Morning came, heavy and unhurried.
The sun peeked lazily from behind faded clouds, spilling light across the vast fields. Dust danced lazily in the air, stirred by the faintest breeze. The machines, far on the noble's estate, hummed softly in the distance — constant reminders of who truly mattered in this world.
Asveri sat perched on the edge of the low stone wall, quietly fastening his boots. He glanced at Anor'ven, who stood nearby, already prepared for the day's labor.
"Another day in paradise," Asveri muttered, voice dry but oddly relaxed.
Anor'ven gave him a glance, then resumed tightening the strap of his worn-out tool. He didn't respond. He didn't need to.
They both knew.
Routine had sunk its teeth deep into them now. The pain of chains and humiliation had faded into something duller — a kind of numb acceptance. The field became a second skin, and the endless work was no longer punishment. It simply… was.
"I'm not sure if that's a good thing," Asveri added after a pause, brushing dirt off his sleeve.
No reply from Anor'ven, but there was an ease in the silence.
Weeks had passed since their arrival at the noble's farm.
With time, the language of this world — harsh, clipped, but expressive — had slowly become less foreign. Mira and Oren, the ever-present companions in toil, were patient teachers whether they realized it or not. Through gestures, repetition, and quiet corrections, Asveri had begun to grasp more.
Not just simple things like "Sky" or "Earth." That phase was behind him.
Now, it was full sentences. Thoughts. Emotions embedded in words.
Enough to understand jokes shared among workers. Enough to pick up when the master barked his commands — though his speech remained rough and heavy with entitlement.
Asveri didn't like him, but even he had to admit the man had presence.
That morning, as they gathered with the others near the storage shed, the master arrived flanked by two guards. His clothes shimmered faintly with intricate gears and polished metals woven delicately into his sleeves. He looked down at the gathered slaves as if they were weeds, eyes sharp, mouth pressed thin.
His words came out clear, slow — but Asveri caught them now. Mostly.
"South line… slow. Unacceptable," the master said, his voice lacking anger but heavy with disdain. "This season… tighter. Profits must… grow."
He turned, gesturing toward Mira and Oren.
"You two. Fix the south path. Clear rocks. No mistakes."
Then his eyes flicked toward Asveri and Anor'ven.
"You two. West trench. Expand further. Fast. No errors."
Asveri, arms crossed loosely, leaned toward Anor'ven as the master turned away.
"'Fast, no errors.' Lovely," he said quietly, his tongue now comfortably rolling the foreign words. "Guy's a poet."
Anor'ven merely began walking without comment. Asveri followed with a sigh.
"It's weird, you know," he continued. "Not too long ago, I didn't understand a damn thing he said. Now? It's like his insults sound prettier."
Anor'ven gave the faintest smirk, though it faded as quickly as it came.
"Understanding makes cruelty softer?" he asked flatly.
"No," Asveri answered, grinning. "Just easier to ignore."
The west trench was as unpleasant as ever.
Dry soil resisted each push of their crude tools. Roots snapped beneath their feet. Sweat clung to every inch of their bodies, and the sun hung above like a silent overseer, indifferent and patient.
Asveri worked with quiet determination for a time, but eventually, he slowed.
Not because of exhaustion. Not today.
Instead, his eyes seemed distant — narrowed slightly as he stared at nothing in particular.
Anor'ven noticed first. He paused, wiping dust from his hand onto his tattered shirt.
"You are quiet," he observed.
Asveri didn't answer immediately. His lips moved slightly, as if mouthing silent words.
Then he spoke, voice low and thoughtful.
"I'm trying something," he admitted.
Anor'ven waited patiently for him to continue.
"This power… or whatever it is." Asveri gestured vaguely to his head. "Before, it was just noise. Too much. Too fast. But lately…"
He hesitated, then smiled faintly.
"I can focus now. Pick someone. It's like tuning into their thoughts. Not words exactly — more like… intention. Emotion. Pieces of what they really want to say."
Anor'ven's gaze sharpened subtly. Not alarmed, but intrigued.
"You control it now."
Asveri nodded slowly. "More or less. Back in the prison, it almost broke me. But here… I'm learning to control the flood."
He tilted his head slightly, as if testing his power again.
"Like that guy earlier," he said, nodding toward the thin, cruel-eyed man working nearby. "He's pretending to ignore us, but inside? He hates us. Still thinks about causing trouble. He's patient… but bitter."
Anor'ven looked briefly toward the man but showed no concern.
"Hate is quiet until it no longer is," he said softly.
Asveri frowned. "Yeah, well, I know now. I can feel it brewing before it starts."
"Useful."
"Scary too," Asveri admitted. "Feels… heavy. Like carrying everyone's secrets."
Anor'ven paused, as if weighing his words.
"Secrets rot when exposed to light," he said after a moment. "Be careful."
Asveri looked thoughtful, but didn't argue.
As days turned into more days, Asveri grew sharper still.
He used his power freely now.
When Mira stumbled, he sensed her frustration before her face even changed.
When Oren's patience wore thin, Asveri cracked a joke before the man could snap.
He even avoided confrontations with the more bitter workers, steering himself and Anor'ven out of their way when he sensed their moods darken.
It became natural. A silent skill that blended into daily life.
But natural did not mean easy.
One evening, after an especially long day, they sat by the dim campfire near the shed.
Oren ate slowly, Mira hummed again quietly while sewing torn gloves.
Asveri sat with his knees pulled to his chest, staring at the flickering flames.
"It's strange," he said suddenly, breaking the quiet. "Feeling all of them."
Anor'ven looked over, silent.
"Sometimes, it's simple stuff. Hunger. Boredom. But other times…" He trailed off, brows furrowing. "Fear. Anger. Regret. It's like carrying pieces of them around in my head."
He smiled faintly, though there was no humor in it.
"It makes me care more than I should."
Anor'ven's voice came softly, but firmly.
"Feeling others does not make them better people."
Asveri didn't argue. He knew that. He had felt the thin man's intentions often enough.
"But… it makes them real," he said quietly. "And that makes ignoring them harder."
Anor'ven's eyes softened slightly, his voice dropping even lower.
"Connections fade. In time, they all fade. You are still young enough to find comfort in them."
Asveri chuckled, but there was sadness beneath it.
"Maybe. But even if they fade, isn't it worth something… while they last?"
The question lingered.
Anor'ven did not answer.
But his silence, for once, did not reject the idea.
That night, Asveri lay awake long after Mira and Oren had drifted to sleep.
His mind buzzed softly with whispers — the thoughts and feelings of those around him. Nothing urgent. Nothing dark.
Just presence.
He rolled onto his side, facing Anor'ven who rested quietly nearby, eyes closed but clearly awake.
"You know," Asveri began softly, "I think this is who I am now."
Anor'ven opened his eyes slowly, regarding him in the dim glow.
"I can hear them. Feel them. Even when they don't speak. Even when they pretend they're fine." He smiled faintly. "I don't think I want to stop."
Silence stretched.
Then Anor'ven, after a long pause, replied quietly.
"Then listen carefully. The world rarely speaks kindly."
Asveri's smile faded into something softer. He nodded once, eyes drifting shut.
Outside, the wind moved gently through the sleeping farm. Soft. Indifferent. Eternal.
But beneath it, Asveri listened — and for once, found comfort in the endless noise.