The scream didn't last long. It was cut short by a wet, muffled thud that echoed through the stone corridor. Silence followed, heavy and suffocating. Vance squeezed the bars of the cage until his knuckles turned white. His heart was still racing, a frantic drumming in his ears that he couldn't quiet.
'Please don't come here,' he thought. 'Just stay away.'
But the sound of footsteps grew louder. These weren't the heavy, uneven boots of the bandits. These were measured, rhythmic clicks. Someone was wearing hard-soled shoes, the kind favored by merchants or low-level bureaucrats in the city.
A torch flickered to life down the hall, casting long, distorted shadows against the damp walls. Two men appeared. One was the bandit leader from before, his face still twisted into a greasy smirk. The other was a man in a clean, charcoal-grey coat. He looked out of place in the filth of the pens. He held a handkerchief to his nose, his eyes darting around with a look of clinical boredom.
"This is the latest batch," the bandit leader said. He gestured vaguely toward the cages. "Fresh from the Reach. Mostly sturdy, though a few are a bit scrawny."
The man in the grey coat stopped in front of Vance's cage. He didn't look at Vance's face. He looked at his shoulders, his arms, and his hands.
"Stand up," the man commanded. His voice was thin and lacked any emotion.
Vance didn't move at first. His legs felt like lead, and the bruise on his stomach from the earlier punch throbbed with every breath.
"I said stand up," the man repeated. He tapped a silver-tipped cane against the iron bars. The sharp clack made Vance flinch.
Rook nudged him gently with an elbow. "Do it," he whispered. "Don't give them a reason."
Vance pulled himself up, using the bars for support. His knees shook, and the world tilted for a second. He felt a wave of nausea, but he forced himself to stay upright. Beside him, Rook stood as well. Rook looked haggard, his white hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and grime, but he kept his gaze fixed on the floor.
The buyer reached through the bars. He grabbed Vance's jaw with a gloved hand, forcing his head up. He peered at Vance's eyes, then pushed his lip back to check his teeth. The man's fingers smelled of lavender and expensive tobacco. It was a jarring contrast to the stench of the cell.
"He's thin," the buyer noted. "Noble-born, by the look of his skin. They usually don't last a month in the mines. Too soft."
"He's young," the bandit countered. "He'll adapt. Or he'll die. Either way, you get your money's worth in the first two weeks."
The buyer moved his attention to Rook. He spent more time examining the white-haired boy, poking at his ribs and checking the calluses on his hands. He seemed more satisfied with Rook's condition.
"I'll take the white-haired one and three from the end cage," the buyer said. He pulled a small leather pouch from his coat and tossed it to the bandit. "The noble brat is a risk. I'll give you half price for him, purely for his potential as a domestic servant."
The bandit grumbled but caught the pouch. "Fine. Take 'em all. I need the space for the next haul anyway."
The buyer nodded and turned away, his cane clicking against the floor as he walked back toward the light. The bandit followed him, leaving the boys in the darkness once more.
Vance collapsed back onto the straw. His legs gave out completely this time. He felt a deep, biting cold in his chest that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. He was being sold like a sack of grain. The reality of it was starting to sink in, stripping away the last remnants of his pride.
'Half price,' he thought. 'I'm worth half of a commoner.'
He leaned his head back against the stone wall. The rock was uneven and cold. As he adjusted his position, his hand brushed against something that wasn't straw or stone. It felt like a scrap of dry skin.
He reached down and pulled a small, crumpled piece of parchment from a crack in the masonry. It was yellowed and brittle, nearly falling apart in his fingers. He held it up to the faint light coming from the corridor.
There was no writing on it. At least, not a language he recognized. In the center of the scrap was a single symbol. It was composed of sharp, intersecting lines and a small circle at the base. It didn't look like the flowing, elegant scripts used in mana theory. It looked primal. It looked heavy.
'What is this?'
He touched the lines with his thumb. To his surprise, the paper didn't feel thin. It felt dense, as if the ink itself had weight. He didn't feel a spark of mana. There was no glow of fire or hum of electricity. But for a brief second, the air around his hand felt a little more still. The throbbing in his stomach seemed to dull just a fraction.
"What do you have there?" Rook asked. He had crawled over to Vance's side.
Vance quickly tucked the scrap into the waistband of his trousers. "Nothing. Just some trash."
Rook didn't push him. He leaned back against the bars, his eyes staring into the dark.
"Listen, Vance," Rook said softly. "The buyer will be back in the morning with the transport wagons. That's when things get hard. They'll chain us together and walk us to the coast. It's a long trip."
Vance looked at him. "How can you be so calm? We're slaves, Rook. They're going to work us to death."
Rook turned his head. A small, knowing smile played on his lips. It wasn't a happy smile. it was the kind of look a person gave when they were holding a winning hand in a dangerous game.
"They think we're just children," Rook whispered. "They think we're broken. But I've been here for two weeks, and I've been watching the guards. I know when they sleep. I know which ones get lazy with the keys."
Vance's heart jumped. "You're planning to run?"
"Not just run," Rook said. "I have a way out of here. A real way. Not through the front door, either. There's an old drainage tunnel under the south pens. It's narrow, but we'll fit."
"But the chains," Vance pointed out. "We'll be locked."
Rook reached into the messy nest of his white hair. He pulled out a small, thin piece of wire that had been expertly hidden.
"I've been practicing on the latch of the cage every night," Rook said. "I can get it open in under a minute. We just need to wait for the right moment. If we obey them tomorrow, they'll think we've given up. They'll be careless."
Vance looked at Rook's determined face. For the first time since he had been kicked out of his home, he felt a tiny flicker of something that wasn't despair. It wasn't quite hope yet, but it was close.
He reached down and felt the rough texture of the parchment scrap against his skin. The symbol seemed to pulse with a low, silent rhythm. He didn't know why, but he felt like he needed to keep it.
"Okay," Vance whispered. "Tell me what I need to do."
Rook nodded. "Sleep. Save your strength. We're going to need it."
Vance closed his eyes, but he didn't sleep for a long time. He kept thinking about the symbol on the paper and the cold, but as he sat in the dark, clutching scrap of paper, he felt a strange sense of resolve.