Varik woke to the sound of metal.
His eyes opened slowly.
Iron bars blurred into focus overhead, blackened with frost and rust. The smell hit next—cold sweat, mold, old blood soaked into stone, and something sour beneath it all, like rot that never fully formed.
He didn't move at first.
His body hurt in too many places to count. His ribs felt cracked. His back throbbed as if something had struck him there repeatedly. His left leg trembled when he tried to shift it.
His face was sticky with dried blood.
Memory flooded back in pieces.
Gavin.
Lux.
The collapsing street.
The scream that tore out of him as he crawled.
The snow.
The stranger.
The officer walking away.
He rolled onto his side abruptly, chest heaving.
Gavin's face flashed again.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the image away. Tears threatened, but he swallowed them down violently. Crying now would only make everything worse.
He lifted his head.
He was lying on a thin straw mat shoved between two stone support beams. Around him stretched an underground hall carved crudely from the old city's foundations—high ceiling, wide chamber, metal bars partitioning sleeping spaces.
Chain-patterned shadows flickered as dim lanterns swung overhead.
His stomach twisted.
Rows of people—adults, teens, a few younger children—lay scattered on mats, some wrapped in threadbare blankets, others curled into themselves for warmth. Some stared hollow-eyed at the ceiling. Some whispered quietly. Some sat in the dark with their heads bowed as if praying to something long dead.
The routine of captivity.
Varik forced himself upright with a grunt.
Pain knifed down his side where he'd been stabbed earlier. Someone had wrapped the wound in rough cloth, it was crudely done but also seemed to be done with much more care than his previous bandaging. His injured were also wrapped in a piece of brown cloth.
Voices murmured around him—low, weary, resigned.
"New one's awake."
"Thought he'd die before night."
"Too scrawny… though those eyes'll fetch a price."
A heavy voice approached.
Varik looked up.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stood over him. Not a slaver—another captive. His skin was almost lightly tanned, wind-burned and cracked. A thick scar sliced down his right cheek. His brunette hair was messy with two braids hanging from each side, though some strands had been torn loose. He wore torn fur layers stitched together with mismatched thread.
His expression wasn't kind. But not hostile either.
"Get up," the man said. "If you lie around too long they'll throw you out or use you for food."
Varik stayed sitting but lifted his chin. "Who are you?"
"Isn't it a bit rude to ask for someone's name without giving your own first?" The man asked sternly.
Varik stared at him strangely, then said, "I'm Varik."
"Rhem," the man answered. "Been here a month."
Rhem continued, "You're lucky. They brought you in before night rotation."
"Night… rotation?" Varik asked, voice rough.
A new voice cut in from behind Rhem—smooth, tired, but faintly amused.
"It's how they herd us," the speaker said. "Feeding. Washing. Task sorting. Punishments. And, of course—inspection."
Varik turned.
A woman approached—late twenties, maybe early thirties. Light brown skin, a long jagged scar crossing her right eyebrow, giving her a permanently sharp gaze. Her black hair was tied back and frayed at the ends. Despite the grime, she carried herself with a posture that hadn't been broken yet.
"This one's the new kid?" she asked.
"Yeah," Rhem replied.
She crouched in front of Varik.
Her eyes were surprisingly gentle beneath the hardened exterior. "Name's Elara. I patch up whoever won't die on their own."
Varik blinked. "You patched… me?"
Elara shrugged. "Your leg was twisted, ribs bruised, wound infected. Didn't have much to work with, but I've seen worse."
Varik's gaze drifted down.
There, marked on his forearm—
—in fresh, angry ink still stinging, a crescent moon sigil.
A symbol branding him as property. The mark of the Crescent Auction.
His breath hitched.
Elara noticed. "Hurts less after a day. You'll forget it's there eventually."
"I won't," Varik said quietly.
Elara studied him, expression unreadable. "Good. Forgetting what you are is what breaks people fastest."
More captives had begun to stir now.
Varik noticed:
A wiry woman with frost-bitten fingers muttering to herself.
A young man with missing front teeth carving shapes into the dirt with a broken spoon.
Two kids—boy and girl—huddled together, eyes wide and unblinking. They seemed ton be siblings.
An older man with a white beard and dead eyes, rocking slightly as he whispered something to no one.
A sharp-eyed girl around Varik's age sitting on an upper mat, legs crossed, watching him as if he's some kind of rare new species.
Her face was contradictory. Onviously feminine but still carried a strong masculine sharpness. Her short lavender purple hair fell in loose messy strands on her face. Her red eyes were fierce and seemed as if they could peer right through your very soul.
She held his gaze for a long moment—
then smirked like she already knew his entire life story.
Varik looked away quickly.
Rhem clapped him on the shoulder, the weight almost dropping him. "Don't stare at Junia for too long. She's a bit troublesome."
Junia clicked her teeth playfully. "They had it coming."
Elara sighed. "Enough."
Before Varik could gather his thoughts, a loud metallic horn blared through the chamber.
Everyone in the barracks stiffened.
Rhem muttered, "Night cycle."
Elara stood and offered Varik her hand. "Try not to look weak. They love that."
Varik pushed himself to his feet without taking her hand. He didn't want to rely on anyone.
Elara raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.
The captives moved into a loose assembly line as iron gates opened on the far end. Three slavers stepped in—one man holding a ledger, a whip at his side; a woman with a spear that sparked with electricity when she swung it and frost-lined armor; and behind them…
A hulking brute wearing a metal mask shaped like a snarling beast.
Their presence sucked the warmth from the room.
"Line up!" the spear-woman barked.
Her voice echoed off the stone.
The captives obeyed immediately. Those who didn't were shoved into place.
Varik stood between Rhem and Junia. His legs shook but he kept his face steady.
The slavers made their rounds.
Checking wounds.
Inspecting bodies.
Grading strength like livestock.
The ledger-man stopped in front of Varik, eyes narrowing.
"New one. Small. Wounded."
He flipped a page.
"Potential yield… low."
Junia snorted softly. Varik paid her no mind.
The masked brute grunted disapprovingly.
The spear-woman stepped closer, gripping Varik's jaw and turning it.
He tried to pull away—
she squeezed harder.
She stared at his face, accessing his features.
"Not bad" she noted. "He has potential."
She released him and moved on.
Varik was confused by what she meant.
Rhem whispered, "Don't provoke them. They like to break the strong ones first."
Varik clenched his fists.
He didn't feel strong.
Not right now.
But he swore he would be.
He swore he wouldn't break.
The inspection continued for nearly twenty minutes. When it ended, the slavers ordered them back to their mats.
Torches were dimmed.
Chains along the walls locked.
The nightly routine settled like a suffocating blanket.
Some captives fell asleep instantly.
Others whispered among themselves.
Some cried silently into their blankets.
Junia swung down from her upper mat, landing beside Varik. "You'll learn how things work here soon."
Rhem rolled onto his back. "Get rest while you can. You'll need it for tomorrow."
Varik lay down slowly.
The mat was thin.
The air frigid.
But exhaustion seeped through every part of him until even pain dulled.
He stared at the crescent moon on his arm…
and whispered to himself,
"I'll survive this."
His voice trembled.
"I'll survive all of it."
He thought of Gavin under the rubble.
Of Lux dragged away.
Of the stranger's golden eyes.
Of the officer walking through the smoke without looking back.
And he swore:
"I'll never be this powerless again."
The lanterns flickered.
The barracks quieted.
And Varik's First Night bled slowly into darkness.