Third POV
The world was a blur when Elias came to.
His head throbbed. The ground beneath him wasn't soft earth anymore — it was hard, uneven, and jolted beneath his back. He realized he was lying in a wooden cart, the wheels rattling as it rolled along a rough dirt road.
Iron cuffs dug into his wrists, the short chain between them clinking with each bump. Around him, other figures lay slumped or sat hunched over, their expressions hollow.
The man sitting at the front of the cart held the reins loosely in one hand, but his posture screamed authority. He was the same one who had struck Elias earlier — the black-and-gray robes marked with the fanged wolf of the Iron Fang Sect. His hair was tied back, but his face had the smug sharpness of someone who enjoyed having power over people who couldn't fight back.
First POV
My wrists burned where the metal rubbed raw skin. The cart reeked of sweat and unwashed bodies. Somewhere behind me, someone coughed — wet, ragged.
I shifted, trying to sit straighter. The movement earned me a sharp tug on the chain.
"Sit down, whelp," the sect member snapped without even turning his head. His voice was rough, lazy, but carried the weight of someone used to obedience.
I clenched my jaw but said nothing. Picking a fight now wasn't going to help.
Third POV
Hours passed before the cart finally stopped. They had arrived at a large walled compound built against the side of a rocky hill. Wooden towers marked the corners, each manned by armed guards. Inside, a sprawl of tents and makeshift huts formed a grim settlement. Smoke curled up from scattered fire pits, carrying the faint smell of boiled roots and something sour.
The cart gate dropped. The sect member barked, "Out!"
One by one, the captives stumbled down. Elias followed, his bare feet meeting hard-packed dirt. Immediately, a shove between his shoulders sent him sprawling.
"Move faster, or you'll be eating mud for the rest of the week," the man growled.
Around them, other sect members in wolf-emblem robes loitered, some laughing at the fresh arrivals. A few slaves stopped to glance at the newcomers before going back to hauling buckets, chopping wood, or tending fires.
First POV
They herded us toward a low wooden shed near the center of the camp. Inside, a long table stood stacked with bundles of rough gray cloth. One of the guards tossed a set into my hands — shirt, trousers, thin sandals. No cloak, no belt.
"Put it on. You wear anything else, you answer to me," he said. His eyes lingered on me for a moment too long, like he was trying to decide if he could break me with a word.
We changed in silence, under the eyes of armed guards.
Third POV
Once clothed, the new slaves were lined up.
That was when Elias noticed the others more closely.
At the far end of the line was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a crooked nose and a scar across his cheek — Garon. His arms were corded with muscle, but his eyes had the calculating stillness of someone who knew when to fight and when to wait.
Beside him stood Tyrek, younger, wiry, with a restless energy that made his chains rattle whenever he shifted. His gaze darted everywhere — the guards, the huts, the other slaves — like he was mapping the place in his head.
Most of the others looked beaten down, their shoulders slumped, eyes empty.
But then Elias's attention caught on a figure near the middle.
She couldn't have been more than fifteen. Her hair was long, dark, and unkempt, but her posture was straight, her chin slightly raised. Her clothes were threadbare, and her wrists bore the same iron cuffs as the rest, yet there was a quiet defiance in the way she held herself.
Lydia.
First POV
I don't know why I noticed her. Maybe it was because she didn't look broken yet. Maybe it was because she reminded me of someone.
Edith.
Flashback – First POV
The hospital room had smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee. Edith sat across from me, her hands wrapped around a paper cup, knuckles white. Her eyes — our mother's eyes — were fixed on the floor.
"So that's it?" she said finally, her voice quiet.
I nodded. I'd told her everything: the diagnosis, the timeline, the fact that I didn't want to spend my last years in a hospital bed watching my body turn into a prison.
"I want to travel," I'd said. "While I still can."
Her head had snapped up. "Travel? You can barely walk without getting tired—"
"I can walk. For now. And that's exactly why I have to do it. I want to see everything I can before I can't."
We'd argued, cried, sat in silence. In the end, she'd agreed — not because she wanted to lose me to some distant beach, but because she knew the alternative was watching me fade away at home.
When I'd left, she'd hugged me so hard I thought my ribs would crack.
I'd never told her it was goodbye.
First POV (Present)
Now, staring at Lydia, I felt the same protective tug I'd felt for Edith. The kind that made you want to step between someone and the rest of the world.
But here, I was chained and powerless.
Third POV
The sect member who had captured them stepped forward, pacing in front of the line. "Listen well," he said. "You are property of the Iron Fang Sect now. You will work until you break. If you run, you die. If you disobey, you die. If you get in the way—" He stopped suddenly, turning to Elias.
"You die."
Without warning, his hand shot out, striking Elias across the face. The blow sent him stumbling sideways, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.
The man smiled faintly. "Consider that a lesson. I don't like the way you look at me."
Laughter rippled through a few of the guards. The other slaves stared straight ahead.
Elias straightened slowly, meeting the man's gaze. He didn't say a word, but the fire in his eyes didn't dim.
The man's smile faltered for half a second before he turned away.
"Get them to the work pits," he ordered.