Darkness came first.
Thick, heavy, suffocating—like cold wool pressed over his face. Varik floated in it for what felt like hours, drifting in and out of a hazy limbo where pain flickered like distant lightning.
Then something stung.
Air.
Sharp, frigid air scraped against the inside of his throat as he sucked in a breath. His lungs spasmed painfully. The rest of his body followed a heartbeat later—awakening in jagged bursts of agony.
He tried to shift.
A metallic clink answered him.
His eyes snapped open.
He was lying on a rough stone floor, half-covered in frost, inside a small metal-walled room lit by a single sputtering lamp bolted to the ceiling. Each time it flickered, shadows jerked across the walls like they were alive.
He lifted his left arm.
The chain attached to his wrist dragged across the floor.
Varik froze.
Thick iron cuffs strapped around both wrists, linked to a heavy ring hammered into the floor. The cold metal bit into his skin. He tugged lightly — the ring didn't move an inch.
His stomach twisted.
He tried to piece together what happened.
Heat. Screams. Collapsing rubble. Gavin—
Varik's breath hitched, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
Lux… Gavin… where—?
Pain stabbed through his side the moment he inhaled too deeply. He forced himself to look down. Sloppily wrapped bandages pressed against a deep wound along his ribs — but they were already soaked through with dried brown-red blood.
Someone had patched him up just enough so he wouldn't die.
Not enough to help him.
Barely enough to keep him conscious.
The room around him was quiet except for the distant dripping of water and the low hum of pipes vibrating above his head. Rust crawled up the metal walls like rot. The air smelled of cold iron, mold, and the faintest trace of something sour — fear, maybe.
Varik dragged his knees closer to his chest, wincing as chains scraped the ground.
He needed to think.
He needed to move.
He needed—
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Varik tensed immediately.
Slow. Heavy. Familiar in an instinctive, stomach-turning way. The sound of people who owned the place they walked in.
Voices murmured — distorted by the metal walls but approaching.
Varik forced himself upright, back pressed to the cold wall. Every muscle in his body screamed. His ribs trembled with each breath.
The footsteps stopped right in front of his door.
A sliding hatch scraped open.
A pair of pale eyes stared through the slot.
"Well," a bored voice said, "finally awake."
The metal lock clicked.
The door swung open.
Three men stepped in — tall, armored in layered leather and frost-plated gear, half-masks covering their faces. Their coats bore an emblem smeared with grime but still recognizable:
A crescent moon carved into a ring of chains.
Varik swallowed.
One guard crouched and grabbed him by the chin, tilting his face left, then right.
"Healthy enough," the man muttered. "Bit small. Bleeding, but not dying."
"He'll last," another said. "Get him processed."
Varik tried to jerk his head free—
A fist slammed into his ribs.
A wet gasp escaped him as white-hot pain ripped through his side. His vision flashed and narrowed.
"You don't move unless we tell you," the guard said flatly.
They grabbed his arms and hoisted him up. His legs buckled immediately, and the cold floor scraped his bare feet. They dragged him out into a dim corridor lined with cells identical to his, some silent, some holding figures too beaten to lift their heads.
Varik scanned desperately as he passed door after door.
No Lux.
No Gavin.
Only strangers with hollow eyes.
His blood ran colder.
They pulled him through a wide, metal doorway into a larger chamber.
The Processing Room.
Torch lamps flickered on high walls, giving the room a sickly orange glow. Tables lined with restraints. Buckets of murky water. Hooks. Chains. Slumped bodies being dragged away. A foul odor clung to everything — sweat soaked into wood, metal-scorched flesh, and a faint bite of bleach.
Varik's breath came short and fast.
A handler with a cloth mask stepped forward holding a board.
"Number?" the handler asked without looking up.
"Thirty-two," one guard answered.
The handler finally glanced at Varik.
"Strip him."
Varik tried to twist away. Instinct. Panic.
They ripped his torn shirt off in a single motion. Cold air rushed across his chest and wounds, sending a violent shiver through him.
The handler circled him once, tapping the board with a pen.
"Put him through the trough. He's filthy."
Varik's pulse spiked.
"The what—?"
He didn't get to finish.
One guard grabbed the back of his neck, the other his injured side, and they slammed him toward a large metal basin filled with water so cold it steamed.
Before Varik even inhaled—
He was shoved under.
Ice swallowed him whole.
His lungs convulsed.
His body thrashed violently, instinct screaming for air.
Hands held him down, unmoving.
His thoughts scattered.
I'm dying—
I'm drowning—
Not yet—
I can't—
I can't—
He was yanked up.
Varik gasped so sharply it hurt — coughing, retching water onto the floor.
His knees buckled.
"Again," the handler said.
Varik's eyes widened. "No—wait—!"
They shoved him under again.
This time the shock was worse.
His chest burned.
His vision pulsed black.
His thoughts turned fuzzy and distant.
Faces.
Lux screaming.
Gavin smiling.
Cold wind.
Snow.
Fear.
Blood.
Darkness—
He was pulled up again, vomiting water, trembling uncontrollably.
"Enough," the handler said at last. "Brand him."
Varik blinked through blurred vision.
Two handlers approached carrying an iron rod, its end glowing red-hot, shaped into a crescent moon surrounded by jagged edges.
Varik's heart hammered against his ribs.
He struggled weakly, but he had no strength left.
A guard forced him face-down, knee pressing into his spine.
Varik's breathing rushed, ragged.
"Don't," he rasped. "Don't—"
The iron touched his shoulder.
Pain exploded through him — blinding, savage, white-hot agony.
He screamed, voice cracking raw.
His muscles seized so hard he thought his bones would snap.
The world vanished in a burst of white.
When the iron finally lifted, Varik collapsed trembling, body twitching from aftershocks.
The sigil burned into his skin glowed faintly in the cold air.
"Throw him in the barracks," the handler said. "He'll be inspected later."
The guards dragged him farther down into the facility until they reached a huge, dim chamber filled with rows of wooden bunks stacked atop one another.
Dozens of slaves sat or lay quietly — some bruised, some bound, some staring blankly at the floor.
Low murmurs swirled around the room as they entered.
"New kid…"
"He's got fight in his eyes…"
"Bet he won't have it long."
They tossed Varik onto a lower bunk.
His body hit the cold steel and curled in on itself from the pain.
Breath came shallow.
Limbs shook uncontrollably.
The brand throbbed in hot pulses against his skin.
Varik clenched his teeth.
Hard.
Harder.
He tasted iron.
He forced his eyes open.
Forced his breath steady.
Forced himself not to fold.
He whispered into the dark, voice fragile but unbroken:
"I'm not dying here."
Then his body, overwhelmed and shaking, finally gave out.