The cambion heard an animal-like whining before he realized the sounds were his own. He blinked repeatedly as he registered the light of day. He was lying on his side, and bearing down on him between the bars of his cage was the offending sun who looked much too happy in that clear blue sky.

"Fuck the sun," the cambion muttered groggily, wiping the gunk from his eyes.

Something smelled yummy. Like roasting bacon. His stomach made an embarrassingly loud noise that sounded almost like a yawn as it too woke up. Whereupon, Status promptly reminded him what was at stake.

Warning, you are Hungry!

You must consume sufficient sustenance before your condition devolves and you lose control of your faculties. Health regeneration has slowed. Stamina regeneration has slowed.

"Eat this," a gruff man's voice said from above him, holding out his arm.

The cambion didn't want to blame his post sleep delusion, but... was this person offering his own arm for him to eat? Because that sounded frighteningly delicious, as unlikely as it was to be true.

The cambion shook his head. He wasn't so far gone in his demonic hunger that he was about to take a bite from the hand that was literally trying to feed him. The person didn't look like an enemy, nor was he really food shaped as far as his more logical brain was concerned.

No, upon getting a better grasp of his senses, he realized the arm in question was holding a crude bowl in its hand. It wasn't the yummy bacon he was smelling, not even close. The creamy slop in front of him was probably food, and the worms inside it were likely nutritious... but the cambion's memories from before identified this as shitty prison food.

Fortunately, the cambion's tastes weren't particular, and he greedily tipped the bowl into his mouth and gulped down the contents. He then proceeded to lick to bowl clean. There hadn't been a lot of food, but at least it was something. And if he was honest, those crunchy worms weren't all bad.

His hunger was only mildly abated. He really wanted that bacon he was smelling, maybe even that arm.

Get it together, man! You're not a cannibal... probably.

“It’s a fucked up thing to do, isn’t it?” the man said, more of a statement than a question. “Roasting pig where we can smell it then feeding us this garbage.”

The cambion looked up from his bowl and took a proper look at his benefactor.

The man looked, in a word, strong. He was a perfectly proportioned human with suntanned, dark bronze skin, with a noticeable olive green undertone. His muscles were impressive, though not bulky like a bodybuilder, rather dense and compact, like a defined bronze statue. His strength went beyond his physicality, though. Despite being nineteen years old, the man’s expression was hard, even absent his broken nose and the days-old gash he sported on his forehead. He had an assessing gaze, with dark brown eyes that saw everything. His overall physical appearance, stance, along with the stubbly head of buzz cut black hair gave him the appearance of a seasoned brawler.

"Are you feeling better now?" the man asked. The corner of his mouth twisted in a slight smirk. "Not still considering whether or not to eat me, are you? Honestly, I don't recommend it. I can't claim to know how I taste, even if I think the answer is probably ‘like shit.’ The thing is, you'll never get close enough to try for yourself."

Despite wearing thick clasps and heavy chains binding his neck, hands and feet, that made him hunch over slightly, he looked to be forcing himself to stand as straight as possible, straining the limits of his chains. The cambion might have thought he was handicapped at first glance, but his perfectly balanced and controlled posture, despite having no weapons, left no doubt in the cambion's mind who would win between them in a straight up fight.

"Wait, what?" the cambion asked, the man’s question registering a little late. He raised his hands and waved them in front of his face innocently. "Hey, I’m sure I heard you wrong, mister. There’s no way I heard you just ask me if I was thinking about eating you. That's obscene! What in the world gave you that ridiculous idea?"

The cambion stopped and stared at his hands as he noticed his own mutilated fingers for the first time. It looked like someone had torn out his claws with a set of pliers. It was probably snakepig-nose man, now that he thought about it. Last night’s idiotic escape attempt… Yeah, the cambion recalled shredding that guy’s forearm, so something like this was to be expected.

“Your claws will grow back, kid” the man said. “Your regeneration speed is something else.”

Indeed, slight movement and an itching sensation under the surface of the skin spoke to the truth of those words.

The man in the cage with the cambion squinted, studying the smaller not-a-beastkin with his piercing brown eyes. They were the kind of eyes that saw everything, and could adroitly pick out weakness and opportunity with a quickness.

Seemingly coming to a decision, the man relaxed somewhat, and proceeded to sit down near the cambion. The change in the man’s demeanor was so drastic that, only by its absence, did the cambion realize the intensity with which he had been coiled like a spring-loaded steel trap, ready to strike at the slightest hint of hostility.

“I’ve heard of druids with self-healing powers like that,” the man continued, his original gruffness having been replaced with mild curiosity. “I thought they were only available at high levels. The way you stitched yourself back up after they brought you in last night looking like a sack of tenderized meat… If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought someone gave you a slow acting healing potion. The way the guards couldn’t believe you were still alive this morning, though. That gave away the game. They put you in here to make it look like I killed you. Don’t know why they bothered with something like that. Look where we are.”

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

The cambion let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. This scary guy wasn’t going to fight him. And thankfully this wasn’t a weird make-you-my-prison-bitch situation either. The guy just wanted to talk.

“Why did you… uh, think I wanted to eat you?” the cambion asked, hesitating to put together the words. They had been true, hadn’t they? Even if it was something he didn’t want to admit. It was still a weird thing for someone to assume.

"I've fought enough monsters to be able to recognize a pair of hungry eyes measuring the mettle of their next meal," the man said, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world to say.

“My name is Muzio,” the man continued. He did not proffer a shackled hand, but nodded his head as if indicating the cambion to reciprocate the introduction.

“Oh, ummm…” the cambion said. “Funny story…”

Muzio raised an eyebrow.

“I actually don’t have one,” the cambion decided he had nothing to lose by being honest. A part of him felt his origins were probably best kept secret, but he ignored that part of him, and gave in to the urge to speak openly about the absurdity of his own existence. “Well, maybe I had one once, but I can’t remember it anymore. Even if I did, it doesn’t feel like it would be mine anymore. On another note, the magic, semi-sentient being that lives in my head told me that mysterious cosmic powers had named me Lucky, but that’s not really a name, is it?”

Even if what he said was mostly true, he didn’t expect Muzio to believe him. It sounded absurd to his own ears. He didn’t think whatever magic entity gave him that Lucky thing meant it as a name, though. Actually, the closest thing to a name he had was Cambion. But he knew in his bones that was his race and not a name, even if he wasn’t sure what a cambion was.

Probably some kind of shape shifting evil thing that eats things.

“So Lucky, you’re an Outworlder, aren’t you?”

The cambion’s jaw dropped.

Muzio surprised the cambion twofold. By treating his sarcastic comment as a naming convention and by providing the cambion with the first ray of real hope he had experienced in his exquisitely short life.

“You know what I am?” he asked, his voice little more than a whisper. He was suddenly afraid that it was a cruel joke and Muzio would hold the information as leverage to some ill end. The cambion’s fears were for naught, however.

“I do,” Muzio answered confidently. “I’ve met two Outworlders before. That’s quite a lot for most people. Your kind is rare. At least the ones who are publicly known. Most people know about them, though. Outworlders tend to draw a lot of attention and sit at the center of important events. The ones who survive, anyway.”

“What do you mean, the ones who survive?”

“I mean the ones who don’t die,” Muzio said, shrugging. “Trouble and Outworlders go hand in hand. I can see by your face that you expect me to be a fountain of information. I’m sorry to break it to you, kid. I’m no Outworlder expert. I know what most people know. That amounts to a short list of facts. They exist, they tend to cause trouble, and they can grow to be quite powerful. That said, you should keep the fact that you are one a secret. Some people would want to snatch you up and use you… But there are just as many out there who see your kind as an unknown quantity. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill you while you’re still weak and new to this world, before you had the chance to become a nuisance.”

“Not you, though?” the cambion said, sheepishly.

“Not me, though,” Muzio said, seriously. “I’d rather make friends with the Outworlder who helped me escape this fucking place and rescue my friend.”

The cambion’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Muzio delivered his statement evenly, and looked too serious to be joking.

“What makes you think I can help you escape?” the cambion asked, keeping his voice low and looking around. Aside from the groups of lethargic prisoners in the adjacent cages, there was no one close enough who could listen.

“You see this?” Muzio tapped the side of his swollen nose. “It may not look like much now, but I promise it’s more than a punching bag.”

“I don’t get it,” the cambion said. “You think I can help you escape because of your nose?”

“I have an uncanny sense of smell,” Muzio answered, donning a grim, determined smile. “I know what a lucky break smells like. You’re it.”

“Are you kidding?” The cambion scoffed, shaking his head. He couldn’t believe his ears. “Maybe if I could figure out how to use my abilities… But even if I did, I barely have a clue how to get myself out of here, let alone you and someone else. I made a mess of trying to escape last night, remember? I’m the farthest thing from lucky.”

“Not quite,” Muzio said. “You said it yourself, the gods named you Lucky.”

“I was being a cheeky asshole,” the cambion said, facepalming. “Something I probably brought here from my past life.”

“You seem to be under the impression your failed escape attempt last night was unlucky.”

“It didn’t exactly feel great when I got zapped by the bitch stick, or when I got kicked in the face until I lost consciousness.”

“Your face looks just fine now,” Muzio said.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Of all possible outcomes, you are now here,” Muzio continued, undeterred. “Until you showed up, I believed that the mistake which put me in here would be my last. And yet now I find an Outworlder with mysterious abilities dwells in this cage with me. I think if you had gotten out of your cage last night, you were woefully unprepared for what came next. Would you have been able to fight your way past the guards? Where would you go if you managed to get away? My hunch tells me you haven’t been in this world very long and you don’t have any friends.”

“I guess I’m starting to see where you’re going with this,” the cambion said. “You’re saying it was lucky that I fucked up and got put in here with you. Still, I think you may be overestimating what I can do.”

“It has nothing to do with what either of us thinks you can do,” Muzio said, shrugging slightly. “Seneca once said luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity. I say opportunity is what happens when a man turns luck to his advantage. We must all strive to live according to our nature, else we die before we die. My nature is to fight. All you have to do is help me get rid of these chains and out of this cage. I will do the rest.”

The cambion scratched his itchy fingertips against his palms. He could feel the tips of his claws coming in.

He sighed.

It’s not like I have anything to lose by believing this weirdo. Just look at those intense eyes.

Muzio’s eyes were steady, filled with conviction. He was waiting patiently for the cambion to simply accept the inevitable. The man did have a way with words. And if he was being honest with himself, the cambion could use an ally. This guy knew about the world, and even if they were both prisoners, Muzio didn’t talk like a prisoner. He had too much confidence and inner strength. These were things the cambion wanted for himself.

Being free would be nice too.

“Alright,” the cambion said. “Where do we start?”

“First, I will give you a name,” Muzio said, once more squinting as he regarded the cambion with his assessing eyes. “Yes, I think I have it. The word for luck in an old tongue should do nicely. It means both good fortune and happiness. Both are things your life as an Outworlder are unlikely to have in abundance.”

“That sounds reassuring,” the cambion said, rolling his eyes. “Well, a name could be a useful thing to have. Okay, let’s hear it. What’s my name?”

“Your name is Felix.”