That night, when the loaf of bread gently fell on the young man's head, it wasn't just a random event. For the imprisoned young man, it was a moment that broke through the hardened routine he had lived for so long—a moment that shook the dull hell he had endured over the past ten years. It was strange, even suspicious. Nothing had ever been given to him without a price in this prison he called his "life." He was used to nothing but beatings, insults, and hunger. But now? A loaf of bread tossed through the high window of his cell like a gift from the unknown? What kind of nonsense was this?
He sat there, eyes shifting between the bread and the cold, stony floor. And the smell… that warm smell of fresh bread—it was a rare thing to sense. Even the piece he had gotten a few hours ago had been colder than this one. He had almost forgotten that food could be more than just a means to stay alive. But doubt kept pushing against his hunger, gnawing at his thoughts just like his empty stomach gnawed at his insides.
He waited. One minute. Two minutes. Then an hour, two hours. No one came to take the bread back. No one yelled at him to throw it away or beat him for taking it. Still, the waiting itself became a problem, a ghost wrapping him in the worst possibilities. What if he ate it? Would he be punished? But what if he didn't? Would the punishment be worse? The hell of this choice was no less painful than the hunger.
Slowly, he reached out, fingers trembling between desire and fear, until they touched the crust of the loaf. In that moment, there was no turning back. He sank his teeth into the bread, as if biting away a piece of his fear. It tasted soft, warm—though it had started to harden a little. But it wasn't about the taste. It was about one simple truth he now realized—he was alive enough to enjoy eating, and alive enough to face whatever came next.
By the next day, the young man woke up with difficulty, as if his body had been crushed under the weight of heavy stones. Pain filled every part of him—his muscles felt stretched to the point of tearing, and his bones refused to move smoothly. He tried to roll to one side, then the other, until he finally managed to sit up—barely.
"Ugh... my body hurts so much. I really hate this," he muttered in frustration, his fingers moving instinctively over his chest, stomach, and every spot that ached, as if pressing on them might ease the pain.
He slowly raised his head, following the faint light barely slipping into his cell through the high window. It wasn't anything new to him. For ten years, this had been his life—moving from place to place as if his entire existence was nothing but a chain of identical cells, only with different maps.
He was a slave in the "Dream Caravan," a group that roamed the lands of Vingard in search of adventure, discovery, and trade. Like any piece of cargo, he was transported wherever the caravan settled—without voice, without choice. This cell he now occupied wasn't his first. He had lived here for three years, after being moved from another cell in the caravan's previous camp. Compared to his past cells, this one was better... at least it had a window.
It might seem like a small thing, but in a life like his, every tiny detail became the difference between surviving or sinking into nothingness. His previous cell was more like a sealed box—no air, no light, just a deep darkness that swallowed anyone trapped inside. In comparison, this one felt like a rare privilege: a space where he could sit, lie down, and not be tossed into a horse stable like before. At least here, the walls were his alone—with a bit of light and air.
But it wasn't mercy that gave him this place.
Jabelin Freely had moved him here for two reasons, both etched into the young man's memory like an unerasable tattoo.
The first: so no one would stumble upon him by accident. Jabelin had built his reputation as a kind man, a merchant who treated everyone well—even slaves. A single scandal could tear that mask to shreds, destroying everything he had built, turning it all into scattered ashes.
The second: to make it easier to move the young man to the torture room without being seen (everyone knew about it, except the slaves and a few members of the caravan). It was a dark, square room, lit weakly by four corner lamps—one that existed in every location the caravan visited. He had spent some time in that room yesterday, and that alone was enough to make the next day begin with pain... and end with the dread of more to come.
After a harsh night, the young man's body ached in silence, weighed down as if years of exhaustion had piled on him—not just hours. He slowly opened and closed his eyes, stared into the empty space in front of him, and gathered what little strength he had before dragging himself toward the clay water jar in the corner of the cell.
He leaned over it and took a small sip—just enough to refresh himself after waking up. Water was scarce, and that meant he didn't have the luxury of drinking until he was fully satisfied. The cold droplets slid over his lips, as if bringing back a tiny piece of life that faded from him day by day.
He placed the jar back in its spot, then leaned against the wall to his right, resting his head on the rough stone. In that moment, he wasn't thinking or planning—he was simply staring, letting his mind drift into nothingness, flowing with the silence that wasn't peace, but a tense kind of waiting.
It didn't last long. The sound of the upper door opening rang out—the harsh clang of metal against metal, like the echo of years buried in that place had been forced to wake up.
His body tensed immediately, and he adjusted his posture so he wouldn't look too relaxed. It was an unwritten rule, something he had learned by instinct, not by words: comfort in prison isn't a privilege—it's a weakness, a sign of surrender, of getting used to it. And he wasn't ready to give them that satisfaction.
He didn't need to look to know they had entered. Even before raising his head, he sensed there were three people—two men and a woman. Their steps were firm, confident, carrying that same harsh presence he had come to associate with those who entered this cell.
The two men were masked, dressed in the usual clothing of caravan members—practical fabric with nothing special. Their faces were hidden under dark cloth, as if their identities were just part of a role that didn't need features, only actions.
The woman, however, stood out. Her clothes weren't worn and plain like the others—they were more modern, designed in a way that made them stylish without being flashy. The fabric clung to her body, yes, but not in a revealing way—it showed a kind of quiet authority, the kind that doesn't need to shout to be respected. And yet, the most worrying part wasn't what she wore, but the whip strapped to her side… Everyone who entered this cell carried one.
"Get up. You're going to the yard today," she said in a tone completely devoid of emotion—cold as ice. It wasn't angry or threatening, but it was a direct order, leaving no room for argument.
The moment he looked at her, he could tell she wasn't that old. Her young features showed a strange mix between unfinished youth and a hardness that had clearly formed over time. Her body confirmed that impression, and the chestnut-colored hair tied back added to it. She wasn't very tall, but not short either, which gave her a kind of presence that stood out among others—even when she wasn't trying to.
The young man didn't have to think long about how to respond. The moment he heard her words, he stood up immediately.
At first glance, the young man could tell—she was ready to pull out the whip and let it dance across his skin without needing a rhythm. Instead of having whip lashes for breakfast, he preferred to stay hungry.
The cell door opened. The two men stepped forward with shackles. No words were exchanged—none were needed. One of them grabbed his hands, and the other locked the cuffs on with slight force, then they started walking. His steps were heavy, unsteady, as if his body refused to move but was forced to obey.
Then something unexpected happened.
The woman placed her palm on his chest. It wasn't strong, but it was sudden enough to send a chill through his body without his consent. His eyes widened for a moment.
"You're not going out without the blindfold. That's Master Jabelin's order," she said with the same cold, emotionless tone as before.
Still, for some reason, a strange sense of comfort spread through his chest. It wasn't just the blindfold—it was the feeling that, for a brief moment, she might do something unfamiliar to him.
But he had no time to analyze that feeling, nor the energy to do so. As soon as they placed the blindfold over his eyes, the visible world disappeared, replaced by a thick darkness that wasn't just about the lack of light—it was the absence of control. One man gripped his left shoulder, the other his right. Their hold was firm—not harsh, but firm enough to make it clear he wasn't getting away. Violence wasn't needed; the blindfold alone was enough to remind him that he had no choice.
Ahead of them, the woman walked with confident steps. The sound of her boots on the stone floor echoed sharply, louder than his own dragging, heavy ones—his body still unsure how to react to any of this.
Every step brought him closer to the unknown, to the yard they had mentioned. He had no idea what it looked like, couldn't picture it clearly, only knew it wasn't somewhere he was familiar with—and not a place he expected anything good from. With each movement, each gentle push guiding him forward, his nerves stretched thinner. The tension inside him kept building, until it felt like part of the air he was breathing.
The young man couldn't see a thing. The thick cloth covering his eyes allowed no light to pass through—not even the faintest flicker. It wasn't just darkness—it was forced isolation, a heavy void filled only by sound. Sound was the only thing that helped him understand what was around him—the footsteps, their steady rhythm even louder than his faint breaths.
After several minutes of walking, he felt something different... a light warmth touching his skin, creeping in like a memory from long ago—a warmth he hadn't felt in a long time. It was as if, despite everything, his body could still recognize traces of life.
Then, without warning, he felt the woman's hand remove the blindfold.
Even the brief flash of sunlight stung his eyes, and it took a few moments to adjust to the visible world again. He stayed still, observing, taking in everything—despite his hair falling across his face, blocking part of his view like a leftover piece of the prison he hadn't escaped yet.
It was a wide dirt yard, surrounded by carefully stacked stone walls—solid, practical, escape-proof. There, he saw others... slaves like him, carrying wooden crates, walking toward some unknown destination. Their faces were filled with exhaustion, yet they were in better shape than him—much better.
He didn't have time to take in more. The woman's hands suddenly grabbed him from behind, giving him a strong push that forced him forward.
"You will sit there and not move an inch. If you do, you know what will happen to you… Ten years should be enough for you to understand the consequences of any action you take."
Her tone was harsh, sharp—devoid of sympathy or mercy, as if the word itself didn't exist in her vocabulary. Her words struck like a cold slap, needing no raised voice to leave a lasting mark.
He didn't protest, didn't argue—he simply did as he was told.
She directed him to a spot near the stone wall, where a crate rested against it. He didn't sit on the crate, but beside it, leaning his back against the solid wall—as if he needed something firm to keep himself from collapsing. That's where the stern woman left him, under the watchful eyes of the two men who had accompanied her, and for the first time in a while, he found himself outside... outside the damp prison cell.
"It's a beautiful day... but my limbs... they can't bear it, the sunlight, the sting of the ground..." he mumbled in a faint voice, barely audible.
He gazed at the sky for a few moments, but his thoughts were somewhere else entirely. His limbs still bore the signs of a cruel extraction—not amputation, but the forced ripping out of his fingernails and toenails, leaving scars that never fully healed and pain that refused to fade, despite the passage of time that people call the best healer.
Nails aren't just hardened layers—they are extensions of nerve endings beneath the skin. Having them torn out left those nerves exposed, hypersensitive to any outside stimulus, turning every touch, every brush into a searing pain that wouldn't relent.
A medical diagnosis would likely list his condition as "chronic nail bed inflammation" and "persistent neuralgia," with the affected areas left perpetually irritated. The skin where the nails had been was no longer normal—thicker in some places, too fragile in others—leaving it prone to frequent infections and, at times, unexpected bleeding from the slightest pressure.
As for his feet, the loss of toenails meant he now walked on merciless ground. The salt in the soil felt like blades slicing into exposed skin. The pain came in waves—sometimes as a numb ache when the nerves dulled themselves, and sometimes as sharp stabs when pressure increased or the hot earth touched old wounds.
Every step was a cost. Every movement an unspoken punishment. And yet, he remained standing. Despite everything, he endured—as if something inside him still pushed him to hold on, to stay whole, even when everything within him felt shattered.
Hours passed, and the noon sun rose high, and still the young man sat in place, unmoving, leaning against the wall. He gently wrapped his arms around his legs, as if trying to fold his body into one compact shape to keep it from falling apart, while he silently waited to see where fate would take him next.
The two men left by the stern woman hadn't moved from their posts since morning. Their eyes were fixed on him, as if he were the center of their world, the sole focus of their watch. The other slaves, even when they slowed in their work, went unpunished—unnoticed. But him? One wrong move, and he knew he'd receive a fresh beating—one that served no purpose but to remind him he wasn't allowed mistakes.
He had become an outcast—or more precisely, he had always been one. A shadow no one acknowledged. Even when the other slaves were forced to pass near him, they took longer paths, avoiding him as if he carried a curse. No one came close, no one whispered, no one extended a hand with the slightest gesture of comfort. And he understood the reason well… In their eyes, he was Jabelyn's puppet, the pain-loving spectator who seemed to enjoy the suffering, who took pleasure in the sound of moaning—unworthy of being treated as anything but a thing, cast aside, unfit to belong among people.
And so, he surrendered. He no longer sought connection, no longer yearned for bonds with anyone. He knew, beyond all doubt, that he was no longer like them—not even a slave with value. Perhaps even less than that. He was… the cursed.
Hours passed, until the sun stood directly overhead, pouring its heat down upon him without mercy. There was no shade to shelter him, no refuge to retreat to—only the spot where the watchmen stood, distanced from him. Dizziness crept into his body, heat boiling beneath his skin, and the festering wounds on his flesh screamed under the stream of salt-laced sweat pouring down. His clothes grew soaked and clung to his body, worsening the pain.
He wore only a short-sleeved black shirt made of thin fabric, and trousers of the same type—barely covering his body, shielding neither from heat nor cold. But what difference did it make? Nothing could protect him from his pain. Nothing could shield him from his harsh reality—except to close his eyes and let time swallow him further.
At that moment, he nearly collapsed. His body grew heavier, his head spun, and the world around him began to blur—but falling wasn't an option. It wasn't even a right he was allowed. If he lost consciousness now, it would only serve as an open invitation for brutality. The two guards would approach without mercy, dragging him out of unconsciousness with blows that offered no room for negotiation. He didn't need more pain. His body was broken enough. His skin torn, his limbs branded with bruises and wounds that had yet to heal. What use would more suffering be?
Patience. Then more patience. It felt as though time itself was challenging him, stretching endlessly, draining him bit by bit. And still, he held on to a faint hope—perhaps someone would come, and drag him back inside.
He half-closed his eyes. He was still conscious, but wished, just for a moment, to vanish from this existence—to disappear. And then, at that very moment, he saw her.
The stern woman was approaching. Her steps were steady, deliberate—neither hurried nor hesitant. She drew closer, and he watched, sensing that if she had something to say, it must be of importance.
She stopped directly in front of him, studied him for a moment, and with her usual cold tone, she said, "It's hot here, isn't it?"
Her question was anything but sympathetic. It wasn't meant to be answered. It was another test. Still, he had no choice but to respond—no matter how absurd it felt.
"Yes… it is."
Silence hovered between them. She said nothing more. Nothing moved except the occasional gust of wind—too faint to offer real relief. The young man's anticipation grew, an invisible pressure closing in, as though her next words would weigh down the air even further.
Finally, she spoke: "Listen. The caravan will be leaving this location. It's relocating to a new place. The wagons and horses have already been prepared for the journey."
She said it flatly, without emotion, as if informing him of something that had nothing to do with him. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and calmly wiped the sweat from her brow—as if the sun did not touch her the way it burned him, as if she were untouched by this hell.
He understood what she meant, but he couldn't let the curiosity slip by unanswered.
"The caravan is leaving? But… where exactly?" the young man asked.
"To the Kingdom of Kartuga. Master Jabelin has decided to return to his homeland. Will he stay there? I don't know," the woman replied.
Her words were direct, weightless, devoid of emotion—as if the entire conversation were merely a formality, carrying no real meaning.
For a moment, he was surprised by several things at once. Jabelin was returning to his homeland, the Kingdom of Kartuga? But stranger than that was the fact that the stern woman responded to him plainly—without threats, without contempt. It was the first time anyone had spoken to him without insult or violence.
He hesitated briefly, then spoke, his voice tinged with that ever-present pain: "And… will I be taken as well?"
Her eyes fixed on him, her violet pupils sharp and piercing—a gaze that left no room for doubt. Then she replied in a voice clear enough to end any discussion: "Yes. That's why you need to stand up now. You're to board the carriage that will take you away… and that, certainly, is not a request. It's an order."
Her tone left no space for mercy or sympathy, just as it had been since morning. And apparently, the young man would be receiving a new cell in a new place. That wasn't surprising, only a logical continuation of everything that had happened. Still, he couldn't suppress a faint hope—perhaps the new cell would be, at the very least, as bearable as the current one.
Upon hearing her command, he tried to stand. It was not easy; his legs barely held him up. The pain from the inflamed wounds where his nails had been torn out struck like whips plunging into his flesh. But falling was not an option—nor was slowing down. The moment he was upright, the two men who had been watching him stepped forward, as if they'd been given prior orders. Each seized one of his shoulders with a firm grip, making him more stable despite the pain slowly crawling through his joints.
Their steps led toward an unfamiliar place. For a moment, it felt like he was crossing the yard he knew, then entering a narrow stone corridor, simple in its design, yet it left a strange impression on him. There was something about this place—about the sturdy walls, the worn floors—that seemed to carry a silent, unknown history. It caught his attention despite the fatigue clouding his senses.
They walked on until the woman suddenly stopped. She pivoted sharply, approached him with measured steps, then pulled a piece of cloth from a small pouch tied at her waist. She didn't need to explain, and he didn't need to ask. When she raised the cloth to blindfold him, he didn't resist—he simply waited.
"Let's keep moving," she said in her usual indifferent tone, as if everything happening was routine and required no further explanation.
He understood. Understood more than he wanted to. There were things he wasn't meant to see—whether for a reason or without one didn't matter. He had no right to question it. All he hoped for now was to survive the day without being summoned for another of Jabelin's twisted performances. That nightmare was something he longed to escape, even in thought.
With each new step, the atmosphere around him shifted—sunlight turned to choking humidity, then to a cool shadow that barely eased the exhaustion. The ground beneath his feet changed repeatedly—dirt, then stone, sometimes hot, sometimes temperate. The contrast was disorienting, as if the distance they traveled wasn't merely physical.
"Where exactly are the carriages?" he wondered.
Voices crowded his head as he tried to estimate how far they'd come, but he knew at least one thing—his feet hurt unbearably. He could no longer stand.
At last, they came to a halt.
This time, he felt soil underfoot, and the shade above him was shifting lightly across his pale skin—as if it were cast by something tall above. Before he could guess what it was, the blindfold was removed, and light flooded his eyes, forcing them shut for a moment before he could regain focus.
What he saw was not what he expected.
The area was wide, much larger than he'd imagined. The carriages were lined up, one after another, each surrounded by motion and preparations for departure. But what caught his eye most was the carriage in front of him. It was different—not just a basic wooden frame on wheels, but more like a small room crafted from wood, built to carry more than ordinary cargo.
Unconsciously, he looked up. Then he realized the shifting shadow above had come from a tree. Just a tree. Nothing more. Nothing less.
"Throw him inside and lock the carriage door tight. During the trip, keep your eyes sharp. Master Jabelin's orders were clear—no need for further explanation. Understood?"
Her voice was sharp, firm, leaving no space for argument.
"Understood!" the men answered in unison, their discipline as expected.
The young man then understood that this carriage was for him—his transport to another center, a new destination he knew nothing about. He had no say in what was happening. He was merely a piece being moved from one place to another. This day had passed faster than he could grasp—it wasn't just hours, but fleeting moments slipping by unnoticed. And now... all that remained was the journey ahead, a journey he hadn't expected.