2 days passed
Ren opened his eyes to darkness.
The same darkness as before. Thick, stale, and absolute. There was no window. No hint of sun. The air smelled of mold and unwashed stone, damp and sour. His breath curled faintly in front of him, and he could feel the cold licking at his bare toes beneath the threadbare blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders.
Chains clinked faintly in the distance. The sound echoed through unseen corridors—slow, rhythmic, hopeless.
He was still here.
He blinked, as if waking again would undo it all, as if the cold floor beneath him and the iron door ahead were just figments of some twisted dream.
But nothing changed.
Slowly, he sat up. His stomach ached with hunger. His limbs were stiff. The blanket slipped from his shoulders as he hugged his knees to his chest, trying to breathe through the growing dread in his throat.
Then—creeeeeak.
The door groaned open.
Footsteps followed. Measured. Heavy. Echoing on stone.
Keva.
She stepped into the cell, tall and composed in her dark leathers. Her dark braid was coiled tight at her back, not a strand out of place. Her eyes—void of sympathy—landed on him.
"So," she said coolly, her voice like frost on steel. "You've stopped shouting."
She stood in the doorway, arms crossed.
"Good. Most new ones do by sunrise."
Ren didn't speak.
Not because he didn't want to—but because the weight in his throat, the fear sitting like a stone in his gut, made words impossible.
Keva strode forward without waiting and grabbed him roughly by the arm.
Her fingers were like iron. Cold and strong.
"Up."
She yanked him to his feet with no effort at all.
Ren stumbled forward, legs barely working. His bare feet scraped against the jagged floor as she dragged him down the hall. The corridor outside was dimly lit by occasional torches flickering in iron sconces. The smell of sweat, blood, and mildew was stronger out here—so strong it made his eyes sting.
They turned a corner.
Ren's breath caught.
He saw them.
Children.
Dozens at first. Then hundreds. A sea of them. Lined up in rows. Moving in silence. Boys and girls his age and younger—some only five or six, others closer to fifteen—all shuffling in line like ghosts, heads bowed, lips sealed, eyes empty.
His feet froze mid-step.
Keva didn't slow.
"Move."
She slammed her boot into the small of his back.
Ren gasped and stumbled forward into the line. The others didn't look at him. They didn't even flinch. They just… walked.
Silently. Mechanically.
At the end of the corridor loomed a massive wooden door with thick iron bolts.
It opened with a groaning creak.
Ren stepped inside—and stopped cold once more.
The room was enormous. Dimly lit, with its walls lost in shadow. Rows of children sat cross-legged on the stone floor, their knees touching, their backs unnaturally straight. Instructors in black robes moved between them, shouting instructions in loud, commanding voices.
"Bow when your master speaks."
"Don't look them in the eye unless instructed."
"Smile if they want you to. Cry if they want you to."
Ren felt like his legs might give out.
He lowered himself to the ground beside a boy about his age—a quiet, bony kid with dull gray eyes and a blank expression. His hair was long and unkempt, falling in curtains over his face.
Ren hesitated, then whispered, "W-what's your name? Where… where are we?"
The boy turned slowly. His head moved, but his body stayed still.
He stared at Ren like he didn't understand the question.
"…Name?" he repeated, voice flat and brittle.
Then he looked away.
Ren said nothing more.
He curled in slightly, drawing his knees closer, heart pounding beneath his ribs.
What is this place? What's happening? I was at school… I was eating breakfast… Mom gave me bread and milk. Wren said we'd buy toys.
This can't be real.
They branded him on the first day.
Ren was held down while Noro Malven pressed a burning seal into his neck—a magical mark that carved pain into his very soul. The agony didn't end with the act. It lingered, pulsing like a second heartbeat, sometimes glowing faintly in the dark when the nightmares came.
Speaking without permission earned him jolts of fire down his throat. After the third offense, the magic silenced him completely. No words, no sound—just the echo of screams trapped inside.
Sleep was a luxury. He was kept awake standing with arms raised or scrubbing blood from stone floors while guards laughed. When he faltered, they whipped his back with cords of wire. Food was weaponized. Miss a step? No meal. Disobey? Water for days. Once, a bowl of stew was thrown in his face just to mock the gnawing in his belly.
They locked him in the Isolation Chamber—where corrupted magic whispered lies. He saw Finn die again and again. He heard his mother sobbing. He clawed at the walls until his fingers bled, begging the voices to stop.
Shock-chains punished slow work. One misstep, and pain lanced through his limbs. Once, he bit through his tongue from the surge. A week passed before he could chew. Still, he was forced to fight—mock duels against other children. Sometimes strangers. Sometimes friends. Once, Finn took a beating meant for him.
Then came the memory drains. The mages pressed cursed relics to his temple and pulled. Afterward, he forgot things—his father's voice, the smell of home after rain. He cried, and the seal punished him for that, too.
Showers burned or froze. Guards watched for weakness. If someone cried, they were dragged out for lashes. Once, they showed him Finn being executed—only for him to return days later, alive but barely conscious.
Finally, the nobles arrived. Ren was forced to perform: smile, laugh, cry on command. Failure meant pain. Success meant nothing. He became a hollow thing, a puppet with glassy eyes.
But beneath that silence, something stirred. A hatred growing.
Later that evening
Ren was cleaning the floor suddenly
A bell rang from above.
"Canteen!" someone shouted.
The lines formed again.
Ren followed the others into a different room—a dining hall lined with cracked stone tables and rusted bowls. At the far end, steaming pots of watery stew were being ladled by older teens under watchful eyes.
Ren received his portion—barely half a bowl—and sat against the wall, staring at the pale broth.
A boy sat next to him.
"Name's Finn," the boy said quietly. His voice was dry, but not unfriendly. "You new?"
Ren nodded weakly. "Y-yeah."
Finn glanced at the mark on his neck, then nodded in understanding.
Ren hesitated. "That man from earlier… with the glowing hands. Who is he?"
Finn scooped a spoon of stew and chewed slowly.
"Noro Malven," he said. "Dark mage. He puts the servitum seals on us. Makes sure we obey."
Ren stared. "There's… magic in this world?"
Finn chuckled bitterly. "Oh, there's magic. But not the kind you'd want."
They sat in silence after that, slowly eating. Ren's hands trembled so badly he could barely keep his spoon steady.
But for the first time since he arrived, he wasn't completely alone.
Another bell rang.
"Back to the cells," a voice barked.
Finn stood. "Come on. I'll show you the way."
They walked together in the crowd.
A guard led them back through the winding corridors until they reached a rusted iron door. He shoved them both inside without a word, and the door slammed shut behind them with a deafening clang.
Ren stumbled and sank to the ground.
Finn slumped beside him, leaning against the wall.
The silence stretched between them.
Then, after a long pause, Finn spoke again.
"I was a farmer's son. We lived near the southern border. My mom raised goats. Dad tilled the land."
His voice was quiet… hollow.
"One night, demons came. We never even saw them before—just shadows with teeth. They tore through the village like it was made of paper. Everyone died."
He paused.
"I tried to shield my mom. But she—she pushed me off a cliff. Into the river."
His eyes closed. "It carried me far away. I woke up… in chains."
Ren stared at him, stunned.
He whispered, "How… how can you still smile? After all that?"
Finn looked over at him.
And for a moment, his face softened. Not happy. But something close.
"Because if I stop smiling… if I let them break me… they win."
He looked up at the ceiling.
"My parents wouldn't want me to fall apart. Once I get out of here… I'll make sure no one else feels this pain again."
Before Ren could reply, a metal baton struck the bars of the cell.
BANG!
"Quiet in there!" a guard shouted.
The boys flinched. Then went still.
They pulled their thin blankets over themselves and curled up on the cold stone floor.
Neither spoke again.
And slowly, in that suffocating silence, two broken children drifted into sleep—
under one roof of chains.