Chapter 2: Name

POV: Boy

I slowly open my eyes, a throbbing pain pounding in my head like a relentless drum. My hands instinctively reach up, brushing against something rough and stiff. A piece of cloth, tied tightly over what I realize is a wound. The sensation is strange—coarse against my sweat-streaked skin, irritating yet oddly comforting.

My vision blurs momentarily, and I blink hard, trying to focus on my surroundings. The first thing I notice is that I’m still inside the cart. The stench of unwashed bodies and rotting wood assaults my nose, a heavy, suffocating odor that clings to everything. Before I can think further, a voice crackles beside me, hoarse and low:

"Are you alright, boy?"

I turn my head sluggishly, the movement sending a sharp ache through my temple. An old man sits next to me, his face weathered and tired, his gray eyes dull but not entirely lifeless.

"Y-yeah..." I mutter weakly, my voice dry and cracked as if it hasn’t been used in days.

The fog in my mind begins to lift, and I start to take in more of my surroundings. The dense, suffocating quiet of the forest is gone. Outside, faint noises filter through—the murmur of voices, the clatter of wheels on cobblestones, the distant call of merchants hawking their wares.

"You took a nasty hit, but you’ll live," the old man murmurs, his tone soft, almost fatherly. His words should offer comfort, but they don’t.

I reach up again, my fingers brushing against the cloth.

"Who... who did this?" I ask, the memory of what happened slipping through my mind like water through my fingers.

"It was me," he replies, his voice tinged with a kind of resigned practicality. "I couldn’t leave it open. It could’ve gotten infected."

My gaze lingers on him for a moment. His hands, rough and calloused, rest limply in his lap. The scars on them tell stories I don’t want to know.

"Thanks... I guess." The words leave my lips awkwardly, but there’s an undercurrent of sincerity I can’t deny.

Before either of us can say more, a sharp metallic clink cuts through the air. The sound is cold and unfeeling, echoing in the confines of the cart like a death knell. My head snaps toward the source: the iron bars of the cart being unlocked. My stomach twists.

"Get moving," a mercenary growls, his voice harsh and commanding.

The other slaves begin to rise, their chains dragging on the wooden floor with an unbearable screech. My body feels heavy as I follow them, each step like wading through mud. The weight of the shackles digs into my wrists and ankles, a constant reminder of my captivity.

When we step outside, the harsh light of day blinds me momentarily. I squint, taking in the scene before me. We’re in what looks like a bustling town square. Small, weathered houses line the edges, their wooden walls warped and discolored by time. The air here is thick with dust and the acrid smell of sweat.

In the center of the square stands a raised wooden platform, splintered and stained with something dark. My gut tightens. I don’t need to ask what those stains are.

We’re marched to the platform and lined up, shoulder to shoulder. The chains rattle with every movement, the sound grating and constant. Beside me, the boy I’ve been chained to begins to cry. His sobs are soft at first, then grow louder, more desperate.

I clench my jaw and stare ahead, trying to block out the sound. But it seeps into my mind like poison, each sob chipping away at the fragile wall I’ve built around myself.

The mercenaries move with practiced efficiency, ripping the filthy rags from our bodies. The cold air bites at my skin, but before I can react, a powerful jet of water slams into me.

The force nearly knocks me off my feet. The icy shock steals the breath from my lungs, my body trembling uncontrollably. I open my mouth instinctively, trying to catch some of the water to drink, but it’s not enough. It never is.

Through the haze of water and pain, I see one of the mercenaries conjuring the spell. A glowing magic circle hovers above his hand, faintly blue and pulsing with energy. He controls the jets of water with ease, his expression one of utter indifference.

The sight stirs something deep within me—a mixture of envy and anger that I can’t fully comprehend. My fingers curl into fists, but I keep my face emotionless, even as the water continues to batter me.

The boy beside me collapses, his cries turning into choked gasps. He’s curled on the ground, trembling violently. I glance at him briefly but do nothing. What could I do? My gaze shifts away, back to the mercenaries and their casual cruelty.

Eventually, the water stops. My skin stings, raw from the pressure, and my muscles ache from the cold. I can feel the dirt and filth washed away, but it’s not a relief. The humiliation lingers, like a weight pressing on my chest.

And then they come.

The buyers.

They move through the square like vultures, their eyes gleaming with greed as they scan us. These men—these pigs—see us as nothing more than merchandise. Tools for labor. Objects for pleasure.

They inspect us one by one, their hands rough and invasive. I feel their fingers trace along my arms, my shoulders, my back. My stomach churns, but I don’t flinch. I don’t move. I just close my eyes and retreat into myself, shutting out the world as best I can.

But their voices still reach me.

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"Strong build. He’ll last a while."

"This one’s too thin. Useless."

I clench my fists tighter, my nails digging into my palms. The pain is grounding, a distraction from everything else.

Then I hear it—the sound of chains being undone. I open my eyes, confused, and see the older slaves being separated from the rest of us. They’re lined up in the center of the square, forced to their knees.

A mercenary steps forward, a sword in his hand.

My breath catches.

I know what’s coming.

I want to look away, but I can’t. My eyes are glued to the scene, my heart pounding in my chest.

The first strike falls. Blood sprays across the wooden platform, bright and vivid. My stomach twists, but I feel... nothing.

The old man who tended to my wound is among them. His face is blank, his eyes empty. He doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t beg. He just kneels there, waiting for the inevitable.

When the blade cuts through him, I feel a faint pang of... something. Sadness? Guilt?

No.

The only thought that crosses my mind is:

"That’s fewer people to share the food with."

The realization is like ice in my veins. What kind of person am I becoming?

Where did that thought come from?

My chest tightens as the realization settles. I stare at the bloodstained platform, but the scene is already fading from my vision. My mind is clouded with questions, with doubts. How could I think something like that? It wasn’t relief. It wasn’t even survival. It was… apathy.

We’re herded back to the cart like cattle, the chains around our wrists and ankles clinking with every step. The rhythmic sound digs into my ears, syncing with the heavy thud of my heartbeat. My body feels hollow, but my skin tingles with exhaustion. The platform, the blood, the cries—they’re all behind me now. Yet, they linger, echoing in my thoughts like whispers in the dark.

When we’re shoved inside the cart, I notice something immediately: the space is emptier now. Only the children remain—eight of us in total. Eight. The silence among us is suffocating.

The cart creaks as the merchant climbs aboard, his bulky figure casting a shadow over the mercenaries gathered around. Their voices are low but sharp, carrying a weight that makes my skin crawl.

“We’ll take these leftovers to the mines. The kids will be useful,” the merchant declares, his tone dripping with practicality.

One of the mercenaries frowns, crossing his arms. His face is scarred, his eyes cold and calculating. “I’m not so sure. They seem weak. It might be better to end their suffering now.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. My breath catches in my throat, and my body trembles involuntarily. I can’t die here. Not like this. Not after everything.

But the merchant’s response comes swift and sharp. “I wasn’t asking for your opinion. This is what we’ll do.”

His tone leaves no room for argument. The mercenary glares but says nothing more, his silence an unspoken concession. A bitter sense of relief washes over me, but it’s fleeting, fragile. My heart still pounds in my chest, each beat a painful reminder that my life hangs by a thread.

Minutes pass. The tension in the cart is unbearable, the air thick with fear and despair. Suddenly, a burlap sack is tossed inside, landing with a heavy thud.

Bread.

Without thinking, I lunge forward, my body acting on pure instinct. My hands grasp a generous piece before the others can react. Retreating to a corner, I clutch the bread tightly, my stomach growling in anticipation.

I eat in small, deliberate bites, letting each morsel linger on my tongue. The bread is coarse and dry, but it’s food. It’s survival. I block out the sounds of the others scrambling for their share. Their desperation doesn’t concern me. Not right now.

But then I notice him—the boy always chained to me. He’s kneeling in the middle of the cart, his shoulders shaking as soft, muffled sobs escape his lips. His piece of bread lies untouched on the floor, forgotten.

He doesn’t even try to grab food.

Something twists in my chest. It’s not pity. It’s not guilt. It’s something I can’t name.

I tear off a piece of my bread, my hand hesitant for just a moment. Then I reach out to him.

“Hey, take this.”

He looks up at me, his tear-streaked face filled with surprise. For a second, he just stares, as if he can’t believe someone would offer him anything. Slowly, hesitantly, he takes the piece, his small hands trembling.

“Thank you…” he whispers, his voice barely audible. He nibbles on the bread, his tears still falling.

“They... bought... they bought my mom,” he says between sobs. His words are broken, each one a knife to my chest.

I don’t know what to say. What could I say?

Instead, I put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. His body is small, frail, shaking like a leaf in the wind.

“She’s alive,” I say quietly, my voice hollow. “That’s what matters.”

The words feel empty, but they’re all I can manage.

I force a smile, one that feels foreign and unnatural on my face. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll get through this.”

He wipes his eyes with a dirty sleeve and looks at me, his lips quivering. “Really?”

I nod, ruffling his hair gently. “Of course. I heard that if you work well in the mine, you can even earn your freedom.”

His eyes widen, a flicker of hope igniting in their depths. “That’s amazing! I’ll do that! I’ll work hard!”

I watch his enthusiasm grow, his tears drying as a faint smile spreads across his face. But I can’t bring myself to share his hope.

I don’t know if what I said is true. It’s just a rumor, a whisper passed down by the older slaves. A lie, perhaps.

I lean back against the wooden wall of the cart, my gaze drifting upward. Through the gaps in the planks, I catch glimpses of the night sky. Stars scatter across the darkness, their light distant but unwavering. Despite everything, it’s beautiful.

Freedom…

What is freedom, anyway?

A shooting star streaks across the sky, its brilliance fleeting. My chest tightens as I watch it disappear, swallowed by the void. Maybe that’s what freedom is—crossing the darkness without chains, leaving behind a trail of light.

But why does that light always fade?

A memory surfaces, unbidden. My mother’s face, her voice soft and desperate as she uttered her final word to me:

“Live.”

My hands clench into fists. I raise them slightly, reaching toward the moon as if I could grasp it, as if I could claim its light.

“I will…” I whisper to myself, my voice trembling. “I will live for you.”

The weight of a hand on my shoulder snaps me out of my thoughts. I turn to see the boy, his face brighter now, his eyes shining with gratitude.

“I’m Vivian,” he says softly. “What about you?”

My name?

The question lingers in the air, thick and suffocating, like a weight pressing down on my chest. I want to answer. I try to, but my thoughts betray me. It’s as though my very identity is slipping through my fingers, just out of reach. I claw at the memories, desperate, but they feel distant, fragmented.

I can see my parents’ faces, their smiles, the warmth in their eyes. I can hear their voices—soft, kind, full of love—but the words... the words that should be mine, the sound of my name, that simple, grounding truth... it’s gone.

I strain, trying to pull it out from the depths of my mind. My chest tightens with a mix of frustration and despair. Why can't I hear it? Why can't I remember who I am?

The silence is suffocating.

Then, like a wave crashing over me, I’m hit by a memory. It’s not my name, but something far worse—those words, those cruel voices, echoing in my mind.

“Take a good look at what you’ve done, Damned boy.”

The cruel laughter of the demons who took everything from me fills my ears. The memory of that day, the screams, the fire, the faces of those who held me down, forcing me to witness the destruction of everything I held dear. It’s all so vivid, so clear, yet it feels like a different lifetime. My body trembles with the force of it.

And before I can stop myself, the name that wasn’t given to me but thrust upon me escapes my lips, bitter and resigned.

“Damned... My name is Damned.”

Vivian smiles, his expression warm and sincere. “Nice to meet you, Damned.”

I nod faintly, the name settling like a weight on my shoulders. It’s not who I was. But maybe it’s who I am now.