Chapter 24
“I was born in Drutes and became a slave at eight,” I began, while he watched my every move. “My parents were both secondaries, and I was eight when they were caught passing information to Interion about the location of the camps.”
I couldn’t suppress the sadness in my voice—I was terrible at hiding my feelings. But Zion was even worse than me, staring at me with an astonished expression.
“You’re the daughter of Lagherta and Ross Vidana?” he asked, stunned. I stared back at him, even more shocked, feeling a pain too sharp to ignore after hearing the surname I’d buried along with my parents.
“Yes, how do you know their names?” I immediately saw discomfort spread across his face, his lips pressing into a tight line.
I sighed, unable to believe what I was discovering.
I vaguely remembered my parents talking about an allied general a few days before everything went wrong.
“You were the one they were passing information to, weren’t you? ”
Zion looked up at the sky, his chest rising and falling faster. Even the shadows seemed to draw closer to him.
“Let me guess—you can’t talk about it either,” I grumbled, shaking my head in disbelief.
We continued in silence, and that terrified me more than any loud argument would have.
“I can’t talk about it,” Zion whispered.
A chill ran up my spine, and I immediately knew something was wrong.
Two possibilities came to mind: either he could be severely punished for telling me and put others at risk, or he was a complete idiot.
“Please, Kay. Trust me and save this for another time.”
His eyes pleaded, as if this caused him pain too. I looked up at the endless sky, trying to understand the situation. Why shouldn’t I know? Why all the mystery surrounding him? I cleared my mind and continued my story before I started asking questions he obviously wouldn’t answer.
“When they were executed, I barely understood what was happening. I don’t clearly remember how it all unfolded, but I know there was no goodbye.
Since I was so young, I was sent to an organization for slaves considered traitors to the nation.
There, they classified me as low value because my gift was relatively weak and they discovered a debilitating lung disease.
Still, they kept me working in the kitchens until my gift manifested and they could decide what to do with me. ”
I looked at Zion, who was hanging on every word. His voice was gentle when he asked:
“Were you with them the day they died?”
“I was, and that’s the worst part—because I don’t remember.
There were days I fought to remember, but I couldn’t.
I told Ambrose about it, and he said maybe it’s my own brain protecting me from the pain.
Either way, after a while I gave up trying.
Some nights I dream about them—fragments of my past that appear out of nowhere. They’re the only memories I have.”
Zion sighed, his irritation visible. I didn’t know why I was telling him all this, but now I’d opened the box of memories and it was impossible to stop.
“When I turned ten, my healing gift manifested, but my lungs were getting worse fast. They decided to send me to a Drutes squadron to be used for the rest of my life healing soldiers in battle. I remember the slave mark was made that night, and I hated my gift for bringing this on me.”
I ran my hand over my ear, where they’d mutilated the tips and cauterized them with hot iron.
It had been restored after Ambrose did several reconstruction sessions, but sometimes, when I woke from a nightmare, I still felt the spot throbbing.
I felt Zion staring at me openly, but I didn’t have the courage to meet his gaze and see pity in his eyes.
“And you were only ten years old?” he asked, anguished.
“Yes, but that makes no difference to them. A slave is worth less than a pig.”
“And what happened after that? Because if you’d been in the forest since you were ten, you wouldn’t have survived until the rescue.”
“You’re right.” I swallowed hard, remembering what happened. “A human showed up the week I was supposed to be taken away. He was old and rich—he’d come looking for a slave with a healing gift.”
I stopped, swallowing tears. Zion touched my fingers and held my hand. I felt the warmth of his skin seeping into mine.
“They told him there was no child with a healing gift, but I overheard the conversation because that afternoon I’d been assigned to bring tea to the office.
So when the gentleman was leaving, I introduced myself and told him I could heal.
He said if I could ease the pain in his body, he would take me, regardless of the price. ”
I took a deep breath. Those memories hurt sharply, like a scorpion sting that throbs on and off.
“To this day I remember the desperation that washed over me when I touched his hand, sending every bit of power I could. I was terrified because I didn’t know what I was doing and knew nothing about medicine, yet I had to try to free myself from the armies.
I understood that being a war slave was a death sentence.
In the end, my desperate attempt worked—the man left a huge bag of money on the governess’s table, and we left the place with him walking normally. ”
Zion was completely silent.
“Do you want me to tell you the rest another day?”
“No, please, continue,” Zion encouraged gently.
“After that, I went to live on his property and learned his name was Joan Sanos. He was the father of two children—a girl and a boy. The boy suffered from the same illness. At the time, I didn't know what it was, but now I know they had two conditions: brittle bone disease and rheumatoid arthritis.
“Joan was a good man. He let me take classes with his youngest daughter, Mahina Sanos.
Because of that, I learned to read and write and how to behave properly in society—I'd become a wild, quiet child during the two years I spent in the kitchen. Mahina and I became friends, and together we took classes in ballet and archery.”
“That's why you're good with arrows,” he said, smiling. I nodded.
“His wife didn't like me very much. She didn't appreciate the idea of a slave mingling with her children, but Joan always put me above his wife's tantrums.” Joan was a good man, I remembered fondly.
It was a happy part of my childhood. “Time passed.
Joan and Frederic, his eldest son, didn't suffer from pain or bone fractures because I was managing the healing well, even though I didn't really know what I was doing. But...”
I stopped, needing a moment to breathe. My heart ached so much. Because these were the only good memories from my adolescence, the ending was painful in a way I couldn't explain.
“There's always a 'but,' isn't there? And usually things get complicated after it,” Zion said, brushing his thumb across my hand. I nodded.
“At fourteen, my lung condition worsened and my power weakened because I was healing two people while my gift fought against the cancer.
There was no elmedic available to treat a slave, and the cost would have been outrageous anyway.
Joan noticed my power wasn't as effective anymore, but he still wanted me around.
On a cold winter night, when the disease spread through him, my gift failed—it was exhausted—and his body couldn't hold on until morning.”
I took a deep breath as a suffocating pain spread through my chest.
“Joan died holding my hands. His wife couldn't even bear to stay in the room with me there.
The next day, she beat me herself with a piece of wood in the front courtyard and dragged me to the army.
When they asked my price—since healing slaves are expensive—she threw a coin into the soldier's hand.
Said she'd pay to never see me again. You know the rest. I survived two years in the army because they discovered that even without being able to use my gift, a few drops of my blood were enough to stop bleeding and close wounds.”
Zion squeezed my hand so hard it hurt.
“What was her name?” he asked. His voice radiated a cold calm. I shivered.
“Eleanor Sanos,” I whispered to the wind. A name I wanted to erase from my memory.
We stayed silent a while longer. The warm wind blew against my face, and Kiara still hadn't come down from the skies. Judging by the sun's position, it had to be around 4 p.m.
Despite the sadness, I felt relieved to have shared the story. I hadn't even told my therapist when I was in therapy, and now my chest felt incredibly lighter.
In the middle of all this, I realized too late that our legs were still open at zero.
“Oh, by the gods!” I exclaimed, startled.
“What?” he asked, alarmed.
“We must have been in this position for thirty minutes. It's going to hurt like the abyss.” I immediately started trying to close my legs.
Gods, it felt like fire in every muscle when I moved them.
The gravity clock was only supposed to be done for ten minutes, no more.
Zion tried to close his legs too, and I saw the pain on his face, but he didn't grumble as he tried to move.
I managed to get one leg up onto the wall, almost crying from the stiffness, then brought it toward the other and curled up on my side in agony, in a fetal position.
From the labored breathing behind me, Zion was suffering too.
“I think I've found an excellent punishment for students who slack off,” Zion exclaimed, lying on his side. I turned to him, still holding my legs against my chest.
We looked at each other in that pathetic state: two adults curled up in fetal positions on the stone floor, covered in sweat and dust. With my eyes still watery, I started laughing like a madwoman, and he joined me. We laughed so hard my stomach hurt.