The growl of engines and the bark of orders were all Vikhael needed to understand — they were finally leaving this forsaken outpost for good.
Not that freedom waited beyond its walls. The outside was worse — a death sentence.
You'd think a slave trade would have chosen a safer place than this.
"We're dead… we're all dead," a slave whispered, his voice trembling beneath the roar of machinery.
"Calm yourself, fool!" hissed another slave. "We're being taken back to Dornhelm — behind the walls. At least there, we'll have our lives."
Vikhael paid no heed to the exchange between the others. His thoughts were elsewhere — on himself.
He'd noticed it before: ash clung to him, even in places where none should exist.
It dusted his skin, his hair, his chains — as if the world refused to let him be clean.
He'd tried countless times to wipe the ash from his rags and skin, but to no avail.
The ash was always there — clinging, patient, unyielding.
Only when the slavers drenched him with pails of cold water did it retreat… and even then, only for a moment.
The girl, on the other hand, was watching him — quietly, curiously — as he tried to brush the ash from his skin.
"Here, let me," she said softly, tearing a small piece of cloth from the hem of her skirt.
When her hand rose toward his face, Vikhael flinched. Not out of fear that she'd strike him, but out of something far worse — that she'd come close enough to truly see him, and regret the kindness she'd shown.
"You don't have to be afraid," she whispered softly.
"Here… let's start over. My name's Evelin. I'm seventeen, from the Kingdom of Thorn."
The other slaves hissed from the far end of the cell.
"You're wasting your breath, girl."
"Befriending the beast won't save you."
Evelin turned her head, her brow furrowing as she pressed a finger to her lips and gave a sharp shhh to the rest.
"He's just a boy — damned like the rest of us, but still a boy."
She turned back to Vikhael, and her soft smile had already returned.
"Albeit a strange-looking one."
Just a boy.
Words Vikhael thought he'd never hear — and they came from a slave girl, in a wet, moldy cell in damn-knows-where.
Three simple words, yet enough to stir him to the core.
For the first time, he looked Evelin in the eyes… and saw no disdain, no disgust.
Just a girl — too afraid to care about anything else.
The silence between them lasted only a breath longer before the world decided that kindness had no place here.
The iron locks clicked and turned, and the door swung open as a few men barged in — rifles at the ready, in case anyone felt brave.
One slaver was already shouting orders.
"On your feet!" he barked, fumbling with the keys until the cell door creaked wide.
"Line up! Move it, filth!" another snapped, striking the first slave he could see across the back with the butt of his rifle.
The moment was gone.
Evelin lowered her gaze and rose slowly, her torn skirt brushing the dirt floor.
Vikhael followed suit, but not before reaching down to pick up the small piece of cloth Evelin had left behind.
To most, it would have been meaningless — just another shred of fabric in the filth.
But to Vikhael, it was the first time anyone had ever reached for him with what he could only imagine was genuine kindness.
That cloth, to him at least, was something precious.
As the slaves lined up one by one, the slaver at the front nudged the first man in line.
"Walk!"
And as the trail of chained bodies marched out into the light for the first time in days, Vikhael was reminded why hope was a fleeting lie for those desperate enough to cling to it.
<><><>
What awaited Vikhael and the others outside were large military cargo trucks, engines rumbling loud enough to drown their thoughts.
Dozens of armed men stood nearby, weapons slung and ready — dressed not like slavers, but soldiers on the eve of battle.
As the line of slaves marched closer, Vikhael caught fragments of conversation between them.
"This job better pay well. We barely made it out of Thraxus," one grumbled.
"It will, man — we just gotta make it back to Dornhelm," another replied.
"Once we hit the passage near the northern quadrant, we're home free," a third chuckled.
Somewhere farther up the line, a voice called out, muffled by the noise.
"Buyer said he'll be there on the third day of the tenth month!"
Eventually the slavers' chatter died down when a single voice cut through the noise — low, rough, and steady.
"Mount up!"
The men straightened almost instantly, their laughter fading as a tall figure stepped out from behind one of the trucks.
The line of slaves halted too, as if none dared move while that man was present.
He wore a long, dust-stained coat over a standard military uniform, its insignia half-torn and unrecognizable. A revolver hung heavy at his side, though he didn't need to touch it — the weight of his presence was weapon enough.
His hair was cropped short, streaked with gray, his face carved by years of sun and time. One eye was hidden behind an old brass eyepatch.
He scanned the line of chained bodies without a word.
When his gaze fell on Vikhael, it lingered.
"You," he said finally, his voice a slow rasp. "You're the one said to carry Hollow blood, aren't you?"
Vikhael didn't respond, but he understood the kind of man standing before him. This wasn't some drunken slaver or common grunt.
This was the man in charge — one who toyed with the lives of others simply because no one strong enough was around to stop him.
That alone earned a reaction, even if it was only the tightening of Vikhael's jaw.
The man smirked faintly, as if amused by the silence.
"Doesn't matter," he muttered. "So long as you don't make trouble. The buyer wants his goods intact."
He turned to his men, his tone shifting back into command.
"Load them up. We leave in five."
The men moved instantly, barking orders as they shoved the slaves toward the trucks. Engines roared louder, filling the air with exhaust and dust.
As Vikhael and Evelin, along with the others, climbed into the back of one of the trucks, he cast one last look at the one-eyed ringleader — and felt a strange flicker of familiarity.
But how could he? Him? Really?
He knew he wasn't much to look at, but still… a slaver?
The thought twisted something in his chest. He grimaced, as if he'd swallowed something rotten, and grumbled low — a sound more growl than voice.
Then came a sound — soft, almost melodic.
Evelin couldn't help but giggle while sitting across from him.
It caught his attention instantly, softening his face as his eyes met hers.
Whether he realized it or not, Vikhael's hands tightened around the torn piece of cloth still in his hands.
As the rest of the men climbed into the rest of the cargo trucks, the one-eyed man stayed where he was a moment longer, watching — the slaves, his men, the horizon.
Then he muttered, almost to himself,
"Damn fools. Behind the wall or not… there's no safety left in this world."
And with that, he climbed into the lead truck.