Chapter Five
Carter's eyes snapped open.
Darkness pressed in from every side. The stench of sweat, iron, and old blood hung heavy in the air, suffocating. For a heartbeat, he thought he was back in the girl's body—that frail prison of terror and pain. Panic clawed at his chest. Not her. Not again. Please—
But no. This body was different.
The shoulders beneath him were broad, corded with strength. The arms didn't tremble like a starved slave's—they were steady, unyielding. Dangerous.
Chains clinked softly with every breath. Cold iron bit into his wrists and throat, each link humming with a faint vibration. The calm inside this body unsettled him—it wasn't his calm. It felt alien. Like still water before a storm. Carter realized with a shiver: the man's thoughts bled into his own.
Sorcery sealed. Authority bound. These chains… enchanted.
The words weren't his. They belonged to the body he inhabited. And yet, Carter felt them like memories that weren't his own. His breath caught. Sorcery? Authority? He didn't dare probe deeper.
Around him, the other slaves were husks. Some had been rotting in this hell for months—their skin pale, lips cracked, eyes hollow with resignation. Others were freshly taken, their faces still raw with disbelief, their hands trembling as they fought the truth that had already claimed the rest. The carriage reeked of despair, sweat soaking the wood, the faint rattle of chains a constant reminder that hope had no place here.
Then a voice rumbled through the dark. Low. Heavy. Commanding.
"Varka. How much longer must we sit in these chains with Astarian filth?"
Carter stiffened. The man speaking loomed larger than the rest, his frame cutting through the gloom like a mountain. A broad chest, an angular jaw, and a trimmed beard that caught what little light seeped through the slats. His tone was iron—not cruel, not frantic—just steady, measured.
And the name he spoke… hung like a blade in the silence.
Varka.
So that's who Carter was now.
The slaves shrank from the bearded man's presence, but no one dared respond. Their eyes flicked instead toward Varka—the body Carter wore.
When Varka finally spoke, his voice was steady, each word weighed like forged steel.
"Soon."
The bearded man—Snezna—snorted, but it was not derision. His words followed with the calm dissection of a tactician, not the bloodlust of a butcher.
"If not for their numbers, we would have broken those Valius dogs. Alto would still live."
Carter felt the thought ripple through Varka's mind. Cold. Detached. Alto's death? It was nothing more than a page turned in a book, already forgotten. Snezna's jaw tightened, grief flashing in his eyes before it sank beneath the weight of pragmatism.
The other slaves began to whisper, their voices thin and cracked.
"They're not like us…"
"Not slaves. Not broken."
"Enemies of the Empire…"
Some seemed desperate enough to beg for freedom, but when Varka's gaze swept across them—still, calm, unreadable—their courage withered. Then Snezna's eyes followed, and the whispers died at once. Hope suffocated, as if both men carried its executioner's blade.
The carriage jolted suddenly. Chains rattled. Bodies lurched together.
"W-why did we stop?!" someone cried, voice shrill with fear.
"Gods, don't let it be—"
A guard's boot slammed against the wood, his bark cutting through the panic like a whip.
"Quiet down, vermin! Just a carcass blocking the road. Settle, or I'll gut the next who speaks!"
The slaves froze. No one dared even breathe too loudly.
The smell hit first—thick, metallic, foul. Blood. Carter turned his head, forcing Varka's body to peer through a crack. His stomach clenched.
The thing on the road wasn't human. Limbs twisted at impossible angles, flesh torn open and rebuilt and torn again, as though some unseen hand had been playing with its body until it finally broke. Eyes glassy. Mouth locked in a silent scream. A nightmare discarded.
The stink clung to the carriage even as the guards hauled it aside. The wheels rolled again.
Until, without warning, the carriage groaned to a stop once more.
No command. No shout. Just silence.
The hush inside was different this time. Heavier. The slaves pressed themselves into the shadows as though the dark might shield them.
Snezna did not move. His stillness was its own answer, the kind of composure born from a man who had walked this path before.
And then Varka stirred.
Carter felt the man's muscles coil beneath the skin, his head brushing the ceiling as he rose. Chains dragged against the bars with a hiss of iron.
"What's he doing…?" someone whispered, the words trembling.
Then—
Crack.
Varka's forehead slammed into the bars. Blood smeared across the metal. Once. Twice. Again.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
The sound was wet, sharp, sickening. Slaves flinched, one fainted outright, another bit back a scream. Carter's stomach lurched. What the hell are you doing?!
Blood smeared down Varka's temple, dripping into the chains.
And then—Varka's will surged.
One word.
Boil.
It thundered through Carter's mind like a command carved into his very soul. The blood obeyed.
Heat erupted.
Carter convulsed, voiceless screams tearing inside his skull as agony spread across flesh that wasn't his own. Fire seared every nerve, skin blistered, muscle writhed. He wanted to claw his way out, to escape the inferno—please, gods, let me out!
But Varka's heartbeat did not falter. His breathing remained steady. He stood in the flames as though they were nothing but a summer breeze. Agony itself bent around him.
The chains hissed, glowing red. Iron sagged, dripping molten onto the floorboards. The collar split apart with a sharp crack.
Freedom surged through him.
Varka flexed his hands. Power hummed back into his veins like a storm remembering itself. He turned and seized Snezna's shackles. One pull—sharp, decisive—and the iron tore like paper.
Both men stood. Tall. Unbroken. Free.
The slaves shrank into the corners, eyes wide with terror. Some opened their mouths, desperate to beg—release, mercy, anything. But before the words could form, Snezna's eyes swept across them. Calculating. Measuring. Cold.
Varka said nothing. His silence was a heavier blade.
The pleas died. The slaves lowered their heads, trembling. Better to rot in chains than step outside beside predators cloaked in human skin.
And beyond the bars, the night breathed. A low, distant howl of wind and blood. A promise of violence waiting just beyond the road.