Chapter Two: Ashes in the Palace
The iron wheels of the slave cart groaned and rumbled, carrying Lucian and his broken family deeper into the darkness of the king's merciless world. Around him, the chains of misfortune clattered like the last echoes of a fading life. The moon disappeared behind a wall of thick clouds, casting the world into the cold deep black of night—a night where hope was strangled before it could blink.
Lucian's throat was raw from suppressed screams. His lips cracked and bloodied as he swallowed down despair. The sweat on his skin cooled rapidly in the chill air, mixing bitterly with dust and the faint copper scent of old wounds. His arms were numb where the chains bit into flesh, but his mind was ablaze—flashing backwards to the broken ruins of his home, to the shattered face of his mother, and the sobbing form of his little brother. Every memory was a fresh razor in his chest.
The cart lurched, rattling over the thick cobblestones that led to the palace gates. Towering columns and walls loomed above, cold and impassive, their white marble stained with centuries of cruelty. As they passed beneath the grand archway, flanked by stone lions frozen in silent snarl, Lucian wondered if the cold stones held the ghosts of every soul broken inside.
Inside the palace yard, the air was thick with the heavy odor of sweat, blood, and despair. The guard shouted orders like death sentences, herding the weary, battered lumps of humanity toward the slave quarters—an underground cavern beneath the castle's heart, where sunlight was a cruel myth.
The once-proud steps of the palace buzzed with the careless laughter of nobles and courtiers, oblivious to the misery chained beneath. Their sumptuous garments sparkled in torchlight; their voices dripped cruelty wrapped in silk.
But for the slaves, there was only silence heavy with suffering.
The prison was a cavernous pit carved beneath stone walls that exhaled cold dampness and despair. Straw littered the floor, mixed with the remnants of broken bodies and broken spirits. Some lay silent, death's patient garnishment already upon them. Others wailed softly in exhaustion, faces bruised beyond recognition, eyes hollow and distant. Children clung together like fragile reeds in a storm, whispering prayers to gods who had long since turned away.
Lucian led his family inside, shoulders sagging despite every effort to appear strong. His mother, so pale and frail she resembled a withering flower, barely could lift her head. His brother, his small hand nestled in Lucian's own, trembled as he shuffled beside their mother's weak frame.
A choking grief filled Lucian's chest, almost physical—and yet it was accompanied by a sharp, glowing sting of guilt.
I should have been there sooner.
I should have stopped them.
I am a failure.
The door slammed behind them with a finality that shattered what little courage Lucian had left. He sank to the cold floor, cradling his little brother, feeling the fragile warmth of the child's trembling body against his own. His mother's breathing was shallow, distant, drifting toward silence.
Around them, the other slaves barely dared move. The faint crackle of straw, the rattle of chains, the softest whimpers—these were the soundtrack of lives crushed beneath the heavy boot of slavery.
Then, as if summoned by the silence itself, a deep, booming voice cut through the air like a stone axe.
A huge man stepped forth from the shadowed corridor. His face was a mask of stone—impassive, cold, devoid of mercy. His heavy brow cast dark shadows over eyes that seemed to measure the broken souls like livestock. He walked with slow, purposeful footsteps, silent authority rippling from his towering frame.
"Listen up, slaves!" he barked, voice like rolling thunder that cracked the quiet to splinters. The pit fell still, save for the sound of heavy breaths and shuffling feet.
"In three days, the Grand Ball will be held in honor of the king's favor and might. You will serve the guests who come—noble lords, ladies, and warriors whose commands are law. Your work will double, your obedience will be absolute."
His words sank like lead, thick with dread.
"Any mistake. Any complaint. Any defiance..." His voice dropped to a lethal whisper, sharp as a dagger through skin. "Will be met with pain far worse than you have known. I don't care if you are weak or sick, injured or broken. You are property. Remember that."
With a final, brutal snarl, he turned and stalked away—leaving only the echoes of terror behind.
Lucian's skin crawled with revulsion. He looked down at his mother, lying helpless as if life itself was bleeding out of her. Her pale eyes were wide open, but they held no light—not even flickers of hope—only a vast, empty void where a soul once lived.
His brother's small fingers curled around his, squeezing tight.
Lucian's own hands trembled, torn between furious helplessness and an aching desire to protect. But there was nothing he could do.
Nothing.
A bitterness twisted in his gut.
I failed them.
I am nothing.
From the dim corner, a slow shuffle approached. A boy, not much older than Lucian, stepped within the faint torchlight. His body was a confused map of fresh bruises and dirt crusted into his matted brown hair. Every inch of him screamed pain and hardship—the scars of years spent in hell.
"My name is Arave," he said quietly, voice rough with exhaustion and despair.
He crouched beside Lucian, eyes heavy like ancient stones. "You're new. I can tell by the way you look at the dirt... the way your body still hopes."
Lucian stayed silent, his throat tightening.
Arave's voice grew heavier. "They treat us worse than animals. Even the cattle in the king's stables have more worth than any low-graded human like us."
He nodded toward a pen where oxen snorted unharmed, their glossy coats untouched.
"But we are trapped. No fight will bring freedom. It only brings death."
A long pause stretched between them.
Arave's hand brushed against Lucian's shoulder. Lucian flinched—the sting of old blows still fresh beneath his skin.
"If you want to survive, for your family's sake, you must become strong—strong enough to bear this unbearable life." His voice was grim.
"Follow every rule, do every chore assigned—especially the ones meant for your sick mother and bruised brother. But know this: the guards don't care if you're weak. They don't care if you collapse from pain and exhaustion. If you're deemed worthless... they will kill you. Death is easier than uselessness here."
Lucian swallowed hard. His voice cracked:
"Why must we accept this? We're not slaves. We're people."
Arave's dark eyes searched the shadows, cautious.
"We don't get to choose," he whispered sharply. "Hope gets you killed faster than chains."
Around them, other slaves shifted uneasily, shrinking from the spark of rebellion, fearing the gaze of watchful guards.
Days passed in a blur of torment and fatigue. Lucian woke each dawn with the shrill clang of the slave bells, muscles screaming with the promise of endless labor. Tasks came harsh—cleaning marble floors, hauling waste, serving the cruel whims of nobles who spat and cursed like demons.
Lucian begged for his mother's and brother's chores, swallowing his pride beneath layers of aching ribs and splitting bruises. His brother polished glassware with shaky hands; his mother, bent and broken, cleaned decay from kitchen corners.
At night, wrapped in the cold darkness of the prison pen, Lucian whispered soothing words he barely believed. His brother's quiet sobs echoed the fracture within his own soul.
The day of the Grand Ball arrived. The palace transformed into a dazzling nightmare—velvet, gold, laughter masking cruelty. Nobles swirled past like ghosts wearing masks of power, their gazes sharp and expectant.
Slaves flitted nearby, invisible shadows balancing trays of spirits and sweetmeats, their eyes downcast, their souls crushed beneath silken heels.
Lucian's heart hammered as he balanced a tray of crystal goblets, sweat burning the sting of fresh cuts along his brow.
A tall youth, his hair fierce copper, swaggered toward Lucian, eyes sharp and cruel.
"Out of the way, slave," he sneered, voice dripping with disdain. "I drink only golden ale."
Without warning, he spat into the crystal, then tipped it over Lucian's head.
The cold ale drenched Lucian's skin; his ruined clothes clung to his broken body.
The room froze.
Laughter stung like whipcracks.
Lucian's fist clenched the tray tighter, rage simmering beneath shame.
Before he could lash out, the brown-haired boy Arave stepped between them with hurried apologies.
"Forgive him, my lord. He's new. Let me bring you your drink."
Lucian felt a fierce surge of humiliation boil, but he held still, eyes burning.
Arave dragged him away with firm hands.
"What were you thinking?" Arave hissed. "One wrong word, two wrong moves... they'll kill you. And bring your whole family down with you."
Lucian's voice trembled. "I can't keep doing this. Why should I serve them? We aren't their slaves!"
Arave glanced around, wary. "Not yet. But if you don't—the king will own you in every way."
Sudden screams shattered the fragile veil of the ball's music. A harsh cry tore through the gilded corridors, sharp as a blade twisting in flesh.
Lucian's heart thundered.
He followed the sounds blindly, tearing through servants and nobles alike.
To the slave quarters.
What he saw would live in his nightmares forever.
His mother lay slumped against the cold stone floor, torn and broken. Guards stood over her, their laughter harsh and cruel. Her eyes, glassy and empty, met Lucian's briefly—an ocean of sorrow and pleading without words.
Four soldiers surrounded her; their hands brutal instruments of violation. Every blow echoed with silent screams that scarred Lucian's soul as deeply as any physical wound.
His brother huddled trembling in a corner, shivering, tears cascading down dirt-streaked cheeks.
Lucian's breath caught as he stumbled forward, anger and desperation tearing at his throat.
He tried to move, to scream, to fight.
But a rough hand seized him, wrenching him back.
"Don't!" Arave's voice cracked. "You'll be killed too!"
Lucian's tears fell in bitter rivers.
"My mother... my family..."
The taste of his own helplessness was poison.
He gripped a broken kitchen knife, fingers white with pressure, rage burning like wildfire beneath exhaustion.
A hefty guard emerged from the quarters, blood staining his gauntlets and lips curled into a wicked grin.
Lucian's knees buckled.
His mother lay lifeless.
The world grew dark.
He buried his face into his brother's tangled hair and cried like a man shattered beyond repair.
Around him, others mourned silently—the shared agony of the broken shielding fragile hopes.
That night, under the moon's indifferent glow, Lucian swore a vow steeped in pain and shadow.
I will survive this hell.
I will endure.
But one day — they will pay.
The palace was silent now—only the distant echo of footsteps and the soft murmur of whispered prayers.
In the darkness, unseen eyes watched Lucian's broken form.
A shadow stirred—an ancient force awakening in the silence.
But Lucian did not yet know.