The stone floor was cold against his cheek. It was a rough, uneven surface that smelled of damp earth and old sweat. He didn't have much time to think about the grime, though. That sharp pain in his head was changing. It wasn't just a pulse anymore.
It felt like a thin, white-hot wire was being threaded through the back of his neck and up into his brain. He let out a low groan that died in his throat as his muscles locked up.
He curled his body into a tight ball. His fingernails dug into his palms. The pain was moving fast now. It felt like something was being forced into a space that was already full.
Inside his mind, things were moving at a speed he couldn't track. It was like watching a million pictures flash by in a second.
He couldn't see the images, but he could feel the weight of them. Each one felt like a tiny physical blow to the inside of his skull.
His vision went blurry. Small spots of light danced in the dark corners of the room. He tried to take a breath, but his lungs felt heavy. A sudden, sharp tickle rose in his chest.
He turned his head and coughed hard. When he pulled his hand away from his mouth, he saw dark red splatters on the gray stone. The sight of the blood made his stomach flip.
'What is happening to me?' he thought. 'Why does it feel like my head is going to split open?'
The coughing fit left him weak. He laid his head back down, his chest heaving. The heat in his brain started to settle into a dull, heavy throb.
The rapid-fire flashes in his mind slowed down. It was like a storm was finally passing, leaving behind a strange, new quiet.
That was when he heard it. There were voices coming from the other side of the heavy wooden door. Before, they had sounded like nothing more than barking noises or meaningless hums.
Now, the sounds started to shift. They began to take on shape. They turned into words. It was like a lens was being twisted into focus.
"The cargo in this one is still breathing," a deep, raspy voice said.
He froze. He could understand them. He didn't know how, and he didn't know why, but the language felt as familiar as his own name. It sat in his mouth like he had been speaking it his whole life.
"Barely," another voice replied. This one was higher, thinner, and sounded like someone who hadn't slept in days. "He's been quiet for a while. Maybe the fever took him. We should check. If he's dead, he's useless to us."
He heard the heavy thud of a boot hitting the ground outside. The sound echoed in the small cell. He kept as still as possible, ignoring the lingering ache in his head. He needed to listen.
"If he's dead, we can still get something," the raspy voice said. There was a wet, clicking sound, like someone spitting on the floor.
"The market in the lower city doesn't care if the heart is still beating when it arrives. They just want the organs. The kidneys alone would pay for our dinner tonight and the next three nights after that."
A cold shiver ran down his spine. His blood felt like ice water. They weren't talking about him like a person.
They were talking about him like a bag of groceries. He felt a surge of pure, raw fear. It wasn't the kind of fear that made you want to fight. It was the kind that made you want to disappear into the floor.
"True," the thinner voice agreed. "But a live slave fetches three times that. Especially if he's clean. We could sell him to the mines. They always need fresh backs. Or maybe the fighting pits if he has any spirit left in him. He looks a bit thin for the pits, though."
"He looks like he's about to break," the raspy one said. He heard the jingle of keys. The sound was sharp and metallic. It made his head throb again.
"Let's go in and see. If he's too weak to stand, we'll just call the butcher. I'm not hauling a dead weight across the city just for a few coins. We cut him here and take the parts that matter."
Jude felt his heart hammering against his ribs. It was so loud he was sure they could hear it through the wood. He looked around the cell. It was empty.
There was nothing to hide behind and nothing to use as a weapon. He was trapped in a box, and the men with the keys were deciding whether to sell his life or his body parts.
He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand. His hands were shaking so much he had to sit on them to make them stop. He wasn't a warrior. He didn't know how to fight.
'I have to move!' he thought. 'If I stay on the floor like this, they'll think I'm already gone. I have to look like I'm worth more alive.'
He tried to push himself up, but his arms felt like they were made of lead. The pain in his head gave one last, sharp kick, making him wince.
He forced himself to sit up against the wall. He dragged his legs in and tried to make his breathing sound steady.
Outside, the key turned in the lock. The sound was slow and deliberate. The heavy iron bolt slid back with a loud, echoing clank.
The door started to creak open, letting in a thin sliver of light from the hallway. The light was dim, but it felt blindingly bright to his eyes.
He saw a shadow grow long across the floor. It was a big shadow, wide and imposing. He could smell them now.
They smelled of cheap tobacco, old grease, and something metallic. He gripped his knees, trying to keep his composure.
"Look at that," the raspy voice said as the door swung wide.
Two men stood in the doorway. The big one had a tangled beard and a leather apron that was stained with blood.
The smaller one had a nervous twitch in his eye and held a short, rusted blade in his hand. They both stared at him like he was a piece of meat in a shop window.
"He's awake," the smaller one noted. He sounded almost disappointed.
"Doesn't mean he's healthy," the big one said. He took a step into the room. The floorboards groaned under his weight.
"Stand up, boy. Let's see if you can even hold your own weight. If you fall, the butcher is getting a call."
The MC looked up at them. His throat felt dry, and his head was still spinning. He didn't say a word. He just stared at the man's boots, trying to find the strength to do what he was told. He knew that if he stayed down, his life end.