Two weeks passed in a way that barely felt measurable.
Varik healed faster than he should have—or so Junia said one morning while poking the side of his ribs with the blunt end of a broom. He grunted, swatted the broom away, and kept sweeping. She only shrugged and said, "Weirdo," before wandering off.
Work became routine.
Not easy.
Just familiar.
He carried crates. Sorted metal. Hauled waste bins. Repaired cracked frost-pipes with dull tools. Sometimes he lifted more than the others, sometimes less. Slavers rarely explained assignments; they simply pointed and expected movement.
Occasionally Varik spotted Elara across the room patching someone's arm or tying strips of cloth around a child's wrist. She always looked like she'd been running since dawn. Always moving. Always quiet. She hardly glanced his way, but when their eyes did meet once or twice, she offered a small nod—nothing much, just recognition.
Rhem kept mostly to himself, working slow but steady. Junia drifted in and out of Varik's daily rotations like an annoying shadow. She stole tools from him, handed them back without apology, and asked questions he didn't answer half the time.
Still, she hovered.
He eventually came to accept her presence as a force of nature that he can't seem to defy.
Days went in and out.
Rumors floated all week—light, soft ones that didn't quite sound like rumors and didn't quite sound like truth.
"I heard a Visitor is coming."
"Buyers from the inner city, maybe."
"Grel's polishing his boots, must be someone important."
The supervisor of the barracks, a broad, gruff man named Grel, had been unusually active the past week. Slavers tightened schedules, the barracks were cleaned more than usual, and more inspections.
Varik didn't care much. People like that wouldn't give him the time of day so he won't give them a thought of mind.
Midway through a long afternoon shift—hauling scrap blocks from storage to the sorting yard—a foreign voice drifted down the hall. Polite, steady. Not raised, but distinct enough that the workers lifted their heads instinctively.
"…I prefer to evaluate the facilities without prior arrangements," the voice said.
Grel's tense laugh followed. "Of course, sir. We are honored by your timely visit . Had we been given notice—"
"No," the visitor replied. "This is precisely what I want to see. Things as they are."
Varik didn't get a good look at the man yet. Only saw the corner of a fur-lined coat as he passed the yard entrance, Grel walking a half step behind him like a loyal shadow. The workers kept their heads down. The buyer's steps paused once near Varik's station, but he didn't turn in. Instead, he asked Grel something quietly, too soft to catch.
Then they walked on.
Junia nudged Varik with her elbow. "You see that? Walks like he owns the sky."
Varik didn't answer.
Not because he didn't hear her—
but because something in that passing presence had tugged at him sharply, like being measured against a wall.
By the time work ended, Varik had all but forgotten the moment—until he saw the buyer again.
The inspection horn blared across the barracks floor. Everyone froze. Slavers spread out, overturning mats, checking corners, shoving belongings aside. Mandatory inspection. Those usually ended with at least one person punished for some minor issue.
These inspections became mandatory and daily ever since the rumors of that visitor began to spread.
Varik tried to mind his own mat. Tried to stay small. Tried not to notice.
It didn't matter.
A slaver near the end of the row crouched suddenly, hand sliding under Elara's sleeping pallet. He straightened slowly, holding a crude metal shank between two fingers. His dark eyes lifted.
"Elara."
She stiffened.
He stepped toward her with a hand out.
His voice was stern and stoic.
"Come here."
She didn't move.
"What is that?" Junia whispered beside Varik.
"A blade," Varik muttered. "Hers."
He had seen it once—Back when he first arrived at the barracks, his first night he remembered seeing her place the crudely shaped blade under her mat.
The slaver grabbed her arm.
Elara pulled back on instinct, face strained, jaw tight. Not panicked—just refusing. It didn't matter. The man's grip tightened, dragging her forward.
If there was one word to describe Elara in the barracks it would probably be popular. Due to her medical skills she has a generous reputation even among the slavers despite her rigid personality which results in her sometimes getting special treatment. However, her reputation won't help her in this situation.
"You know the rules," he said. "Unauthorized weapons—"
"Sh—she uses it to treat injuries," someone whispered.
The slaver ignored it.
Elara braced her feet against the floor, but his pull overpowered her easily. She dug her fingers into his sleeve. The slaver turned his hand into a fist and aimed a punch directly towards her face.
However.
Two hands intercepted the punch.
Varik's body moved before the thought fully formed.
The hall fell silent.
The slaver looked at Varik's hand, disbelief flickering across his face—not outrage yet, just surprise that someone touched him at all.
Varik's voice came out steadier than he felt.
"That's mine."
Junia stared at him wide-eyed.
Elara's expression flicked—barely, almost nothing—but she stopped resisting.
The slaver stared at Varik with eyes of venom . "Is that so?"
"Yes."
"You hid it under her mat?"
"Yes."
A lie, spoken so assuredly.
His stomach twisted, in his mind he was cursing himself.
"What am I doing?"
"Why the hell did I do that?"
"I should've just minded my own business."
" Did I finally lose my damn mind?!"
Variks mind was a jumble of contradictory and confused thoughts but his face betrayed all the chaos. It remained calm and unyielding.
The slaver let go of Elara slowly. She stepped away without looking at Varik, expression shut tight.
"Then you'll take the punishment," the slaver said quietly.
He shoved Varik forward by the neck, forcing him into the open space in the center of the room.
The workers looked away.
Junia swore softly under her breath.
Rhem's jaw tightened.
The brolic man unbuckled the metal like whip that was attached to his waist and unleashed it onto Varik.
The first strike fell Varik to his knees. He winced but didn't yell. The second blow landed across his shoulder, his ragged clothes ripped and the shredded edges where the attack landed became soaked with a bit of his blood. The third cracked against his back leaving a large bleeding gash ; his fingers dug into the floor to stay upright.
The man continued to narrate Varik with multiple strikes and with each hit that landed the sickening sound of the whip would echo throughout the barracks room. Yet Varik didn't scream. He shivered in pain but didn't let out a sound.
The barrage continued for a few minutes but it felt like hours for Varik before—
The door to the barracks opened.
Footsteps entered.
They were calm and steady but was soon followed by a nervous voice.
"Sir—this is just disciplinary protocol—"
The man didn't respond.
The buyer stepped forward into view.
The blue light from electric torches illuminated his noble figure.
Dark coat lined with pale fur. Hands gloved. Hair neatly cut with silver streaks at the temples. Clean boots that didn't belong in this place. Sharp eyes—gray, observant, the kind that measured everything without asking a single question aloud. He exuded a presence that said he belonged to a whole different world. A world that was incomprehensibly distant from every other person in that room. A presence that didn't demand attention, it simply came willingly.
Currently the center of all that attention was focusing his own on something else.
He didn't look at the slaver.
Or Grel.
He looked at Varik, or that was what it looked like at least.
"Stand boy."
His voice carried no room defiance nor compromises.
Varik forced himself to stand despite his terrible injuries his knees were quaking and his body trembled.
Why did he stand?
Was it out of instinct?
Was it out of fear?
He did not know.
All he knew was that this man had an aura to him. A suffocating aura that felt disgustingly similar to the man who took Lux away. The thought of that night still made his blood boil with rage and his eyes shined with a faint radiance as he stare directly at the mysterious man.
The buyer watched the moment he straightened, watched the effort it took, watched the way Varik locked his knees to stay upright but most of all he looked directly into his eyes.
Something unreadable passed across his face.
It was nothing as useless as pity nor was it even disgust.
It was amusement.
The slaver lifted his rod again, waiting for approval.
The buyer lifted a hand—barely noticeable—yet the slaver froze.
"I want to see his face more clearly," the man said quietly.
Varik straightened his head, the slaver pushed his hair aside so his eyes were visible. For a moment the barracks fell into a hush, as if even the cold air stopped stirring.
The buyer's eyes narrowed fractionally.
A faint smirk snuck onto his handsomely aged face for a small moment.
"Those eyes of yours look like that want to burn me alive boy," the man said in amusement, then the slight smirk on his face vanished.
Grel leaned in with a stiff smile. "He's strong. Stubborn. That type never lasts long, but the labor output is good—"
"That doesn't matter to me right now," the buyer said.
He stepped back, his attention still lingering on Varik a moment longer before turning toward the corridor.
"Continue the inspection," he told Grel. "I'll evaluate the rest myself. Also I want you to conclude the boy's punishment and get him patched up. Make sure he is in good health."
And just like that, he walked away.
The slaver lowered his whip. Junia exhaled sharply. Rhem stared at Varik with something between disbelief and concern. Elara's eyes followed the buyer out before silently returning to her duties.
Varik remained standing in the center of the room, body aching and swaying, head foggy, palms burning where he'd braced himself.
The last thing that crossed his mind is him thinking about the man's strange attitude before the world went dark.