Chapter 1: The Collar(REWRITE)
Let me tell you how it began. Pain came first, long before any thought arrived to explain it. A mind with nothing inside has nothing to protect, so the body is the one that speaks up first.
It started as a dull throb at the back of his skull, and then it sharpened into something like a hot nail being pushed slowly through the bone. Imagine lying face down on packed dirt with warm wetness pooling under your cheek, then feel that warmth fade into a cold that crawls into your jaw and shoulder. You would smell rust first, then damp earth, then a sour note underneath like old sweat trapped in a shut room, and your mouth would taste of copper and dust.
He kept his eyes closed and reached for his name, his face, and the faces of a mother or a father, but he found only a page that nobody had ever written on. Only two things felt real to him. One was a metal collar on his neck, cold and snug, close enough that his pulse tapped against it with every beat.
Somewhere close, water dripped, then a long wait followed, then another drop that sounded louder than the last because the silence around it was so complete.
He opened one eye to a thin slit and looked out through his lashes.
He saw dirt, a weak grey stripe of daylight from a small iron grate high on the wall, and dozens of small bare feet standing in uneven rows on the cracked ground. Lifting his gaze slowly so that no one would notice, he saw that they were children, none older than six or seven, about the same size as he was. His head hurt too much for an exact count, so he guessed nineteen, standing in a broken circle around him with their arms straight, their chins level, and their eyes shut.
You might think they were asleep, and he thought so too for a moment, but a sleeping child sways and droops while these children stood like furniture that someone had set in place. He held his breath to listen and heard theirs, thin and slow and perfectly even, which was somehow worse than silence.
Something had struck him, and he was sure of that much, because a chunk of broken stone lay half buried near his hand with one edge stained dark. He had no memory of it falling, and not knowing frightened him more than the blood did.
Then came the sound of boots crunching on gravel somewhere behind the rows, unhurried and measured, and every nerve in his small body begged him to run. A calmer voice, colder than his fear, reminded him that he did not know what waited beyond the circle, and that whoever was walking toward him probably knew exactly how many children should be standing and how many should be lying down. So he let his eye fall shut, loosened his arm where it had landed, and slowed his breathing until it matched a sleeper's.
The footsteps stopped right beside his head.
"Oh no, please don't be dead, because if you die they will say it was my fault!" The voice belonged to a teenager, and it cracked with panic far more than cruelty. "I am the one who is supposed to watch them, and I only looked away for a moment."
A rough, sweating hand seized his wrist and pressed hard on the inside of it. He understood why the boy avoided his throat, since nobody in their right mind would put fingers near that collar. Every muscle begged him to flinch away from the stranger's grip, and he did not give in to it, even while the seconds stretched like hours.
"Okay, you are alive, and thank goodness for that, because I have no idea how I would explain this to them." The relief in the boy's voice sounded close to tears. "Stupid rock, stupid cellar, why do they leave rubble lying around down here?"
Cloth rustled, a small box scraped across stone, and then a pad of fabric pressed against the wound hard enough to sting. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep still while a strip of cloth was wrapped around his head and tied in a knot so tight and clumsy that it was obvious the boy had never bandaged anyone in his life.
"That should hold until I check on you again tomorrow morning, so please do not die tonight." The footsteps drifted away, slower now, and far off a door creaked and closed. After that there was only the dripping water, and he lay without moving for a very long time.
When he finally opened both eyes, the grey stripe on the floor had gone and the grate showed only black. A single candle stub burned on a shelf near the stairs, throwing a small, shaking circle of orange light over the rows of children and stretching their shadows up the walls.
Hours had passed, and not one of them had shifted so much as a finger.
He sat up slowly, and the room tilted before it settled. The bandage felt stiff and sticky under his fingers, the ache beneath it answered right away, and his limbs felt too small and too new, like clothes borrowed from someone else. Now he could see the place properly: a cellar of sweating stone walls, a single narrow staircase climbing into darkness, and beside it the chair and small chest that the boy had dragged over to keep watch.
The boy would not return until morning, which gave him time, though not much. He did not know how large this building was, how many halls lay between him and the outside, or how many guards and locked doors stood in the way, so planning an escape with so little knowledge felt less like a hard task and more like an impossible one.
He had barely finished that thought when the pressure behind his eyes shifted, cool and deliberate, spreading like ink dropped into water. A question formed in his mind before he had decided to ask it.
Where am I?
Why would anyone keep children standing in a cellar like this?
The answer arrived at once, calm and clear, as if someone had spoken in a quiet room.
~ This is the lower cellar of a walled compound, and the children are kept here in silence because the collars make them obedient. ~
His whole body went rigid, and his heart hammered against the metal at his throat. A cautious person does not trust a voice that appears from nowhere, so he decided to test it with something he could check for himself.
How many children are standing in this room right now, not counting me?
~ Nineteen, including the one nearest the stairs who is shorter than the others. ~
He turned his head and counted slowly in the candlelight, touching each small figure with his eyes, and the number matched exactly. The short one stood by the stairs, just as the voice had said. His mouth went dry, and he could taste dust again.
How many guards are awake at this hour, and where are they standing?
~ Three are awake, two at the main gate and one in the kitchen eating his late meal, while the rest are asleep in the barracks. ~
Which door is the safest one to take if I want to be gone before sunrise?
~ The kitchen passage behind the servants' stairs, because the guard there leaves his post at the same time every night to relieve himself. ~
Author: Typical men🤓
He pressed both hands against his bandaged head and stared at the dark staircase, with water dripping somewhere behind him and the candle flame trembling on its wick. The voice had never once asked him to trust it, and that was exactly what made him trust it a little less.
Sigh...