For a few hours, the ride wasn't bad.
To be honest, Vikhael had trouble staying awake. Sitting on the cell floor for days hadn't done much for comfort, but these seats — stiff, metal, and lined with rust — might as well have been luxury to him.
The hum of the engine, the rattle of chains, the low murmur of the slaves — it all blurred into a dull rhythm that almost felt like peace.
Almost.
He glanced up once, watching sunlight bleed through the cracks in the tarp roof. He followed the beams of light, seemingly entranced by them — thin rays dancing in the dust-choked air, cutting across faces too tired to look back.
Around him, the rest of the slaves clung to this illusion of peace. Some whispered quiet prayers; others muttered promises to gods who no longer listened.
But truly, what was the point?
Surely, they must have known.
If there really was a god… this world wouldn't feel so wrong.
"Don't mind them."
Vikhael blinked and turned his head. Evelin was watching him again, her voice barely louder than the hum of the engine.
"Being in no man's land will make even the strongest resort to prayers," she said, offering a faint, almost apologetic smile.
Her words carried no mockery, just quiet understanding — the kind of comfort that came from someone who'd already accepted her fate.
Vikhael's gaze lingered on her for a moment before drifting back to the light slipping through the tarp.
He wondered if she would start praying to her goddess as well.
"You still haven't told me your name, ya know."
Evelin tilted her head slightly, watching him through a curtain of dust and dim light.
When he didn't answer — couldn't answer — she sighed softly and nudged him with her foot.
The gesture was strange, unfamiliar.
Vikhael froze, then looked down at his foot as if expecting to find something there. When he didn't, he lifted it slightly, confusion flickering across his face.
Evelin blinked — and then, despite everything, she laughed. Not loudly, not cruelly, but softly — the kind of laugh that didn't belong in a world like this.
"You, girl in the back! Quiet!"
One of the slavers sitting near the front shouted through the small sliding window in the truck wall.
"You're not on a picnic! Another sound out of you and I'll—"
But his words caught in his throat.
For a second, it looked as if he'd simply forgotten what to say. Then his expression shifted — confusion bleeding into fear.
"Wh—what the…?"
The man's voice cracked as his eyes darted through the small opening, sweeping over the group of chained slaves. His breath turned shallow.
Then his eyes landed back on her — Evelin — sitting perfectly still, her faint smile fading.
And sitting across from her…
Two golden, slit-like eyes stared back at him from the dim light.
Cold. Unblinking. Predatory.
A shiver ran down the man's spine. He could feel it — the kind of presence that didn't belong to something human.
The soldier's fingers twitched near his weapon, but he didn't draw. Couldn't.
He just stared — caught between reason and instinct — as those eyes burned through him.
It wasn't a threat. At least Not yet.
Just a silent reminder that something inside that truck was not to be provoked.
"What the hell's gotten into you, Falpo?" the driver called out, glancing to his right.
Falpo didn't answer right away. His hand hovered near his rifle, trembling slightly.
He swallowed hard and forced himself back into his seat, eyes fixed straight ahead — anywhere but that small window behind him.
"N–nothing, man," he muttered after a moment. "Just… keep your eyes on the road."
The driver frowned but let it go.
For a while, the only sound was the steady drone of the engine and the faint clatter of chains from the cargo bed.
It almost felt calm again.
Almost.
Then — a sharp burst of static cracked through the truck's radio.
The driver clicked his tongue in annoyance and smacked the receiver with the side of his hand.
"Blasted thing's on the fritz again."
After a few hits, the static faded — replaced by a familiar voice. The one-eyed ringleader.
"A tree's blocking the road ahead," the voice rasped through the speaker. "Get ready to stop."
The driver muttered something under his breath and eased his foot off the pedal.
Vikhael couldn't make out the words, but he felt the change — the engine's growl dropping low, the floor's vibration fading into stillness.
Outside, the convoy ground to a halt.
For a brief moment, everyone exhaled. The air in the cargo bed seemed to grow lighter, almost peaceful.
Even Evelin's shoulders eased, a ghost of relief crossing her face.
But it didn't last long.
The truck's rear door slammed open, the impact jolting everyone inside. A slaver stood in the sunlight, already barking orders.
"All right, you lot! Up and at 'em!"
Vikhael was the first to rise. For some reason, the open air felt worse than the cell ever had.
The forest pressed close on both sides of the road — tall trees, motionless, silent. No wind. No birds. No life.
Something about it gnawed at him.
Familiar.
All too familiar.
<><><>
As the rest of the slaves were being unloaded, Vikhael's eyes drifted upward.
The sky was dimmer than before — the clouds too low, too still.
He drew in a slow breath through his nose.
And then his eyes sharpened.
The scent hit him first.
Faint. Almost hidden beneath the stench of fuel and sweat.
Decay.
Blood.
His muscles tensed instinctively. Something was wrong.
Before he could make sense of it, pain exploded across his mid section.
The butt of a rifle slammed into his solar plexus, driving him to one knee.
A guttural sound tore from his throat — not a scream, but something raw and inhuman. He couldn't help but bare his teeth as the pain spread throughout his body.
"What are you staring at, Hollow blood?"
The voice belonged to a broad-shouldered slaver — twice Vikhael's size, belly hanging over his belt, skin greasy with sweat.
He grinned down at Vikhael, baring yellowed teeth.
"Think you smell somethin', boy?" He jabbed Vikhael's ribs with the rifle's barrel. "Only thing you'll smell out here is your own piss if you keep lookin' at me like that."
Vikhael didn't move. He wasn't one to react to this sort of treatment.
But this time felt different.
The air was heavy — thick enough to taste. Every hair on his body stood on end.
He could feel it.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Danger.
It thrummed in his chest, deep in his bones — a primal warning screaming through every nerve in his body.
He wasn't baring his teeth at the slaver.
It was instinct.
A wordless, animal command telling him one thing only:
run.