The road felt longer than it truly was.
Dust clung to every step. The sun hung lazily above, casting pale light on worn earth and cracked stones. Yet neither Asveri nor Anor'ven paid much attention to the landscape.
They walked in silence, shackled, flanked by guards who spoke little. Spears and mechanical rifles clinked occasionally, breaking the stillness only for brief moments.
Behind them, the fields and broken memories faded. The farm — Mira, Oren, and the monotonous cruelty they had grown used to — was left behind without ceremony.
Asveri kept glancing back.
"Guess that's it," he muttered eventually, his voice tight. "No goodbyes or anything."
Anor'ven did not turn. "The past does not wait for us."
Asveri scoffed, trying to mask the bitter feeling twisting inside him. "Easy for you to say. I kinda liked it there… well, not liked, but… you know. Routine."
Anor'ven remained silent. He always let endings speak for themselves.
Still, Asveri couldn't stop himself.
"I mean… even Mira and Oren," he continued, voice softer. "They weren't so bad."
"They remain where they belong," Anor'ven replied calmly. "We move forward. That is all."
Asveri let the silence settle after that. He kicked a stone, watching it tumble ahead as the guards nudged them along.
The landscape slowly changed.
Fields gave way to paved roads, dirt paths turning to stone and metal. Towers rose in the distance — twisted spires wrapped in brass and iron, thin trails of steam escaping from hidden vents.
Asveri's eyes widened slightly.
"Guess… this is civilization?" he asked, half-curious, half-dreading.
Anor'ven stayed quiet.
Soon, the estate came into view. Unlike the rustic world they had known, this was sharp and rigid. Pipes ran alongside walls, hissing softly. Lights burned without fire. Mechanized doors opened and closed with calculated rhythm.
Above all loomed a manor of dark metal and stone, still and predatory.
"This is where rich people live, huh…" Asveri whispered.
No one answered.
The gates opened, and they were shoved inside.
The introduction was brief. And cold.
A man in a strict black uniform awaited them in the courtyard. His face, all sharp angles and disdain, made his words unnecessary.
"You will serve now," he said, glancing at his clipboard. "Clean. Carry. Obey. Speak only when spoken to. Fail, and you will be corrected."
That was all.
No mention of where they would sleep or eat. No kindness. Just orders.
Asveri stared at the manor towering above.
"Well…" he muttered, "guess this is it. Our grand promotion."
Anor'ven's expression did not shift.
The days blurred quickly.
The tasks were endless.
They woke before dawn. They scrubbed spotless floors. They carried crates of heavy supplies. They stood silently during noble meals, refilling glasses and removing plates.
Routine, but colder than before.
At the farm, cruelty had been direct — here, they were invisible. Part of the furniture. Tools with arms and legs.
Asveri felt the difference.
"They don't even care if we die here," he said one evening in their cramped quarters, shared with a dozen other silent, exhausted slaves.
Anor'ven wiped dust from his hands. "To them, we are replaceable."
Asveri stared at him, frustration building.
"But we aren't. You're… well, you. And I'm not dirt."
Anor'ven met his gaze briefly. There was no warmth, but something close to acknowledgment.
"That doesn't matter to them."
Asveri threw his hands up. "You're impossible sometimes."
Still, he knew there was no point in pushing further.
Yet Asveri's thoughts wandered more than Anor'ven's.
He watched. Listened.
During meals, nobles laughed in loud, pompous tones. Asveri listened beneath the words.
Greed. Lust. Envy. Fear.
Omnipresence cared little for language — it revealed what lay beneath.
"These people are rotten," he whispered one night. Anor'ven sat nearby, sharpening a blade.
"They smile like everything is perfect," Asveri continued, "but they're worse than the ones back at the farm."
Anor'ven agreed, in his way.
"Power rots faster when it stands still," he said softly, as if reciting an old truth.
Asveri blinked, surprised. "That's… kinda poetic."
Anor'ven offered no reaction.
Weeks passed.
They became more familiar with the estate. Nobles began to recognize them — as background figures. The guards stopped glaring constantly.
But kindness never came.
"Better than being beaten," Asveri muttered one morning as they hauled a heavy crate.
"That will return, in time," Anor'ven replied flatly.
"You're so optimistic."
Yet even sarcasm felt dull in the rhythm of their days.
Still, Asveri remained restless.
At night, his omnipresence roamed. Through nobles' quarters and hidden halls, he touched the edges of their schemes.
Whispers. Plots. Betrayals.
He didn't understand every word, but the emotions were clear.
Fear. Ambition. Hatred.
It unsettled him.
"They're plotting," he said one night as they cleaned in silence. "They're restless."
Anor'ven paused before answering.
"Of course."
"Why?"
"Their chains are made of gold, not iron."
Asveri frowned. "So they're prisoners too?"
"In their own way."
The idea clung to him long after.
That night, resting against cold stone in their small room, Asveri spoke again.
"Something's coming," he said quietly. "I can feel it. The air's… tight."
Anor'ven did not argue.
He leaned back against the wall, eyes closing slowly.
"Everything breaks eventually," he murmured.
Asveri stayed quiet, staring up at the manor above — at the faint echoes of voices and footsteps that never fully slept.
Whatever was coming… it would not be delayed forever.
And when it came, he knew — looking at the silent sky —
he would not look away.