Chains rattled as Elias was yanked to his feet. He expected another day of stone and sweat, but instead of the quarry, the guards dragged him through a different corridor, narrow and torchlit. His bare feet scraped against the cold floor, every step sharp with grit.
They stopped at a wooden door, one of the guards kicking it open. Inside waited not stone and dust, but water. A wide basin had been filled with steaming buckets, the air heavy with the strange scent of herbs.
Servants stood waiting. They weren't prisoners, that much was obvious—their clothes were clean, simple linen, their hair neatly bound. When they saw him, chained and filthy, their noses wrinkled. One muttered something sharp in Orravian. Another shook their head and moved reluctantly forward.
The guards shoved him inside and barked an order before posting themselves at the door. The servants moved quickly, their faces set in masks of distaste.
They stripped away his torn shirt, the cloth stiff with sweat and stone dust. His ruined shoes—little more than scraps of sole and frayed laces—were tugged off and tossed aside with visible relief. Cold air hit his skin, and for a moment Elias wanted to resist, to snarl, but exhaustion chained him as surely as the iron on his wrists.
Water splashed over him. Rough cloth scoured his back, arms, chest. Soap with an acrid, earthy scent burned in the cracks of his palms and reopened blisters. They tugged at his hair, pouring more water until it ran in gray streams across the stone floor.
Humiliation burned hotter than the scrubbing. He was prodded, turned, treated like livestock being readied for market. Yet beneath the shame, there was an undeniable relief. Days of grime, sweat, and blood washed away until his skin almost felt his own again.
When they finally stepped back, Elias stood dripping, raw and raw-boned, but clean. A servant handed him a plain linen tunic. It was coarse, scratchy against his skin, but compared to the rags he'd worn, it might as well have been silk. They didn't bother with shoes—his feet, bruised and blistered, were left bare. The chains at his wrists and ankles were never removed.
The guards re-entered, gave him a once-over, and jerked his chain.
The walk that followed was different. They weren't dragging him to labor. They were presenting him. Elias felt it in every step, the weight of unseen eyes in the torchlit halls, the looming sense that he was being carried somewhere that mattered.
At last, he was hauled into a broad chamber. Stone walls rose high, banners hanging down—green cloth marked with a golden hawk. At the far end sat the man the guards had once knelt to.
The lord.
Elias straightened instinctively, though the chains clinked with the movement. His heart beat hard in his chest.
The lord's eyes fixed on him with cool curiosity. Beside the throne stood another man, younger, with sharp features and a scroll tucked under one arm. His dark hair was neatly tied, and his stance had the ease of someone used to watching and judging.
The lord spoke first, his voice deep, commanding. Elias couldn't understand the words, but the tone left no doubt: a question, a demand.
The younger man stepped forward, bowing his head briefly to the lord before turning his gaze on Elias. When he spoke, his Orravian flowed differently—slower, deliberate, as if meant to be understood.
"Kael," he said, tapping his chest with two fingers. His voice was calm, almost careful. "Kael."
Elias blinked. A name.
Kael repeated it, patient, then gestured toward Elias. His brows lifted, the unspoken question clear.
Elias's mouth was dry. He hesitated, then answered in a rough whisper. "Elias."
The word sounded strange in this hall, fragile against the stone walls.
Kael tilted his head, repeating the name with Orravian inflection. "Eh-lee-ahs." He scribbled something on his parchment, then glanced back at the lord with a nod.
The lord's expression didn't change, but his eyes sharpened with interest. He gave a short command, and Kael turned back to Elias.
The lesson began simply. Kael touched the scroll, said a word Elias couldn't catch, then pointed at it again. He repeated, slower, expectant. Elias frowned, his mind sluggish but reaching. He tried to mimic the sound. It came out broken, wrong.
Kael didn't scowl. He only repeated it, patient but sharp, drilling the sound into the silence.
Elias clenched his jaw. He hated this—being paraded, studied, tested like an animal. Yet beneath the anger was something else: a spark of recognition. This was a chance. Words were tools. If he could gather enough of them, maybe, just maybe, he could stop stumbling in the dark.
He repeated the word again. Still rough, but closer.
Kael's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. He tapped the parchment again, then spoke another word. And another.
The chains at Elias's wrists were still heavy, his body still raw with exhaustion. But for the first time since waking in this nightmare, he wasn't being beaten, or worked, or ignored.
He was being taught.