Light, that was the first thing I saw.
The sun blazed overhead, sharp and unforgiving, stabbing into my eyes through the thin cloth wrapped around my face. I squinted and turned my head, but the glare still pierced through. Heat pressed down from above while the stone beneath me was damp and hard.
I tried to speak, to ask what was going on, but all that came out were wet, garbled sounds. No words, just the helpless noise of a baby.
I looked at my hands, tiny and soft, not mine definitely not the rough, calloused fingers I remembered, these were new, Fragile.
Wrapped in cloth, dumped in a filthy alley that stank of smoke, piss, and rot. Through the cloth, I could just make out crooked buildings, carts creaking past, people in strange clothes, everything looked old, like something out of a history book.
I didn't panic. Not yet. My thoughts were scrambled, but clear enough to know something was wrong.
What the hell is this?
That was all I could think, my body wasn't mine, my voice was gone and the world around me made no sense.
The heat didn't bother me, It soaked into my skin like it belonged there, While others sweated and cursed the sun, I lay still, almost comforted by the warmth. But when night came, the cold crept in and the stone lost its heat quickly, turning cruel. My breath grew shallow. The cloth clung to me, damp and useless.
Three days passed.
By the end of it, I was barely conscious.
My stomach twisted, hollow and aching as hunger gnawed at me, sharp and constant. My mouth was dry, lips cracked and tongue swollen. I couldn't cry anymore, my throat was too raw. Even the weak little whimpers I'd made before had faded into silence.
My limbs felt heavy, the cold had seeped into my bones. My heart beat slow and uneven, like it wasn't sure whether to keep going.
And still, no one stopped.
People passed, boots thudded, voices barked, carts rolled and the alley never slept, but it never cared. I was just another forgotten thing in a place built to forget.
I caught fragments of conversation.
"Should've slit that boy's throat, thief or not."
"She's not worth the coin, leave her."
"Burn it all, let the rats have it."
The words were rough, definitely not English, not anything I'd ever heard before. But somehow, I understood them.
I couldn't explain it, It was like the meaning was already sitting in my head.
Then I heard them.
Boots. Heavy ones, thudding against the stone with purpose I couldn't lift my head, but I felt them getting closer. Two men, one tall and bony, the other built like a barrel with a scar carved across his cheek.
They stopped beside me.
"Oi," one of them muttered, voice rough. "Still breathin'?"
I felt the air shift, fingers tugged at the cloth wrapped around my face. Then I saw their faces, eyes wide, mouths slightly parted. They looked at me like they'd seen something they didn't expect.
"Seven hells…" one of them whispered.
I didn't know what they were seeing I couldn't see myself. But I saw the way they looked at me, like I was something rare, something different.
"Hair's white as snow," the tall one said.
"And those eyes…"
Then he bent down and reached for me.
I wasn't having it.
My instincts kicked in, pure fight mode. I flailed like a windmill in a hurricane, fists swinging with all the fury my noodle arms could muster. One of them actually grazed his chin, victory, for half a second.
Then he picked me up.
Effortlessly, like a sack of flour.
"Little shit," he growled.
He punched me.
Not a slap, closed fist, not full force, but enough to knock the air out of me. My head jerked sideways and everything went fuzzy for a second.
Pain spread across my face, sharp, dull, then just heavy. I didn't cry, I couldn't I just lay there, dazed. My limbs felt distant, my thoughts scattered.
I wasn't sure how long I stayed like that, long enough to know I couldn't fight back, I mean I was a fucking baby.
What was I gonna do? Call for backup? Throw hands? My hands were the size of grapes. I had the spirit of a war-hardened soldier and the motor skills of a drunk dickhead.
So yeah, I got rocked.
"Dragonblood," he muttered.
What?
Dragonblood?
I didn't understand, was that supposed to mean something? Dragons? Like the beasts from old myths and bedtime stories?
I fought at Gallipoli, I watched men drown in mud and barbed wire. I knew the sound of artillery, the stink of rot, the weight of a rifle. Dragons were nonsense a child's fantasy, not something grown men said with a straight face.
But they weren't joking.
They looked at me like I was rare, valuable, not because of anything I'd done, just because of how I looked.
They didn't speak for a moment. Just stared at me like I was a coin they weren't sure was real.
Then the barrel-shaped one grunted. "We take him to the Pit."
The tall one hesitated. "The Pit? He's barely breathin'."
"He's breathin' enough. They'll pay for the look, pale skin, white hair, amethyst eyes. That's coin, even if he croaks tomorrow."
I didn't know what the Pit was, not exactly, but the way they said it, low, clipped, like they were naming a grave, told me everything I needed. I'd heard that tone before, trenches. Right before things went sideways and didn't matter what it was I knew it wasn't good.
The tall one muttered something under his breath, then wrapped me tighter in the cloth and slung me under his arm like a bundle of laundry. My head lolled, every jolt of his stride sent a fresh stab of pain through my skull.
We moved fast, down winding alleys, past shouting vendors and the stink of fish and sweat. I caught glimpses, a woman with a basket of dead birds, a child with no shoes, a man pissing against a wall. No one looked twice.
Eventually, we reached a gate, iron bars, rusted a man stood guard, chewing something that looked like bark.
"Got a fresh one," the tall man said.
The guard squinted at me. "That a babe or a rat?"
"Dragonblood," the barrel-shaped one said, like it was a password.
The guard's eyes narrowed. He stepped aside.
Inside was chaos.
The Pit wasn't just one thing, it was a world beneath the city. A sprawling maze of stone corridors and torchlight, thick with smoke and sweat. Cages lined the walls, packed with people. Some chained. Some drugged, some staring blankly into the dark.
There were stalls too, not for food or cloth, but for flesh, fighters, servants, thieves and children. Everything had a price, and deeper still, you could hear it, the roar of the crowd the clash of steel, the wet thud of bodies hitting sand. Fighting pits, bloodsport, men and women thrown into cages to kill or be killed for coin.
They brought me to a stall near the back. A woman sat behind it, counting coins with long, yellowed nails. Her eyes flicked up when she saw me.
"Too small," she said.
"Not for the collectors," the tall one replied. "Look at him."
She leaned forward. Her gaze was sharp, clinical, like a butcher inspecting meat.
"Might be worth something. If he lives."
She tossed a pouch to the tall man. It jingled.
"Take him to the wet nurse. If he dies, you get half."
They didn't argue.
I was handed off again, this time to a woman in her forties, sturdy and quiet. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and she wore a plain linen tunic dusted with flour or ash. She didn't speak, just led me through a narrow passage into a dim room with straw on the floor and a bucket in the corner.
She sat, pulled me close, and for the first time in days, I felt warmth. Milk, thick and bitter, but it filled the hollow ache in my belly.
I didn't know where I was.
But I was alive.
For now.