The cave spat him out like a dying breath. Cold morning air struck his face and the sudden brightness forced him to squint. For a moment he stood still, swaying slightly, trying to remember what it felt like to be rested or warm or fed. Those memories belonged to a different world.
He took in the landscape with slow, measured breaths. Trees stretched endlessly in every direction, towering trunks twisted by age. Mist clung to the ground like a living thing. And cutting through the valley, glimmering faintly in the early light, was the river. A single thread of clarity in a world shaped by nightmares.
He followed it.
Not because he had a plan. Not because he had hope. Only because moving felt better than lying in the cave waiting to fade away.
The river sounded like home at first. The soft rush of water over rocks. But the familiarity ended there. Strange bird calls echoed overhead. Leaves moved without wind. The stillness felt watched.
He rubbed his face, then stretched his fingers. His hands hurt from gripping sharp stone the night before, but he ignored the throbbing. Hunger made his stomach cramp. His legs shook with each step.
Time became meaningless as he walked. His mind drifted between collapsing exhaustion and frantic alertness. He forced himself to focus on the river, its winding shape, the way it bent around large boulders. If he concentrated on those details, he did not have to think about how utterly alone he was.
Then he smelled it.
A metallic, sour scent that crept through the trees like a warning. Not quite blood, but close. He slowed down. His heart thudded in his chest. The air grew colder. Leaves rustled to his right.
He tightened his grip on the dagger.
The creature emerged so suddenly that he almost stumbled back into the water.
It was tall, far too tall for its thin frame. Its bones pressed through its greyish skin. It walked upright like a person, but its face belonged to a rabbit twisted by hunger and torment. One of its ears was torn nearly in half. Its ribs heaved with laboured breath. Blood dripped from a long wound along its side, painting the stones as it came closer.
He froze.
Not just from shock, but from a primal fear that locked his muscles in place. The creature's eyes widened when it saw him. They were hollow, but fiercely alive. It hesitated for a breath. A single moment where two beings, both cornered by the same cruel world, stared at each other.
Then instinct won.
It shrieked and charged.
He barely lifted his dagger before the creature slammed into him. They crashed into the riverbank. Mud splashed up around them. Claws raked across his arm, tearing cloth and skin. He felt hot pain spread down to his elbow.
The creature lunged again.
He intercepted the strike with a desperate slash. The blade cut into its ribs, but the wound only made it angrier. It opened its mouth wide, revealing rows of jagged teeth, and lunged for his throat.
He twisted and blocked with his forearm.
The teeth closed around his hand instead.
Agony exploded. His vision pulsed white. He heard a wet crunch as the jaw tightened. He screamed and tried to rip his hand free, but the creature bit harder, grinding bone. Blood ran down his wrist in hot streams.
He stabbed blindly with the dagger in his left hand. The blade hit the creature's neck. It jerked. The grip loosened for a moment.
He drove the dagger deeper.
The creature let out a strangled cry. He stabbed again. And again. Warmth splattered across his face. The creature spasmed violently, then collapsed. Its eyes stayed open, reflecting a fear that outlived its body.
He rolled onto his back, gasping for air.
His bitten hand shook uncontrollably. Blood poured freely, coating his fingers and the ground. He ripped cloth from his shirt and wrapped it tightly around the wound, wincing as pressure shot sharp waves through his arm. He barely tied the knot before weakness washed over him.
He forced himself upright.
He needed to move. To get away. To—
Branches snapped.
He turned.
Humans stepped from the treeline.
Six of them. Rough furs. Bone tipped spears. Painted faces smeared with dark colours. Wild hair decorated with feathers and beads. They looked more like spirits than people.
Their eyes locked on him first.
Then the dead beast.
Then the blood.
The expressions changed instantly.
Not curiosity. Not fear.
Excitement.
And hunger.
One said something sharp and fast. Another laughed. A third pointed at him, tapping his spear on the ground in a steady rhythm.
He raised his good hand. "Wait. Please. I am not here to fight. I need help."
They surged forward.
The first spear struck him across the ribs so hard he collapsed to one knee. Another slammed into his shoulder. A third caught him in the back of the leg, forcing him down completely. The pain came so fast he barely had time to breathe.
Hands grabbed him roughly, twisting his arms behind him. Rope bit into his wrists. He tried to pull away but the wound in his hand burned with every movement.
One of the hunters crouched in front of him and lifted his chin with the end of a spear. The man smiled, showing crooked teeth stained with something dark.
He said a single word, low and satisfied.
The others repeated it, laughing.
Then they dragged him.
They did not care how hard he hit rocks or roots. They did not slow when he bled. They did not stop when he begged. Their voices blended into one chaotic chorus of mocking shouts as they moved through the forest.
Hours later they reached the village.
The moment the hunters stepped inside the boundary, cheers erupted. Children ran up, pointing at him like he was an animal. Women laughed and clapped. Men raised their fists.
He was shoved forward into the centre of the crowd.
Voices rose around him, chanting that same word the hunter had said. He did not know what it meant.
But the look in their eyes told him everything.
He was not a guest.
Not a prisoner.
Not even a threat.
He was property.
They dragged him to a small hut near the back of the village and threw him inside. His shoulders slammed against rough wood. The door shut behind him with a heavy thud.
Inside the room were five others.
All tied.
All thin.
All defeated.
Their eyes followed him, but none spoke. Their expressions made it clear that words were pointless. One man stared straight through him as if he was already dead. A woman sitting in the corner did not even bother lifting her head.
Hopelessness soaked the room like damp air.
He pressed his back against the wall and tried to breathe through the pain. His hand felt swollen. The cloth was already soaked with blood. His heart hammered against his ribs.
He tried speaking softly. "Please. Do any of you understand me?"
No answer.
Someone let out a quiet laugh. Not amused. Bitter.
He closed his eyes.
The darkness creeping around the edges of his vision finally won.
He collapsed.
When consciousness returned, he was somewhere else.
A bed made of straw and rough cloth. Wrist bindings tied tightly to a wooden frame. Light streamed through a small hole in the roof. His head pounded. His bitten hand felt twice its normal size.
A woman stood beside him. Her face was lined from years of hardship. She pressed on his wound with a casual indifference. He winced sharply. She muttered something disapproving, tightened the cloth around his hand, and walked out.
Not a single glance of empathy.
He tried to sit up. The ropes cut into his skin. He swallowed back panic and shouted weakly, "Please. I do not understand you. I am not dangerous. Help me."
No one came.
By midday he was untied, dragged outside, and stripped of anything that still clung to the idea of his old life. They tossed a set of ragged clothes at him. He put them on with shaking hands.
Then they gave him the bucket.
A large, wooden bucket that felt heavier than it looked. The taskmaster pointed to the riverbank. A wide trench dug into the earth, half filled with mud.
He understood immediately.
He would carry mud up the hill. Over and over. Until he could not stand. And then they would force him to stand anyway.
He bent down, scooped mud into the bucket, and lifted.
The weight nearly made him collapse.
He carried it up the slope. Every step felt like walking underwater. His wounded hand screamed with each jolt. Sweat dripped into his eyes. The sun climbed higher, turning the world into a furnace.
At the top of the hill he dumped the mud, staggered back down, and repeated the process.
Over and over.
Villagers passed by without looking at him. Children tossed stones at him and laughed when he flinched. One man kicked the bucket out of his hands when he moved too slowly. Another spat beside him and muttered something cruel.
By midday his legs shook uncontrollably. His vision blurred. His bitten hand swelled so badly he could barely curl his fingers. Mud clung to every part of his body. His breath came in ragged gasps. His skin burned.
By afternoon he started to stumble.
By evening he could barely lift the bucket.
He collapsed once, and a sharp blow landed across his back, forcing him upright. His ribs throbbed. His head ached. Tears blurred his view but he kept moving.
If he stopped, they would kill him.
When they finally dragged him back to the cell at night, his whole body trembled. He sank against the wall, breathing like a drowning man.
No one in the cell looked at him. They closed their eyes, as if trying to forget another hopeless face had joined them.
He looked down at his swollen hand.
At the dirt under his nails.
At the rope marks around his wrists.
He thought of home.
Of warmth.
Of safety.
Of everything that no longer existed.
Then something shifted.
A small, dark spark formed inside him. Not hope. Not courage.
Anger.
Quiet. Slow. Heavy.
A promise made to himself as the pain grew and the world pressed down on him.
If I do nothing, I will die here.
And if they intend to break me,
I will destroy something before I bow.
The flame settled inside him, steady and sharp.
His suffering had only begun.
But so had his resolve.