38. THE SLAVE
38
THE SLAVE
The slave, whose name wasn’t Lion of Zarall anymore, turned and tossed in his sleep.
The nightmare came almost every night. He didn’t have the words to describe the dream; there weren’t clear, coherent images that played out like a story. It was a fragmented collection of impressions that assaulted his senses. He smelled and tasted blood, thick and metallic. He felt his skin tore under her teeth and nails. He heard the wet sound of bones and skull crushing under his fists. And the worst was the screams and the terrible silence that followed.
The nightmare clung to him, suffocating him, weighing on him. The makeshift bed beneath him felt like sand pulling him in, as if wanting to swallow him. His breathing quickened, hands clenching into fists, his body drenched in sweat. And then it was over. He jerked awake, his heart aching in his chest.
He was grateful for the confined space, small and dark. The walls felt like they were pressing in on him, like he was buried alive. He lay there, staring at the shadows, not even trying to pull himself back to reality. The dream still shrouded his mind, and the echoes of her screams filled the space. He was torn between wanting the screams to stop and clinging onto them, because they were all that remained of Saradra.
Despite his resistance, the last echoes of the nightmare faded. He rested his elbow over his eyes, breathing through his nose, his heart slowing. Then he heard it. The whispers. They were faint, almost too quiet to catch, like the murmur of voices from another room. When he strained to listen, they stopped abruptly. He only heard the whispers when he was expecting them the least, and the words could never quite reach him. It was like there was a thick mud or a fog in his mind, muffling the words.
He had been hearing them most nights now. A faint echo that never quite broke through the fog in his mind. Something — or someone — was calling to him, trying to get his attention. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make out the words. It was maddening.
With a frustrated sigh, he sat up just as Olira knocked on the door. She didn’t bother waiting for a reply and let herself in. He kept his head down, shielding his eyes from the light, and he stamped out the fear in his chest.
Olira stepped inside, a plate of food balanced in one hand. He kept his face carefully blank, though a knot of fear twisted in his gut. This woman… He didn’t understand her fully, but he knew enough to be cautious of her anger. She was capable of things that she probably wasn’t aware of herself.
She put the plate down and reached for the unlit candle. She lit it using another candle in the hallway and brought it back. The soft glow of the flickering flame illuminated the small space. When she didn’t leave immediately, he glanced at her, cautious and alert.
She leaned against the wall, her expression unreadable. For a moment, she stood like the words weighed on her. Finally, she spoke with a low and steady voice. “I’m taking you to the town tomorrow.”
He kept his expression vacant, while the fear twisted tighter inside him. He was expecting this, since that storm a week ago. The last of the debris was cleared, the barn fixed, and the spoiled crops removed from the field. She didn’t need him anymore.
“Master Tholthus is a good man,” she said. He didn’t understand why her voice sounded strained. She hadn’t asked a question or gave an order, so he wasn’t obliged to respond. She lingered for another moment, as if expecting some kind of reaction. He offered no response, and she turned away, closing the door softly behind her.
He pulled the plate and forced himself to eat. As soon as the plate was cleared, he blew out the candle and lied on the bed, with his hands tucked under his head. Sleep didn’t come easily this time. Tomorrow, he would wear a collar again. He would be sold to a stranger. His stomach churned, and he gritted his teeth. He didn’t care how good this Master Tholthus was. All free men and women were selfish, and he was done letting them decide his fate.
Besides, as soon as he stepped out of this farm, he would be recognised. He was still surprised she didn’t know what the brands on his chest meant. He was certain she had seen them before, though he still kept them hidden, just to avoid evoking her curiosity. But this Master Tholthus, or someone else in town, would eventually recognise the brands and identify him as the Lion of Zarall. Then, the word would get to Kastian.
Then, he would be on his way back to White Tower.
No, he couldn’t let that happen.
His little respite in this forgotten corner of Chinderia was over. So, what now?
He heard Saradra’s voice in his head again, as clear as it was before: Twilight of Infinity.
The thought of freedom was both thrilling and terrifying. If he could get to the city of Euroad, and fight at Twilight of Inifinity , he knew he could win it.
He touched the left side of his neck, imagining what it would be like to have his tattoo removed. His heart raced, and something deep stirred inside of him. He could live without a collar around his neck. Without the fear of free men and women. He could decide his own fate. The map of Chinderia flashed across his mind, and his heart pounded even faster. He could travel every corner of it. He could go to Ascain and find that little town called Bellmouth.
He could discover other maps. Earthome had more to offer than just Chinderia.
With that excitement came a ripple of fear. Letting himself desire something so badly was frightening. Because the idea of not getting it was devastating. The fear of failure and disappointment threatened to paralyse him.
He rolled to his side, willing himself to sleep, despite knowing rest was out of his reach tonight. The whispers returned, faint and distant, carrying with them a subtle hint of questioning. He stilled, staring at the darkness that surrounded him. He still couldn’t make out the words, and couldn’t quite hear the question. But he knew the answer.
His answer was anything .
He would do anything for his freedom.
Twilight of Blood series continues in
Beast of Zarall