Aleister blinked as ice water splashed across his face through iron bars.

I—it’s finally over. Dry tissue scratched the back of his throat. The fresh cuts across his arm stung. The familiar short-haired blonde woman exited his cell. Day in-day out. It never changes. This never-ending vicious cycle. He escaped, she followed. She tortured him. But for what reason? He didn't know. Let alone a word; no sounds ever left her mouth.

There must—no, she needed a reason. She couldn't just enjoy him suffer. Or maybe she could. He might not know, but didn't believe it.

His stomach growled. His cracked eyes widened in an instant, long adjusted to the dim dungeon lights. He shook his head, shaking his black hair off his face. Without further thought, he crawled and grabbed the tray of food from the heavy-set human's hands. He leaned his back down and glanced at the familiar food. Bean stew with a stale yeast roll.

He broke the bread into small chunks and added them to the thin, brown mixed bean stew. The broth restored a modicum of moisture to the bread. After waiting a moment, he downed it in one gulp. Just like he expected, nothing differed from its bitter, saltless state.

Aleister lowered the bowl from his mouth. The patroller opened his cell cage.

"Hands."

Aleister tossed the bowl aside He rolled up a thin book and placed it between his cotton belt. He held both of his arms in front of him as the patroller tied thick, hempen ropes around his wrists. It was finally time for them to move again.

His tied hands brought back faint memories of that night. The faceless gazes of masked voices placing bids on his family and the other captured. Cattle had more value to them. He was the lucky one. His older sister helped him escape. He had never run so much in his life before. The broken blisters on his feet. The splinters on his skin. Yet here he was. The lucky one.

The patroller yanked the rope. Aleister fell into a prepared mud bath. It would disguise his features and conceal him during their travel. It never disguised his eyes.

Aleister looked at the patroller with disgust as he stood up. The patroller noticed this and created an audible noise with his throat before spitting out a thick wad of slimy phlegm and saliva in his face. "Your eyes will sell for a pretty penny."

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Aleister grit his teeth and held in his rage, fearing further punishment. Pleased, the patroller took out a dirty black rag. He smeared Aleister’s face with it. An act that simultaneously removed the thick spit and tears, yet still left a thin layer of residue on his face.

The patrollers dragged him out of the cell and up the stairs. A temporary reprieve from living for months on end, surrounded by stone walls, sleeping on a wooden bench, eating slop no better than pig gruel.

Upon entering the main hall, the other patrollers surrounded him and conversed in a language foreign to him. He listened in. Remembering the pronunciation of each word.

He gazed at his surroundings, looking for any opportunities that would allow him to escape. Alas, no such moment presented itself. The area lay barren, with nothing more than collapsed and empty wooden boxes in this cobbled grey space.

The patroller tugged on the rope once again and continued to drag him out of the main hall. Aleister followed him out into the luscious courtyard.

As he left the building, it took a while for his eyes to readjust. As his eyes opened up, the scenery reminded him of the paintings of landscapes he saw back at the manor. The vibrant yellow sun blazed through the cloudless blue sky and illuminated the vast, sprawling flatlands covered in luscious green grass and an array of flowers. Is this the afterlife? Aleister smirked. If only. He would rather be dead than live like this any longer.

Aleister grew the faintest of smiles. He inhaled the clean, open air*,* and sneezed. My count shouldn't be too far off.

The patroller stopped in front of a wooden wagon with twelve other children already crammed inside. Aleister frowned. They made this type of wagon for ten slaves—max. However, since they were only children, the patrollers stuffed in two extra. He would be the thirteenth.

The guard picked him up, shoved him in before slamming the door shut. Aleister’s presence caused the other children to be pushed back and forced him to kneel down in an awkward position. As the wagon moved, he rotated his body to face the opposite side, as he didn’t fancy staring at a rotten wooden door.

The smell of unwashed children ladened with mud and months of unwashed dirt. Months of mold and mildew festered upon their rags. Months of grease and oil on their skin and hair. Vile.

Most of the kids looked at him. Cleary just as nervous and worried about themselves. He wasn’t in the mood to converse—and closed his eyes.

“Y—you're a B—Belmont?” The girl next to him asked in a hushed voice.

However, just as soon as he closed them, he opened them right back up. The girl recognizing surprised him, but only to a small degree. After all, having vermillion eyes wasn’t exactly the most common of sights. Aleister grinned, “Actually, I'm a slave.”