The boy's feet skidded in the gravel as shouts erupted across the quarry. Overseers scrambled down the ridges, boots slipping, whips snapping. Slaves scattered out of instinct, not to protect him. No one dared to, but to avoid looking guilty by proximity.
The boy didn't move.
Not because he wasn't afraid. Because he didn't know how to run.
Slaves did not flee. They endured.
But the warmth inside him, the strange glowing presence did not understand endurance. It understood only one thing, he was in danger. And he needed to leave, fast.
And it reacted.
His hands trembled, light flickered through his fingers like threads trying to weave themselves into something solid. The glow was weak, soft, almost beautiful.
The overseers saw only a threat.
"There! His arms, hold him down!"
"He's cursed!"
"Don't let him cast!"
The boy took a step backward. Then another and another until eventually the boy was running.
"Stop!" a guard roared as he leaped from a ledge, landing in front of him.
The boy froze.
The guard's hand shot out to grab him but the light inside the boy flared and roared.
It was instinct, not thought, instinct took over the boy.
A pulse of pale luminescence burst outward, flicking like a candle blown too hard. It wasn't strong. It wasn't even enough to knock the guard over. But it was enough to make him recoil in shock, stumbling a step and clutching his hand as if frostbitten.
The single hesitation changed everything.
"WITCH!" the guard shouted, "He's a witch!"
"NO MAGIC IN THE PIT!" another screamed.
The slaves backed away, terrified. Some crossed their wrists in the old warding gesture. Others dropped to their knees, not daring to look at him.
Magic was rare in the world, in a city where there could be 100,000 people. Only 10 or even 20 of them can use magic. Magic was forbidden to slaves. Punishable by death if seen.
The boy had never heard the word "witch" used before.
He didn't know if it fit him. He didn't know anything anymore.
He just knew he was alone.
Two overseers lunged at him. The boy threw up his arms out of instinct, expecting the blows to land.
But the warmth took instinct and turned it into action.
A faint ripple of light flickered around him, like a shield made of breath it was a yellowish gold color in the form of a sphere created around the boy.
The whips struck the light instead of his skin. They rebounded with a crack, snapping back and startling both overseers.
The boy stared at his own hands in disbelief.
What.. Am I?
His breathing grew uneven. Emotions, foreign, sharp, overwhelming pressed against him from the inside.
Fear.
Confusion.
Panic.
They crashed into each other until he couldn't tell one from the other. The warmth responded with more of that trembling light struggling to surface but not strong enough to protect him fully.
"Pin him!"
This time, four overseers rushed him at once.
The boy didn't think. The warmth didn't guide gently this time, it pulled.
His legs moved. He ducked under swinging arms he didn't see. He sprinted across the quarry floor, breath loud in his ears.
He ran.
For the first time in his life, he ran for himself.
Slaves shouted. Overseers screamed. Whips cracked. Footsteps thundered behind him.
He didn't look back.
He couldn't.
The quarry walls rose around him, impossibly tall, rune-carved stone glowing faintly in the darkening sky. He didn't understand the wall, but he knew one thing.
Nothing crossed it.
Not guards. Not slaves.
No one.
He skidded to a halt at its base, chest heaving, heart stuttering. The iron collar around his neck throbbed with heat as if reacting to his magic.
Behind him, overseers spread out, forming a half-circle.
"Nowhere to go," one hissed.
The boy pressed a hand to the wall. It was cold, colder than stone should be. The runes pulsed beneath his palm, sensing him.
And the warmth inside him responded with a trembling flicker, tiny and uncertain.
The wall hummed, pulsating yellow.
The overseers froze.
"What is he doing?"
"Pull him away now!"
"NO! Don't touch him he might-"
Too late.
The warmth surged again.
And the runes flared.
A shockwave of white light erupted from the wall, blasting outward in a silent burst. Overseers were knocked to their knees. Dust spiraled upward.
The boy was thrown backward, hitting the ground hard.
Pain finally cut through the numbness it was sharp, breathtaking, real.
For a moment, the world spun.
When he pushed himself up, the overseers were scrambling away from the wall, staring at him as if he had summoned a demon.
The wall's runes dimmed, the glow fading like dying embers.
The boy's light faded with them.
He was alone again.
Defenseless. Exhausted. Confused.
But something was different.
The wall this ancient, unbroken barrier had reacted to him.
Only him.
The overseers regained their footing slowly, their fear replaced by something worse.
Purpose.
"Get the chains."
"Bin him tight."
"Report him to the Warden."
"No.. to the Magisters."
The boy didn't know who the Magisters were.
But the way the overseers' voices cracked when they said the word told him enough.
Whatever the Magisters did with slaves like hum...
It was worse than death.
And as the boy's knees weakened and the last of his inner light sank into silence, one thought clawed its way into his mind. A thought he had never had before.
I have to escape.