Location: Freehold Estate Slave Pits, Arvia Province
Time: Midday, Harvest Season, Year 2847 of the Lower Realm
Stone steps spiraled down like—well, like a serpent's throat or something equally unpleasant. Swallowing light and hope with every twist, which sounded dramatic but honestly felt pretty accurate right now. Jade's bare feet kept slapping against this slick stone, each footfall making these wet echoes against walls that were... disgusting. Weeping moisture and darker stains, she really didn't want to think about. Five years old, small for her age, getting shoved forward by guards whose hands felt rough as rusted iron.
Her breath kept hitching, not really from the descent but from—yesterday. Everything that happened yesterday. Jade Freehold, daughter of a clan leader, now... nothing. Less than nothing, actually. An aberrant, they'd called her. The word was like a blade twisting in her chest with every step she took.
Hell. This was definitely hell.
"Move it, trash," the lead guard growled. His voice ricocheted off these narrow walls like a stone someone skipped across a dead pool. "Overseer's got no time for voidforge filth." His words carried this sour reek of cheap ale, and his spear's butt jabbed her shoulder when she stumbled. Her knees scraped raw against the damp stone, which hurt. She bit her lip, tasting copper, refusing to cry out, though. Crying was for the girl she used to be, not this... shadow falling into the dark.
The air got thicker as they went down—heavy with sulfur, sweat, and this rancid tang of despair. It coated her throat like oil, made her stomach clench, though there wasn't anything left to retch anyway. She'd spilled her insides watching Mama die. Watching those stones crush bone and hope into dust.
"You are not mine!" Mama's scream kept clawing at her memory, sharp as the crowd's jeers. "You killed her! Stole her face, you monster!"
The words had burned, hotter than the pyre that never came, silenced only when the stones fell. Jade's hands trembled, and she shoved them under her arms. Don't think about it. Can't think about it.
(She didn't mean it,) a soft voice whispered in her mind, faint as a candle in a storm. (Grief broke her. People lash out when their hearts bleed.)
The voice felt foreign, older, like a stranger's hand reaching through the dark to steady her. Which was strange, because she was alone. Jade shook her head, pushing it away. Comfort was a trap, a luxury she couldn't afford. Not here, where the air itself seemed to choke on despair.
The steps ended at this iron door, black with rust and time. Groaning like a dying beast as the guard's key scraped inside the lock. "Orders are clear," he muttered to his buddy, voice low but not really low enough. "She's property now. No special treatment, no matter who she was."
Who she was. Another twist of the blade. Jade Freehold was dead, executed on that platform above, alongside her mother's screams.
Beyond the door lay the slave pits of Freehold Estate. Where murderers and traitors went to break. Where she belonged now, apparently.
The door swung open, and gods, the cavern beyond was like a wound carved from living rock. Oil lamps flickered along the walls, their feeble light barely pushing back shadows that seemed to writhe with some kind of malevolent intent. Rows of cells—stone boxes no bigger than a coffin—lined the chamber. Each one crammed with the broken, the forgotten, the damned.
A voice called from the dark, "Fresh meat!" and cruel laughter followed, bouncing off stone like the howls of jackals. "Pretty little thing, ain't she?"
Jade's fists clenched, nails biting into her palms. The laughter was too familiar, echoing the crowd's hunger as Mama was dragged through Arvia's streets. Their jeers sound like a feast of cruelty.
In the center stood the Overseer—this mountain of scarred flesh draped in tattered robes. His face was a map of old violence, really. One eye milky as spoiled milk, the other sharp as shattered glass. His smile revealed gaps where teeth had been lost to fists or fate. Probably fists.
"Well, well," he rasped, voice like gravel ground underfoot. "Za'thul's little embarrassment. The voidforge child."
He circled her, a predator sizing up prey. Noting her trembling hands—damn it, why couldn't she stop them?—her tear-streaked face, the way she forced her spine straight despite the world crumbling beneath her. Five years old, and already learning that weakness was basically a death sentence.
"You know what you are now, girl?" His breath was this foul cloud of rotted meat and sour wine, turning her empty stomach. "Property. Same as a shovel or a broken cart. You break, we replace you. You cause trouble..." He gestured at the cells, where a wet, rattling cough spoke of sickness and despair. Where a sob—barely human—bled into the dark. "You see how trouble's handled."
Cell forty-seven, he decided. Scratching the number onto a tablet stained with gods-knew-what—blood, likely. Or worse. "Morning shift starts before dawn. Kitchen scraps at sunset if you earn them. Guards don't like backtalk, and I don't like whining."
The guards dragged her deeper into this maze, past faces peering from rusted bars—some curious, some hostile, most just... empty. Hollow shells that had once been people, now ground down to nothing.
Her cell was basically a stone box. Six feet square, with straw that reeked of piss and despair and a bucket she really didn't want to think about. The door slammed shut, the sound like a hammer striking her bones.
Darkness swallowed her, heavy and final. Broken only by the drip of moisture, the mutter of sleeping prisoners, the clank of guards' boots. Jade curled into the furthest corner, knees to her chest, trying to make herself small. Invisible. Her heart pounded like a faltering engine, each beat a reminder of Mama's screams, the crowd's laughter, the life she'd lost.
First rule of survival: assess your situation, that strange voice whispered again. Calm and measured, like a commander briefing troops. Second rule: adapt or die. Third rule: never give up.
It was older, weathered, carrying the weight of battles Jade couldn't possibly know. She was five, for gods' sake—what did she know of survival?
More than you think, the voice replied, soft but firm. More than you remember.
Footsteps approached. Slow and deliberate, silencing the other prisoners like a storm cloud snuffing out stars. "New girl," a voice called through the bars. Rough but not cruel. "You listening?"
Jade pressed deeper into her corner, silent. Her breath shallow.
"Smart," the voice said. "Don't trust anyone right away. But you'll need help if you want to see tomorrow."
A shadow moved outside her cell. Tall and thin, with this careful gait of someone long caged. The oil lamp caught his face—old, lined, with kind eyes buried in scars that told tales of surviving the unsurvivable.
"Name's Zhek," he said, voice low. "Been in these pits longer than you've been alive, little one. Free advice: take it or leave it."
"Why?" Her voice was a whisper, cracked and small.
"Because someone helped me once, when I was new and scared and dumber than a sack of hammers. Figure I owe the debt." He settled against the wall outside her cell, like time was something he had in abundance. Which it probably was, come to think of it. "Morning work detail starts before dawn. Haul stone, clean waste, whatever they tell you. Kitchen scraps if you work hard, beatings if you don't. Guards like to break the weak ones first."
The words landed like blows, each one heavier than the last. Work details. Beatings. Examples. She'd be an example, wouldn't she? A voidforge child, marked by the magic that twisted her eyes from amber to black. Her Crucible Core stunted, broken.
Not broken, the voice corrected. Different. Stronger than you know.
"Here's the secret," Zhek said, voice dropping to this conspirator's whisper. "They want you broken. Want you to give up and die quiet. Don't give them the satisfaction."
He's right, the voice agreed. Never let them win.
"How?" Jade's voice trembled. "I'm just... a child."
"Child, maybe. But you survived watching your mother die. Survived the crowd's hate. Survived long enough to land here." His words carried weight, like he'd seen her story written in the scars of others. "That's strength most men don't have."
Strength. Jade touched her face, where the magic had reshaped her. Marked her as other. She didn't feel strong—hollow, maybe. Like a husk scooped clean.
"First lesson," Zhek said. "Find the safe corners. Learn which guards hit hardest, which ones might look away. Know the work rotations, the food schedules, who to avoid, and who might help."
Tactical assessment, the voice added. Know your battlefield.
The word felt strange, too big for her mind, but it fit somehow. Like a blade slipping into a sheath.
"Tell me more," Jade whispered. Something about his voice made her want to listen. Made the darkness feel less crushing, maybe.
Zhek shifted against the wall, and she heard this soft clink of metal—shackles, probably. "See, most newcomers think it's all random down here. Guards beating whoever they feel like, work assignments thrown around like dice. But there's patterns, little one. Always patterns."
He was quiet for a moment, then continued. "Guards got three shifts. Midnight to dawn, that's Korvek and his boys. They're lazy, drunk half the time. Good for sneaking extra food if you're clever enough. Dawn to midday, that's Sergeant Thrane's crew. Mean as starved wolves, but predictable. They like their routines, which is useful. Midday to midnight..." His voice dropped. "That's when Garek himself prowls. Stay invisible during Garek's hours if you can manage it."
Intelligence gathering, the inner voice observed. Pattern recognition.
"What about the work?" Jade asked, surprised by her own boldness.
"Ah, now that's where it gets interesting." Zhek's voice carried a hint of something like pride. "Morning details usually hauling stones from the quarry. Back-breaking work, but honest work. They give you decent gruel if you don't collapse. Midday cleaning's the worst—scrubbing the upper levels, emptying chamber pots, dealing with the clan's waste. But..." He paused. "Kitchen duty. That's the prize, little one. Only the trusted get kitchen duty."
"Trusted?" The word felt foreign in this place.
"Slaves who've proven they won't run, won't steal more than expected, won't cause trouble. Takes months, sometimes years, to earn it. But kitchen duty means regular meals, warm fires, and..." His voice dropped even lower. "Information. You hear things in kitchens. Plans, gossip, weaknesses."
Strategic positioning, the voice noted. Long-term thinking.
"How do you get trusted?" Jade asked.
Zhek chuckled, a sound like gravel shifting. "That's lesson two. Be useful, but not threatening. Work hard, but don't show off. Help other slaves when the guards ain't looking, but never get caught. And most important..." He paused. "Learn to read the guards' moods."
"Read their moods?"
"Everyone's got tells, little one. Thrane clicks his tongue when he's angry—means someone's getting a beating. Korvek scratches his beard when he's thinking of cutting rations. Garek... Garek goes real quiet before he explodes. Silence from Garek means run and hide."
Jade absorbed this, filing it away like the voice in her head seemed to do with everything. "What about the other prisoners?"
"Ah." Zhek's voice turned serious. "That's where it gets complicated. You got three types down here. The broken ones—they're harmless, mostly. Just surviving day to day, minds gone. Then you got the dangerous ones. Killers, rapists, the ones who earned their chains. Stay away from them, especially a bastard named Korven in cell twelve. He likes young ones, if you catch my meaning."
A chill ran down Jade's spine. "And the third type?"
"Survivors. Like me, like you're gonna be. We look out for each other when we can, share information, and pool resources. But trust..." He sighed. "Trust's a luxury down here. Even among survivors."
Threat assessment complete, the voice observed. Social dynamics noted.
"Now, about food," Zhek continued. "Official meals are morning gruel and evening scraps. But there are ways to supplement if you're smart about it. Rats are good eating if you can catch 'em—tasty when roasted over the lamp flames. Mushrooms grow in the damp corners, but only the gray ones. Red ones'll kill you, blue ones'll make you sick for days. And if you ever get assigned to clean the upper kitchens..."
"What?"
"Scraps, little one. Real scraps. Bread crusts, cheese rinds, sometimes even meat if you're lucky. Hide it well, though. Other prisoners'll kill for a crust of bread."
Resource management, the voice noted. Survival priorities.
"What about..." Jade hesitated, then forced herself to ask. "What about when you get sick?"
The silence stretched long enough that she wondered if he'd fallen asleep. When Zhek finally spoke, his voice was heavy. "That's the hardest lesson, little one. Down here, sick means dead. No healers, no medicine, no mercy. Best you can do is try to stay clean—wash in the water they give you, keep your wounds from festering. And if someone else gets sick..."
"What?"
"You stay away. Can't afford to catch whatever they got, and can't afford to get attached to someone who's dying."
The cold practicality of it hit her like a slap. This was her world now. A place where sickness meant death, where helping someone could kill you, where even kindness was measured and rationed.
"Sounds horrible," she whispered.
"It is. But you'll adapt. Humans always do, especially the young ones. Your mind'll learn to protect itself, find ways to survive that you can't imagine now."
Psychological adaptation, the voice agreed. Resilience through necessity.
"Tell me about your granddaughter," Jade said suddenly. Wanting to hear about something good, something that wasn't about survival and death.
Zhek's voice softened immediately. "My Lira. She'd be... oh, thirteen now, maybe fourteen. Time gets fuzzy down here. Last I saw her, she was this wild little thing with braids always coming undone and clay under her fingernails."
"Clay?"
"She loved making things. Little figures, animals, people. Had this gift for it, could look at something once and capture it in clay. Made me a horse once that looked so real I half-expected it to gallop off her palm." There was love in his voice, warm and gentle. So different from the harsh reality around them. "Her favorites were always dragons, though. Big ones, small ones, dragons breathing fire or sleeping on treasure hoards. She'd make up stories about them flying to distant lands, rescuing people from dark places."
Like this one, Jade thought. "Why dragons?"
"She said they were the only things strong enough to fly away from anything bad. Smart girl, my Lira. Hope she still believes that."
"Do you really think you can buy your freedom?"
Another long pause. "Maybe. Probably not, if I'm being honest. But hope's about the only thing they can't take from you down here. And even if I can't..." His voice grew firm. "Even if I die in this place, maybe I can help someone else escape it. Maybe that's enough."
Legacy thinking, the voice observed. Purpose beyond self-preservation.
"Is that why you're helping me?"
"Part of it. But mostly..." Zhek shifted again, and she heard him settle more comfortably against the wall. "Mostly because you remind me of her. Not just the age, but the way you hold yourself. Scared but not broken. Hurt but not defeated. There's steel in you, little one. I can see it."
Steel. Jade didn't feel like steel. She felt like glass, cracked and ready to shatter.
"Don't believe me now," Zhek said, like he could read her thoughts. "But you will. Give it time, and you'll surprise yourself. We all do, down here."
"Will you... will you keep teaching me?"
"Every day I can, little one. Every day I can." His voice grew gentle. "Now get some sleep if you can. Tomorrow's gonna be hard, and you'll need your strength."
"Zhek?"
"Yeah?"
"What was your granddaughter's favorite dragon story?"
A sound like rusty laughter echoed in the darkness. "Oh, that's easy. The Phoenix Dragon. Said it was the only one that could burn away all the bad things and rise up new. Smart girl, my Lira. Smarter than she knew."
Phoenix Dragon. Jade pressed her hand to her chest, where something deep inside felt cold and empty—the place where her Crucible Core should have been forming. Most children her age were already showing the first sparks of essence awakening. But she was voidforge. Different.
Not different, the voice whispered. Special. Phoenix rises from ashes, little one. Remember that.
As Zhek's breathing settled into the rhythm of sleep, Jade curled up in the moldy straw. Trying to ignore the smell and the sounds and the knowledge that this stone box was her world now. But for the first time since Mama died, she wasn't completely alone.
Somewhere in the darkness, an old man with kind eyes was planning her survival. And somewhere deep inside her mind, a voice that understood tactics and warfare was promising to help her endure.
Sleep now, the voice whispered. Dream of better things. Tomorrow we start learning how to be strong.
Dreams. What dreams could come to a child who'd lost everything? But as sleep finally claimed her, the dreams were strange, vivid: vast ships sailing between stars, battles fought for freedom, a woman with emerald eyes who never surrendered, and dragons—always dragons—rising from flames with wings spread wide.
She wouldn't recall them come morning, but they'd leave a mark. A spark in the dark of her soul.
The Overseer was wrong. Jade Freehold was dead, but something new was rising from her ashes. Something hard, forged in the spaces between hope and despair. Something that would never break.
The pits had claimed another child. But they might choke on what grew from the darkness.
Time would tell.