Evan Kael woke to a world of pain and shadow, his skull throbbing like it'd been split open and stitched back wrong. His tongue scraped against the roof of his mouth, dry and coated with the metallic tang of blood—his own, judging by the crust flaking from his split lip. He tried to shift, to sit up, but a sharp jolt stopped him cold. Chains—heavy, rusted iron—clamped his wrists and ankles, the links grinding against his skin with every twitch. The metal was slick with something wet, blood or sweat or both, and it burned where it dug into flesh already rubbed raw. He sucked in a breath, shallow and ragged, and forced his eyes open.

Darkness gave way to a blurry haze, then sharpened into a nightmare. He was in a pit—a cavernous hollow carved from rough stone, its walls rising high and jagged, streaked with dark stains that might've been rust or dried blood. Torchlight flickered from sconces bolted into the rock, too high to reach, casting a sickly orange glow that barely touched the shadows pooling below. The air hung thick, oppressive, a stew of sweat, urine, and a sour rot that clawed at his throat. Each inhale felt like swallowing grit, and he fought the urge to gag as the stench settled deep in his lungs.

Around him, shapes stirred—hunched figures draped in rags, their movements sluggish, mechanical. Chains clinked in a dull, ceaseless rhythm, a sound that burrowed into his skull and set his teeth on edge. Some moaned, low and broken, while others sat silent, staring at nothing with eyes that gleamed hollow in the dim light. Evan's stomach twisted, a cold knot forming. This wasn't a hospital bed, wasn't some twisted prank. His last memory crashed in: the warehouse, the hum of fluorescent lights, the groan of a forklift tipping over. Metal pinning him, crushing his chest, then blackness. He'd died—or should've. This wasn't death's quiet void. This was something worse.

"Where the hell…" His voice came out a croak, barely audible over the pit's drone. It scratched his throat, raw from disuse, and he winced, tasting fresh blood where his lip cracked wider. Before he could finish the thought, a shadow loomed, and a boot slammed into his ribs.

"Up, dog!" The voice was a guttural snarl, thick with malice. Evan gasped, pain exploding through his side, and squinted up at the source. A hulking figure towered over him—scarred face twisted in a sneer, nose crooked from some old break, a whip coiled at his belt like a predator waiting to strike. The slavemaster's bulk blotted out the torchlight, his shadow swallowing Evan whole. "Move it, or I'll peel your hide and feed it to the rats."

Evan's tongue itched with a retort—something about the guy's face looking like a failed experiment—but the fire in his ribs screamed caution. He'd always had a mouth on him, a habit that'd earned him more bruises than friends back home, but this wasn't the time. Not yet. He dragged himself to his knees, chains rattling, and bit down a groan as his muscles protested. The slavemaster—Gorr, he'd catch the name later—grunted, a sound of grudging approval, and lumbered off, his boots thudding against the stone as he turned his whip on another figure cowering nearby.

Evan slumped against the wall, the cold rock biting through his torn shirt and chilling his sweat-soaked back. His mind raced, clawing for answers. Not Earth—not with chains and whips and air that felt alive, charged with something he couldn't name. His hands shook as he wiped blood from his chin, smearing it across his knuckles. The warehouse was gone—his shitty job, the flickering TV in his apartment, the life he'd barely lived. Dead, then dumped here. Why? How? He didn't know, and the not-knowing gnawed at him worse than the pain. Survive first, figure it out later. That'd been his rule through every punch life threw—evictions, bar fights, a sister who'd stopped calling. This was a bigger punch, but the rule held.

A soft scrape broke his spiral, pulling his gaze left. A girl slid down beside him, her movements careful, deliberate, like she was testing the ground before trusting it to hold her. She was thin, all sharp angles under grime-streaked skin, her frame swallowed by a tunic so ragged it barely clung together. Bruises mottled her arms, purple and yellow blooming across pale flesh, but it was her hair that caught him—bright red, tangled and matted with dirt, yet glowing like a flame against the pit's gloom. She settled a foot away, knees drawn up, and fixed him with a pair of green eyes that gleamed with a quiet, stubborn life. They flicked over him, assessing—his bloodied lip, his trembling hands—before her lips quirked into a faint smirk.

"First day's the worst," she said, her voice low and rough, scraped raw by this place, but laced with a warmth that didn't belong here. "You'll get used to it. Or you won't."

Evan snorted, the sound scraping his throat and tugging at his lip. "Real motivational. They hand out pep talks with the chains around here?"

Her smirk widened, just a touch, revealing a flash of teeth. "Experience. You're new blood—I can tell. Got that look, like you're still figuring out how deep the shit is."

"It's a gift," he said, rubbing his jaw where a bruise was swelling, hot and tender under his fingers. "Name's Evan. Evan Kael. You got one, or do I just call you Red?"

"Lysa," she replied, brushing a strand of that fiery hair from her face. It fell back anyway, defiant as she seemed to be, and she didn't bother fixing it again. "And yeah, I've heard the 'Red' thing before. Save it."

"Noted." He leaned his head back against the wall, the stone's chill seeping into his scalp, and studied her. Most here were ghosts—eyes dead, shoulders slumped like the fight had been beaten out of them long ago. Lysa was different. She sat straight, chin tilted, her posture a silent challenge to the pit itself. It was stupid, maybe, clinging to that kind of fire in a place like this, but it stirred something in him. A flicker of recognition, maybe. Or just a lifeline he didn't know he needed. "So, Lysa, what's the deal? Slave pits, huh? They filming a fantasy flick, or is this just how Tuesdays roll here?"

"Tuesday," she said dryly, her smirk fading into something harder. "Redfang Clan runs this hole. Catch people—travelers, villagers, anyone who can't fight back—then break 'em, sell 'em to whoever's got coin. Or work 'em till they're bones. Welcome to Atherion."

"Atherion," he echoed, rolling the word on his tongue. It felt heavy, ancient, like it carried centuries of blood and dust. "Great. Guess I'm not in Kansas anymore."

She tilted her head, a flicker of confusion crossing her face, but she didn't press it. Instead, she shifted closer, her chains clinking softly against the stone. "They'll test you soon. See if you're worth keeping alive. Don't give 'em a reason to kill you fast."

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"Solid advice," he said, meeting her gaze. Those green eyes held his, steady and unflinching, and he felt a jolt—not fear, not quite hope, but something alive. "Any pro tips, or am I just winging it?"

"Keep your head down. Don't mouth off." She paused, then grinned, a quick, sharp flash that lit her face like a spark in the dark. "Though you've got a mouth on you. Might be trouble."

"Guilty as charged," he said, and damn if her grin didn't pull one from him too. It felt wrong, smiling in this pit of misery, surrounded by chains and despair, but it was something to hold onto—a crack of light in the gloom. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, the chains dragging against his skin. "How long you been stuck here?"

"Long enough to stop counting," she said, her grin fading. Her fingers curled around a loose pebble, rolling it between them, and her voice dropped, softer now. "Weeks. Months, maybe. You lose track when the sun's just a rumor down here."

"Sounds like a party," he muttered, but his chest tightened. She didn't deserve this—none of them did, but her especially. That spark in her eyes, that defiance, it shouldn't be buried under stone and iron. He swallowed, throat dry, and forced his tone lighter. "Guess I showed up just in time to crash it."

"Lucky me," she said, her smirk returning, faint but real. She tossed the pebble aside, letting it skitter across the floor, and leaned back against the wall, mirroring him. "Stick around, Kael. Might be worth it."

The day stretched into a brutal eternity. A horn blared, sharp and jarring, and the slavemasters roared into action, herding the slaves into ragged lines. Whips cracked, slicing the air, and Evan stumbled to his feet, Lysa beside him. They were shoved toward a pile of rocks at the pit's edge, the stones rough and heavy, some streaked with moss or crusted with old blood. The task was simple, Gorr bellowed: move the pile to the other side. Pointless, soul-crushing work meant to grind them down. Evan's hands bled after the first hour, the jagged edges cutting into his palms, but he grit his teeth and kept going. Lysa stayed close, her pace steady despite a limp in her step—an old injury, he guessed, hidden under her stubborn grit.

He watched her from the corner of his eye, noting how she moved—careful but sure, like she'd done this a hundred times and refused to let it break her. At one point, a whip cracked nearby, and a man screamed, high and raw. Evan flinched, turning to see a slave collapse, blood pooling from a gash across his back. Gorr laughed, a wet, ugly sound, and coiled the whip for another strike. Evan's stomach twisted, bile rising, but Lysa's hand brushed his arm, light but firm.

"Don't look," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear despite the pit's chill. "Focus on the next step. One rock at a time."

He nodded, jaw clenched so hard it ached, and hefted another stone. Her touch lingered in his mind, a quiet anchor in the chaos. They worked in silence after that, the rhythm of their steps syncing up—lift, carry, drop, repeat. Sweat stung his eyes, his muscles burned, and the chains dragged heavier with every trip, but having her there made it bearable. Barely.

By dusk, the torches dimmed, and the guards bellowed for them to stop. Evan's shirt was soaked, streaked with dust and blood, and his hands trembled as he dropped the last rock. He and Lysa collapsed against the wall together, side by side, the cold stone a mercy against their aching backs. She dug into her tunic and pulled out a scrap of bread—stale, barely bigger than a fist, crusted with dirt. Without a word, she tore it in half and pressed a piece into his hand.

"You don't have to—" he started, voice hoarse from the day's strain.

"Shut up and eat," she cut in, shoving it closer. "You're no good to me dead, Kael."

"To you?" He raised an eyebrow, taking the bread. It was dry, tasteless, crumbling in his fingers, but it hit his stomach like a lifeline. "What, I'm your project now?"

"Maybe." Her eyes softened for a heartbeat, green catching the torchlight, then the smirk returned. "Someone's gotta keep you alive, newbie. You're too green to last a week."

He chuckled, the sound rough but real, scraping up from somewhere deep. "Fine. But I'm not calling you boss."

"Yet," she shot back, and they both laughed—quiet, stolen, a flicker of light in the pit's endless dark. The sound drew a glare from a nearby guard, his hand twitching toward his whip, but he didn't move, and they let the laughter fade into the hum of the pit.

Night fell, the air growing colder, the torches burning low until they were just embers glowing in the gloom. The slaves huddled in clumps, shivering against the damp stone, their breaths puffing faintly in the chill. Evan sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Lysa, their chains clinking as they shifted to find some scrap of comfort. She was close enough that he could feel her warmth, faint but real, cutting through the cold that seeped into his bones. It stirred something in him—a pull he hadn't felt in years, not since life on Earth had ground him down to cynicism and survival. Not lust, though she was pretty under the grime, her sharp features softened by that red hair, but something deeper. A need to keep her close, to protect that spark she carried against this place.

"Evan," she said suddenly, her voice so soft it barely reached him over the pit's murmurs. "You ever think about… before?"

"Before this?" He frowned, chewing on the thought. His old life—cramped apartment, late-night TV, a job that paid just enough to scrape by—felt like a ghost now, fading under the weight of this reality. "Yeah. Wasn't much to miss. Shitty coffee, shittier luck. You?"

"Sometimes." She stared at the ceiling, eyes distant, tracing cracks he couldn't see in the dark. "Had a brother. Little runt used to follow me everywhere—tagging along, tugging at my sleeve, begging for stories. Wonder if he's still out there, somewhere."

"Out there's better than here," he said, voice low, rough with something he couldn't name. "We'll find him. After we bust out."

She turned to him, surprise flickering in her eyes, then smiled—a real one, soft and unguarded, like the sun breaking through storm clouds. "You're crazy, Kael."

"Stick with me, you'll see worse," he replied, grinning back. Her laugh was small but bright, a sound that lodged in his chest and refused to leave. In this pit of chains and shadows, Lysa was his ember, and he'd fight tooth and nail to keep her burning.