A heavy boot slammed against Elias's ribs. He coughed and curled instinctively. A hand fisted in his collar, yanking him upright. The iron on his ankles scraped against stone as they dragged him forward. Why are they always so rough?
Elias tried to move with them, tried to keep his feet beneath him, but his legs were still stiff from yesterday's toil. The guards ignored his stumbles, hauling him through the narrow passage like a sack of grain.
Not again. Not back to the hall.
He remembered the last time—the towering man in black steel, the way the hall itself had swallowed him whole. He had been certain he would not leave alive. Yet he had been thrown back into the pit, spared for reasons he could not guess.
Now, days later, he was being taken again.
The corridors of stone gave way to torchlit steps. The clamor of chains and the stench of sweat faded, replaced by the faint scent of oiled wood and smoke. Elias's heart hammered as he was shoved through the tall doors into that cavernous chamber once more.
The hall stretched before him, cold and vast. Shadows clung to the vaulted ceiling, and banners of black and crimson hung heavy against the walls. At the far end, upon a seat carved from dark stone, the lord waited.
Hadrien.
The man radiated command even in stillness, his armor catching the firelight in dull gleams. His gaze was sharp, steady, cutting through the distance to pin Elias where he stood.
The guards shoved Elias forward until his knees struck the hard floor. He caught himself with his hands, palms scraping stone, and forced his trembling arms to hold him upright.
Silence pressed against his ears.
Hadrien did not speak at once. He studied him. Elias felt it—like being weighed, measured, judged.
The guards barked something in their harsh tongue. The words meant nothing, but their tone carried the same command as always: obey, kneel, wait.
Elias swallowed hard, his throat raw. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, every nerve screaming that this was the moment. Execution, perhaps. Punishment.
But it did not come.
Hadrien leaned forward slightly, resting an armored hand against the armrest of his seat. He said something low to one of the guards. The man stiffened, then nodded quickly and stepped back.
The order was short, final. Elias caught none of the words, but he understood the shift immediately.
He wasn't being dragged back to the pit.
The chains on his ankles clinked as the guards pulled him aside, not toward the exit that led to the quarry, but through another door—one that led deeper into the keep. Elias's heart pounded harder.
Why?
His thoughts clawed for sense. He had no strength to fight, no words to plead. His clothes were little more than rags now, torn from days of work, the once-familiar fabric stained with sweat and stone dust. His feet were bare; his shoes had given out days ago, their soles shredded against the quarry floor until he had no choice but to abandon them. Now every step bit into his skin, leaving raw patches that burned with every scrape of stone.
The guards spoke little as they marched him through dim corridors. Elias's mind churned.
Why me? I'm no stronger than the rest. No different—no, that's a lie. I am different. My clothes. My tongue. My silence. They've known from the beginning. But why now?
The memory of the lord's eyes returned to him—sharp, cold, searching. It was not the look one gave a slave. It was something else. Something that made Elias's stomach twist.
They came to a smaller chamber, one with no pit and no tools. Just walls of stone and a narrow bed of straw against the corner. A place apart.
The guards unshackled his ankles with a rough twist of iron and shoved him inside. The heavy door clanged shut behind him, bolts sliding into place.
Elias staggered, catching himself against the wall. The silence was deafening after the endless noise of the pit. No chains rattling. No groans of other prisoners. Just him. Alone.
He sank onto the straw, every muscle aching, breath trembling in his chest.
This was no freedom—he knew that. He was still their prisoner, still in their grasp. But the chains were gone, and for the first time since awakening in this cursed land, he was separated from the nameless mass of slaves.
A shift had begun.
He curled his arms around his knees, pressing his forehead against them. His skin still burned where the shackles had rubbed raw, and his feet throbbed with every heartbeat.
Why me? What does he want from me?
The question circled in his mind until sleep finally dragged him under, heavy and restless.
And above, somewhere in the keep, Hadrien sat in silence, his eyes turned toward the shadows where his prisoner now lay—an enigma chained not by iron, but by secrets.