Time stretched and distorted like it was no longer bound by the world I knew. My mind tried to pull itself from the void, slow and sluggish, like waking from a nightmare where your body forgets how to move. The world around me had a strange heaviness, and the darkness clung to my skin, pressing down.
I had awoken in a fog, but it wasn’t the same kind of fog I’d been in before. This was darker—thicker—smothering the edges of my thoughts, making everything feel wrong like I wasn’t supposed to be here. I couldn’t move at first. My body was still sluggish and heavy, my limbs tangled in something cold and rough. I tried to open my eyes, but the darkness was so thick it was like my lashes were glued shut. Every time I blinked, it was as if the world wasn’t ready to let me see. I couldn’t tell if I was still dreaming, still floating in the haze of the drug, or if I’d woken up into something worse.
A sound—a cry—shattered the silence. A child’s wail. It cracked the stillness, high-pitched, desperate, and sharp. It made my skin crawl, but there was something else that did, too. The air was thick with a sour stench, like old blood and sweat, and it clung to the walls, suffocating the air. It smelled like rot. I wanted to cough, but my chest was too tight, my throat dry.
Hushed whispers rose around me, but they didn’t make sense. Too muffled. Too distant. Every sound was a stretch—dragged out and warped as if the world had lost its shape. My heart thudded heavily in my chest, and my breath came in ragged bursts, shallow and quick. I tried to calm myself, but it was like fighting against the fog, fighting against my limbs.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Something was wrong. I could feel it in the air. The women around me—there were women, all women—murmured, some comforting their children, others whispering prayers or words I couldn’t understand. I could feel their presence, and hear the rustling of bodies, but my mind refused to settle. I didn’t belong here.
The thought struck me like a slap to the face.
I wasn’t a woman. I didn’t belong in a place like this. My throat tightened as my panic surged again, and I tried to sit up, but my limbs felt like lead, my fingers too stiff to move properly. The rough, unfamiliar texture beneath me bit into my skin, like burlap. My mouth was dry, and the taste of whatever drug had been in my system still lingered, bitter and acrid.
I wasn’t a woman. I wasn’t supposed to be here. But the more I strained to see, to make sense of my surroundings, the more the feeling of isolation wrapped around me. The crying of children echoed in the dark, but it wasn’t the kind of cry that reached for help. It was the kind that had learned to give up, to accept that no one was coming.
I heard someone shuffle nearby, their breath a ragged exhale that filled the space between the whispers. The shadows around me began to shift, the faintest glimmers of light starting to creep in—just enough for my eyes to adjust, just enough for me to make out the shapes around me. But still, there was something off about it. The air was too thick, the quiet too heavy like something was waiting. Waiting for the moment when the veil would be pulled back when everything would be revealed.
I felt a chill crawl over me, making me freeze. A part of me screamed for me to move, to run, to do anything—but my body didn’t respond. It was like I was caught in a prison of my skin, and I couldn’t escape.
The air still felt thick, but I could see it now, just barely—moonlight filtering through cracks in the walls, casting long shadows that moved like ghosts in the dark. My body was still sluggish, unwilling to move how I wanted it to, and the smell... blood. Old, dried blood. The kind that stuck to the skin and left traces in the air. I could taste it in the back of my throat, bitter and metallic.
I blinked again, eyes adjusting, trying to make sense of what was around me. That’s when I heard it—a soft voice, tentative but urgent.
"Hello?"
The voice cut through the fog in my mind, and I blinked again, focusing on the shape beside me. She was close. Too close.
A girl—maybe my age, maybe younger. Hard to tell. Her face was streaked with dirt, her hair matted in tangled knots. She looked like she hadn’t seen a proper wash in weeks. The moonlight made her eyes look hollow and distant. Her clothes were torn, her skin scraped and bruised, but it was the blood that made my heart freeze. It was smeared across her arms, dried in splotches on her face. I didn’t know if it was hers or someone else’s, but it didn’t matter. The smell of it was heavy in the air like death clung to her skin.
"Hey," she whispered again, a little more forceful this time. "Hey!"
I wanted to answer, to tell her I heard her, but my throat was dry and constricted. And the weight of the moment... it was suffocating.
The reality of it—this place—was crashing into me like a wave. I had heard the rumours, sure. Women and children disappearing. It wasn’t new news. In the Ashes, trafficking and murder were just a part of life. You didn’t ask questions and didn’t look too closely. You kept your head down and survived. But now? Now the reality of it was in front of me, and the weight of it was enough to choke on.
My mind was racing, heart pounding. I had to get out. I had to do something. But my body, my body refused to listen, still drugged, still sluggish.
"Hey, are you alive?" she asked, a little sharper this time, her voice tinged with irritation.
I blinked and turned toward her, but I still couldn’t respond. The fog in my head wasn’t letting me think clearly.
Snap.
I flinched as something sharp poked into my side—her fingers, pinching me roughly. The sudden pain broke through the haze, and I winced, my mouth opening involuntarily.
A hand shot up to cover my mouth, her fingers pressing into my skin with startling force. Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper, cutting through the fog.
"Got to wake up, Sleeping Beauty," she hissed, eyes narrowed, full of urgency. "No time for daydreaming here."
I froze, wide-eyed, barely able to breathe under the pressure of her palm. She was still glaring at me, her other hand raised, her finger pressed against her lips—silent, demanding silence.
For a moment, I stayed still, not sure if I could trust her or if this was another trap. But then, her hand moved slowly from my mouth, still holding the gesture of quiet.
She wasn’t like the others. She wasn’t one of the women who had been broken by this place. She was still... fighting. The way she held herself, the way her eyes searched mine—there was something fierce about her, something that told me she wasn’t resigned to whatever hell we were in.
I felt a shift, something like a spark, deep inside me.
"Who are you?" I whispered hoarsely, my voice rough from disuse. The words barely left my mouth, raw and jagged.
She gave me a hard look like she was trying to size me up. Her accent was unlike any I’d heard before—soft, but clipped, the words coming out in a way that felt foreign. "Name’s Lyra," she muttered, her tone low, almost apologetic for the brief silence. "You look like you’ve been out for a while."
Out. The word hit me in a way I hadn’t expected. I wasn’t just here. I wasn’t just surviving. I was lost.
The realisation slammed into me again, the panic rising, clawing at my chest. I wasn’t in control. I hadn’t been in control for a long time.
"I—" I tried again, but the words stuck in my throat. I couldn’t get them out.
Before I could force anything else past my lips, a shadow shifted nearby. A woman, older than Lyra appeared from the edges of the dim moonlight. Her movements were swift and deliberate, like someone who had grown used to the stillness of the dark.
"Lyra," she hissed, her voice sharp and commanding. She stepped closer, blocking my view of the younger girl. "Keep quiet." Her eyes, dark and weary, locked onto mine with an intensity that silenced any lingering thoughts I had.
Lyra flinched at the tone, her wide eyes flicking nervously from the woman to me. The older woman’s hand was already on Lyra’s shoulder, gently but firmly guiding her back. The girl glanced at me one last time, her lips forming a silent word I couldn’t read before she ducked her head and retreated.
The air was suffocating, thick with the kind of silence that weighed down on your chest like a boulder. The soft murmurs of women mixed with the ragged breaths of the children, filling the shadows with a sense of shared suffering. Every whisper seemed to carry a weight too heavy to bear, a broken piece of a story no one wanted to tell. But it was all around me, pressing in.
I could hear the little girl first—no older than six, her voice so small and fragile it almost didn’t seem like it should exist in a place like this. She sniffled, her words shaky and broken as she whispered something into the darkness, barely audible above the shuffle of feet and the soft rustle of cloth.
"They... they came when it was dark. Said they’d be kind. But they weren’t." Her voice cracked, and then there was a long, haunting pause. My heart stuttered, and I didn’t want to hear more. But the words, like a sickness, seeped into the air.
"They touched... they touched... me, mama..." The words trailed off, and the room grew colder, the whispers around her turning into a soft, collective shudder. Some women muttered under their breath, their voices too low for me to make out, but the sharp, bitter edge of their words cut through the air.
My world crumbled around me, piece by piece, as the little girl’s words echoed in my mind, each one striking deeper than the last. My heart thudded painfully against my chest, a wild drumbeat that drowned out everything else.
The voice of the girl—no older than six—kept replaying in my mind, and I felt like the ground was being pulled out from under me. They touched me...
The words were like acid, burning through my thoughts, sinking into my soul. A sickening realisation slammed into me—this wasn’t a nightmare. This was real. This was happening right in front of me, in the dark, suffocating air of a place that didn’t seem to have a name.
The child’s wail, that desperate, terrified cry, was still ringing in my ears. I wanted to scream, to shout, to demand to know where I was, why I was here. What had they done to me? Why was I trapped in this hellhole of shadows and stifling heat? My mind reeled with questions, none of them making sense, all of them tumbling over each other in a panic-fuelled chaos.
But the answers refused to come. There was no explanation for why I’d been brought here, no reason that made sense. What did they want with me? The thought churned my stomach, the bile rising to the back of my throat.
The blood, that unmistakable scent—it was everywhere. In the air. On my skin. Was it hers? Or someone else’s? My eyes darted to the shadows, but they were no clearer than before. It didn’t matter. The blood, that thick, metallic scent, wrapped around me, clinging to my clothes, to my thoughts.
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My stomach twisted, the sickening realisation making me feel like I might choke. It wasn’t just the little girl—it was the memory of everything I had heard before, the rumours, the whispers of women and children vanishing, disappearing from the world without a trace. Was I next?
What would they do to me? The question clawed at me, and my chest tightened with terror. The fog of the drug still hadn’t left me completely. My body ached with stiffness, but my mind was sharp enough now to feel every terror that gripped me. Every fleeting touch of that cold, cruel reality settled over me like a dark cloud.
I had no time to fully comprehend, no space to process what was happening. The whispers around me grew louder, and more distinct, but one voice broke through the chaos. A woman’s voice—harsh, raw, filled with something deeper than just fear.
"I swear to the gods, I’ll take my life before they—before they touch me again."
The woman’s words sliced through me like a knife, but it was the weight of them, the rawness, that nearly broke me. My heart lurched. She sounded like she had been here far too long like she had given up hope. I couldn’t even fathom what it must feel like to be in her shoes. I could hear her, sense her suffering. What had they done to her? What had they done to them all?
The air thickened, and my thoughts spun in a dizzying spiral. But before I could even begin to piece together the broken fragments of my reality, the woman’s voice cut through again, sharp and low.
"Got to wake up, Sleeping Beauty. No time for daydreaming here."
My breath caught, my pulse racing. I flinched at her touch as she grabbed my face, but it was the tone of her voice that brought me back to the present, snapping me out of the storm of confusion and panic. She was right. There was no time for daydreaming here. There was no time for anything but survival.
The world around me was still dark, still stifling, still filled with the faintest whispers of something far worse than anything I’d imagined. And now, now that the full weight of it all was settling in, I knew I couldn’t afford to falter. Not even for a moment.
I wasn’t sure what would happen next—what they would do to me, or how long I would last in this hell. But the one thing I was certain of was that I had to stay awake. I had to stay alert. Because if I didn’t, if I let the world break me down into nothing, I’d never make it out of this nightmare alive.
Another whisper, older this time. A woman’s voice, strained and raw, interrupted the quiet.
"I swear to the gods, I’ll take my life before they—before they touch me again." She spat the words out like they were poison. "If they hadn’t bound me, I swear... I’d do it myself."
There was a sharp intake of breath from the others, a shift in the air that felt like the room was holding its breath. My eyes darted to the woman’s form, trying to catch a glimpse of what she meant, but she was buried in the shadows, her face half-hidden. The hint of desperation in her voice, though, was unmistakable.
Bound? What did she mean by that? I couldn’t see any sign of restraints—no rope, no chains, nothing visible that would explain the torment in her words. She had no trace of constraint, no marks that would suggest she had been tied. But the way she spoke, the way her words cracked with that haunting finality... It was like she had seen something she couldn’t come back from.
The silence pressed on me, thick and suffocating, and I couldn’t help but wonder what that woman had meant. Had she meant it figuratively, the binding of her will, her soul, her spirit by the horrors they had forced her to endure? Or was there something more I hadn’t yet seen? Something unspeakable lurked just beneath the surface of this hellhole.
The weight of the air shifted again. Another child began to cry, this time in earnest, their sobs raw and broken. But it wasn’t just the child’s cry that made the room heavy—it was the undercurrent of shared trauma, the collective understanding that this was a place where innocence was stolen, where every day was a struggle to hold on to whatever humanity remained.
The whispers didn’t stop. They never did.
And I couldn’t escape the thought that I might never leave this place, never find the way out of the shadows and silence that had wrapped around me like chains.
The air felt thinner, impossibly thick, as though the weight of it was crushing me, squeezing the air out of my lungs. My chest tightened, the sharp, unrelenting pressure making it harder to breathe. My hands were shaking—no, my whole body was shaking. I could feel my heart hammering in my chest, too fast, too loud. It was the only thing I could hear, the rhythm of it pounding against my ribs like a drum of impending doom.
Breathe, Luell. Breathe.
I tried to focus on the sound of my breath, the shallow inhales and gasps, but it was too much. Everything was too much. The room felt smaller now like the walls were closing in on me, suffocating me, the air thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and despair. Every whisper around me felt like a thousand knives pressing into my skin.
My vision swam, the world tilting and shifting like I was drowning. I reached out blindly, fingers brushing against the cold stone wall beside me, but it didn’t ground me. I was still falling, spiralling.
I couldn’t stop the wave of panic. Why am I here? I thought. What have they done to me?
The questions battered my mind, overwhelming, each one more frantic than the last. I gasped, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts. My chest ached, my throat constricting, the pressure so great it felt like I was going to burst.
No... no... I can’t...
My hands clawed at my face as if trying to tear off the mask of fear that had settled there, but it wouldn’t come off. It stayed, suffocating me, tightening around my throat, closing in on my lungs. I needed to scream, but the sound stuck in my chest, caught in the rising tide of panic. My vision flickered, a blackness threatening to swallow me whole. I could taste the bile at the back of my throat.
And then, before I could sink further into the chaos, I heard it—the creak of the door.
The sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate, echoing down the narrow corridor. It was too quiet for comfort. Too deliberate.
Then, the door swung open with a groan, the light from outside flooding in like a river of silver. It hit me, blinding, the moonlight so sharp and bright it seared my eyes. I squinted, trying to adjust to the sudden brilliance, but the blinding light cut through me like a blade. The room seemed to tremble, the shadows that had once clung to the walls now retreating in fear of the light.
Figures emerged from the doorway—men. Ten of them at least, their presence towering and oppressive. They were dressed in militant armour, dark and imposing, their movements controlled and synchronised like soldiers trained for this moment.
Some of them carried long, gleaming swords, their edges catching the moonlight. Others had weapons—guns, pistols, rifles—strapped to their sides with practised ease. The cold, metallic glint of the guns made my stomach drop. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from them. Every detail was too much to ignore—the hardness in their stances, the way they moved like they were accustomed to controlling every room they entered.
And then it hit me.
The women.
The shift in the air was instant, palpable. The moment the door opened, a deep, unspoken tension descended like a suffocating blanket. The women around me stiffened, their bodies tightening as if bracing for something. It was like they could sense the danger before it even materialized. I could see their eyes—wide, filled with the same terror that had first crept into my heart when I woke up. But there was something else too—something that made their hands tremble, their mouths tighten into hard lines, and their eyes dart toward the corners of the room.
I watched as they shrank back, some trying to cover their faces, others holding their breath, as if afraid to be seen. The room, which had felt heavy with a strange sense of despair, now pulsed with a raw, electric fear. The weight of it pressed against me, pushing me back into the corner, my back to the cold stone wall.
The men in the doorway moved with precision, but it was their presence—something so cold and calculating—that made the women’s fear even more tangible. It washed over me like a wave, thick and suffocating. I could feel the dread in my bones. I wasn’t just in danger now—I was surrounded by it. This wasn’t just a passing moment. This was real.
The man who stepped forward stood taller than the rest, his presence like a dark cloud in the doorway. His features were striking—sharp, angular, as though chiselled from stone by an artist with a cruel hand. His face was lean, with high cheekbones and a sharp jawline, but it was the scar that caught your attention first. A jagged line ran across his upper lip, starting just beneath his nose, and it cut through his beard—rough, dark hair that framed his mouth. The scar seemed to carry its own story, a remnant of some past conflict, its edge marked by time and pain. It stopped at the nose, a testament to something fierce and unforgiving, as though it had been earned in a battle that had left him permanently scarred, both physically and perhaps emotionally.
His eyes were the next thing you noticed—dark, hollow, like two obsidian stones set into his face. There was something cold in them, distant, as though he had long since abandoned the notion of feeling. They flicked across the room, scanning the women and the children with a practised indifference as if their fear was something he’d seen a thousand times before.
He wore dark, weathered armour that seemed to blend into the shadows of the room, though it wasn’t the kind of armour that shouted about its wealth or design. No, this was practical—functional—and meant to be worn for long, arduous battles. The plates were a mix of black leather and iron, scuffed from years of use. Across his shoulders, a heavy, black cloak draped down, hanging like a shroud, with an intricate pattern of silver runes sewn into the edges. They were subtle, almost hidden within the folds of the cloak, but they gleamed with an otherworldly sheen when the moonlight hit them just right. The runes were not of any language I recognised, but their presence added a layer of foreboding, a mystery that was impossible to ignore.
A long, narrow sword was strapped to his side, its hilt unlike any I had seen before. The handle was made of dark, almost obsidian metal, wrapping around a black stone embedded into the pommel. The stone seemed to pulse faintly, though it could have been the light tricking me. The sword itself was well-maintained, with an edge that seemed too perfect for the grimy surroundings, as though it was always ready to cut through whatever needed cutting—whether it was flesh or fate.
The man’s attire was finished with gloves, dark and worn, the fingertips slightly torn as if they had seen countless struggles. Around his neck, a simple chain dangled, though it too carried an unsettling air, with an unknown emblem hanging from it—perhaps a token or a symbol of something far beyond the walls of this place.
"Up!" the leader barked, his voice muffled by cloth. "Line up!"
Women scrambled to their feet, clutching their children, the air thick with desperation and muffled sobs. Lyra tugged at my arm, her small hands trembling but insistent.
"Don’t let them see you hesitate," she whispered fiercely. "They’ll grab you first."
I hunched forward, letting my hair fall over my face as we shuffled into the ragged line. The men stalked along it like wolves, their lanterns casting jagged shadows across the broken walls. They moved efficiently, grabbing arms, inspecting teeth, and shoving the women and children deemed "fit" toward the cart.
A mother screamed as one of them pried her baby from her arms. "No! Please, she’s only two!"
The leader slapped her across the face with enough force to send her crumpling to the floor. He didn’t so much as glance down at her. "Next!"
My heart pounded as the line grew shorter, the air thick with rot, sweat, and the sharp tang of old blood. Beside me, Lyra clung to my sleeve, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
When they reached us, one of the men—taller than the others, his hood askew to reveal a patchy, unkempt beard—grabbed Lyra’s arm.
"This one’s scrawny," he muttered, twisting her wrist to inspect her like livestock, "but she’ll do."
I stepped forward instinctively, the protest bubbling up before I could stop it. "Wait—"
My words were cut off as another man’s hand clamped down on my shoulder, shoving me roughly back into place. He loomed over me, the tattered cloth of his mask unable to hide the sick gleam in his bloodshot eyes.
"Quiet, you," he growled, his voice thick with phlegm. Then, his gaze flicked over me, and his lips curled into a slow, predatory grin.
"Well, well." His hand moved from my shoulder to my chin, tilting my face upward. The leather of his glove was cracked and grimy, the ridges catching on my skin. "Aren’t you a pretty little thing?"
His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth, the rough, gritty texture of his glove scraping against my skin. I could feel the grime that clung to him, his touch invasive, leaving a sickly trail across my lips. The smile that spread across his face was slow, deliberate as if savouring my discomfort. "Almost too pretty for the auctions," he murmured, his breath hot and foul. "Maybe I should test you out first, make sure you’re worth the trouble." The others laughed, their voices sharp and guttural. I froze, bile rising in my throat as he leaned closer, his breath washing over me—hot and sour, laced with the acrid bite of cheap liquor.
"You smell like fear," he murmured, his lips so close to my ear that I could feel the dampness of his breath. "But I like that. Makes it more fun."
His other hand slid down to my shoulder, lingering there before slowly trailing over my arm. His touch was deliberate, and heavy, as if savouring every moment of my stillness.
My skin crawled, every nerve screaming for me to pull away, to strike him, to do something—but I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
"Soft," he muttered, his hand brushing over the fabric of my sleeve before moving lower, grazing the curve of my waist. "Delicate. You’ll fetch a high price, no doubt about it."
His thumb trailed down my neck, the rough edge of his glove catching against the hollow of my throat. Then, to my horror, he leaned in and pressed his tongue to my skin, dragging it in a slow, deliberate line from my collarbone to my jaw.
The wet heat of it burned the smell of him—sweat, booze, and rot—choking me. I shuddered, my fists clenching so tightly my nails bit into my palms.
He pulled back just enough to whisper in my ear, his voice low and taunting. "Maybe I should keep you for myself. Just a little while, to see if you’re as sweet as you look."
The men behind him jeered and laughed, one of them calling out, "Don’t take too long, Fen. The boss won’t like sloppy seconds."
Fen barked a laugh, shoving me backwards with enough force to send me stumbling into the cart. My ribs hit the edge of the wooden frame, pain blooming sharp and bright.
"Get in," he snapped, his grin never wavering. "You’ll have plenty of time to impress the boss later."
I climbed into the cart, my limbs trembling, my skin still damp where his tongue had touched. Lyra followed, her face pale and stricken. The metal grate slammed shut behind us with a deafening clang, locking us inside.
The cart stank of rot