Under the cold stone, the floor felt harsh and unforgiving. It had been some time since she'd first experienced it—she wasn't completely used to it, but it was no longer unbearable either. In a place like this, there was no room for complaining. With that thought, Seriah woke up, her whole body sore and stiff. She stretched for a moment, then moved to the rusted bowl in front of her and washed her face. A wave of cold freshness rushed over her, a small, fleeting sense of a new start.
The water was murky, and she had long lost track of how many days had passed here. After washing her face, Seriah glanced to her right—and spotted a kid doing something weird. His brown, messy hair stuck out in all directions, and his beige skin and dark brown eyes gave him an oddly cute look, especially in this bleak environment.
But when she focused on his actions, her face suddenly flushed, turning a deep shade of crimson.
"What is he... no way! I'm not doing that!" she panicked internally.
The boy was pointing at his tongue over and over, making odd gestures.
"I'm not going to kiss him—he's just a little kid!" she thought, flustered, though part of her felt bad for him.
But then, his gestures changed, becoming more subtle and patient. Slowly, realization dawned on her.
"Ohhh... now I get it! He wants to learn the language!"
This kid had seen many things in his life—and the worst part was, this world never discriminated. It didn't matter if you were old, a woman, or even a child; everyone had their price. Slavery was something Seriah had found herself trapped in—maybe 13 or 14 days ago. And yet, somehow, she was already starting to grow used to living here.
At the young age of 17, this girl felt truly hopeless. She didn't want to give in, didn't want to surrender her will—but... maybe she had no will left to give. Despite it all, she managed to maintain some sense of composure.
What others didn't know was that she was a descendant of one of the gods—linked, in some small way, to the concept of mind and memory. The blood of divinity within her was weak, diluted through generations, but still there. That connection gave her a subtle sensitivity, an ability to feel the emotions of others to a degree.
And as she looked at the boy's determination, she found herself with no real reason to refuse. By the looks of him, he seemed... different—uniquely cute and strangely attractive in his own way. Unlike most kids, he had a muscular build, his frame carrying a quiet strength. His appearance was distinct too: unlike the pale people around here, his skin was a soft beige, standing out even more in this colorless, lifeless place.
She had also been blown away by his strength—and the many mysteries that seemed to surround him. She had never seen him eat, drink, or even sleep, yet every day he looked exactly the same, as if untouched by time or hardship. This was in stark contrast to the old man lying to her left, who had once been frail but alive, and now resembled nothing more than a corpse.
This boy, though… he was different—unchanged from the first day she saw him.
And yet, even with that inhuman strength, she felt something else within him: a wave of complex, tangled emotions. A deep sadness beneath the surface. She had sensed it before and tried her best to comfort him, holding his hands when words weren't enough.
Now, as she looked at him, she felt it again—this time mixed with a powerful surge of determination. And in that moment, Seriah made up her mind. She would help him. After all, she wasn't sure what fate awaited her…
And really, it felt like the right thing to do—helping this poor kid. What else did she have to occupy her time anyway? All she ever did was eat, sleep, and repeat the same miserable routine over and over. Her mind was beginning to hollow out, just like many of the other slaves around her—becoming empty vessels, waiting only for the bare necessities, day after day.
Sooner or later, she knew she had to keep herself engaged in something, anything, just to hold on to a shred of herself. So, she glanced at the boy again, her gaze filled with the same quiet determination.
Meanwhile, Aarav felt her eyes on him and stiffened.
"What the hell is wrong with her?" he thought, growing uneasy.
Sure, she had a pretty face—those beautiful ember eyes and soft brown hair gave her a kind of effortless beauty—but the way she was staring at him now made him uncomfortable. It was as if, somehow, he had stirred up something deep inside her… something he didn't quite understand, and wasn't sure he wanted to.
Soon enough, Seriah began teaching with simple gestures and basic sentences. Aarav tried his best, though at first, he struggled terribly with the pronunciation. Still, little by little, he started grasping it. It was boring at first—he kept forgetting the meanings but remembered the sounds. Over and over, he repeated the words until they finally clicked, and step by step, his progress, though small, was steady.
Seriah could only watch in growing amazement, gasping softly in exhaustion. "He… really does have a manly voice for his age," she found herself thinking, her heart suddenly pounding a little faster. "Wait… is he a dwarf in disguise or something?" Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Aarav, scanning him from head to toe, searching for any clues.
"Doesn't seem like it… no, he actually looks like he's growing, but still—" She shook her head, brushing off the strange idea, and they continued.
Hours passed, and then days. The same routine repeated itself—the slave keeper came with their rations, always giving a little extra to Seriah. Aarav, in return, would share his meager carrots with her. And their quiet, stubborn language lessons went on.
More days passed. And then, something changed.
The old man who had always been lying near Seriah… was gone. She didn't realize it at first—not until she noticed he wasn't breathing. That was when the sharp, stomach-churning scent of rotting flesh finally hit her.
Her eyes widened in horror. She shivered and instinctively grabbed onto Aarav's side for comfort, her fingers clutching tightly. Aarav, silent but alert, leaned in closer, letting her hold on as she trembled, his own expression dark with quiet understanding.
Moments later, the slave keeper entered the cage, immediately recoiling at the stench. His face twisted in disgust as he covered his nose, his eyes flicking to Seriah—still holding onto Aarav's shoulder—and then narrowing with a sneer of contempt.
He didn't say a word.
Soon, three men appeared—two of them average height, one a bit taller, the other stockier. Without hesitation, they opened the cell, grabbed the lifeless old body, and dragged it away into the darkness, disappearing just as quickly as they'd come.
The cell fell silent again, the only thing left behind was the lingering scent of death… and the heavy weight pressing down on both of them.
Aarav's expression darkened, his eyes turning grim, shadows deepening around them. He felt Seriah's quiet sobs as she clutched his shoulder tightly, her tears soaking into his skin. He knew—deep down—that she probably hadn't even known the old man personally. But it didn't matter. Aarav understood exactly what she was feeling.
That crushing sense of dread… the weight of despair creeping in again.
For a brief time, they had found a sliver of peace—a strange kind of happiness—in their little world of teaching and learning. But this… this was a harsh reminder that nothing had really changed. Their reality was still brutal and merciless.
"Stay strong," Aarav whispered to her, his voice low but steady.
Seriah froze, her sobs pausing for a moment. Slowly, her crying softened, though her body still trembled as she refused to let go of him, clinging like a lifeline.
And so, time dragged on.
A month passed.
A month had passed—and many things had changed.
Aarav's appearance hadn't shifted much, but his expression had darkened, growing harder and more serious. His eyes seemed to carry the weight of everything he had witnessed—things no one his age should have to see. Since the old man's death, he had watched seven more slaves die, each one just a shadow that quietly faded away. No names, no goodbyes—just... gone.
He realized bitterly that it wasn't just fate—it was the slavekeepers' fault. They offered no means for these people to survive the brutal cold of this place. Every death added another layer of anger, of quiet, seething rage inside him.
Now he wore a tattered tunic, oversized and worn, hanging awkwardly on his small frame. New slaves had arrived too, and as far as his gaze could stretch, Aarav counted six shadowed figures—shadows of what they once were. Including himself and Seriah, they numbered eight.
For some reason, the slavekeepers had started giving them slightly better care: a layer of dry grass on the stone floor, and an extra blanket. It was barely anything, but it was something. Still, it didn't matter much to Aarav. He gritted his teeth whenever he thought about it—this pathetic gesture, as if it could undo anything.
He knew he couldn't singlehandedly change this cruel world. He couldn't wipe away slavery or revolutionize everything. He had strength—he could feel it—but its scope was a mystery, still just out of reach. He had grasped the basics of their language by now, enough to understand and respond in simple ways, but holding a normal conversation was still a struggle.
Seriah, on the other hand, had changed in ways he couldn't quite explain.
She looked... healthier. Maybe it was the extra food, the slight increase in care. But it wasn't just physical. There was something in her eyes now—a fire, a sharpness that hadn't been there before. The girl who used to smile, even in the darkest times, was no longer there. She had become someone else entirely. Someone hardened.
And Aarav… he was familiar with this change.
It was like staring into a mirror.
They had endured all of it together.
Aarav had once been just a normal citizen of his country. Sure, his nation had its share of poverty—millions living below the line—but he had come from a wealthy household. And now, experiencing this life firsthand… it was nothing like watching a movie or hearing stories. This was real. Harsh. Crushing.
Seriah's expression mirrored his own—stunned and weary.
Then, without warning, they appeared: the same three men who usually came to drag away the corpses. Aarav's eyes widened, his chest tightening as dread sank in.
He muttered under his breath, in his own language, "Who… now?"
But to his surprise, no one was dragged away. Instead, the men started opening the gates—one by one. Then they began tying their hands.
Aarav rose slowly, for the first time in what felt like forever. His body resisted; the low roof of the cage had barely allowed him to straighten up these past weeks. Now, as he finally stretched his legs, he felt them crack and pop at every joint—muscles stiff, but to his own shock, not numb.
He glanced at Seriah. She struggled more than him to stand. Her legs trembled, buckling at first, but after a few shaky tries, she managed to limp forward. Aarav tasted bitterness on his tongue as he watched her. Her muscles—wasted, deteriorated after so long without movement. She wasn't used to this sudden strain.
His instincts flared; he wanted to support her.
And in that moment, he realized something else—she was nearly the same height as him now. Aarav was on the shorter side, but the gap between them wasn't as noticeable anymore.
Before either of them could process what was really happening, they were forced to move—pushed forward in a line of slaves, all of them stumbling, hands bound, steps uncertain.
And then it hit him.
A burst of blinding light.
Aarav squinted, shielding his eyes, disoriented. For the first time in a month, he had stepped out of the darkness—into the blinding, merciless light of the world above.