
It was full of something unsaid. Something unfinished.
...
The door slammed shut again hours later.
Levi didn't walk in.
He was thrown.
His body hit the stone hard, the sound dull and final.
Thane was already awake. Sitting in the same place he always did. But this time, when Levi didn't move—didn't even groan—he shifted forward.
Levi lay still.
His shirt was gone again. Bruises bloomed like ink across his ribs and shoulders. Blood crusted one side of his face. His hands, scraped raw, were still balled into fists. And his eyes…
Thane had seen broken things before.
But not like this.
He waited, not pushing. Just watched as Levi slowly curled back into himself, inch by inch, until he was folded in the corner again like a boy made of wires and splinters. But tighter this time. Smaller.
Thane spoke gently. "What happened?"
Levi didn't answer. Not at first.
But then—so soft it barely reached Thane's ears:
"There were four of them."
Thane leaned forward slightly, listening.
"Three men. One woman."
A pause. Levi's jaw clenched, and he blinked hard.
"She was the last one."
Thane exhaled through his nose. Quiet. Measured. He didn't interrupt.
"I didn't want to fight," Levi muttered. "I told them I wouldn't. I begged. But the guards said no food if I didn't finish it. Said they'd make me kill a child next if I didn't make the crowd happy."
Thane's stomach twisted, but his face stayed calm.
"She didn't even raise her weapon. Just stood there. Crying." Levi swallowed, voice hoarse. "I tried to throw the fight. Told her to hit me. To run. But they whipped her when she didn't move. They laughed."
Another silence.
Thane broke it gently. "And then?"
Levi's hands shook. "I grabbed her wrist. Just to move her back. Just to get her behind me."
He stared at the wall. Empty. Distant.
"She tripped on the pit stone. Hit her head. Didn't get up."
His next breath shattered.
"She was pregnant."
Thane closed his eyes.
Levi's voice cracked open—too soft, too small for someone who had once stared down fire to protect people he loved. "I didn't know. I didn't see. Not until after. Her hands were over her stomach."
He curled tighter. "They told me I did good."
Silence pressed in, thick and cold.
And then, Levi whispered the words he hadn't said aloud since the raid.
"I was trying to save my mother. And now I'm killing someone else's."
It hit Thane like a punch to the chest.
He didn't reach for the boy.
Didn't speak more than needed.
But he did say one thing:
"That isn't who you are."
Levi didn't move.
Didn't react.
Not for a long time.
And when he finally looked up, his eyes were dark—haunted.
"But it's who they made me."
He turned away again. The words hung there like ash, falling between them.
And Thane?
He sat still.
And he remembered something from long ago—something a knight once told him when he was just a recruit, staring at the aftermath of a burning town.
"The hardest thing in this world isn't dying. It's remembering who you were before the fire."
He looked at Levi.
And quietly, he made a vow.
He wouldn't let the boy forget.