Annabeth stirred as a blurry figure called out to her, the voice muffled and distant. She cracked her eyes open slightly, then shut them again with a sigh.
"Hey, wake up!" the voice called again, louder and clearer this time.
"Five more minutes," she mumbled, her voice heavy with sleep. She tugged her red coat over her head, burrowing deeper into its warmth.
"More bandits are coming," the voice announced.
That got her attention. Annabeth jolted upright, only to lose her balance and roll off the makeshift bed in the wagon, landing on the hard wooden floor with a resounding thud.
"Ouch! Ouch! Ow!" she groaned, clutching her head as she writhed in exaggerated pain.
"Honestly, I'd feel sorrier for the wagon," Lord Canning remarked, standing over her with a bemused expression. "But I suppose I'm glad you're finally up. We've got work to do."
Annabeth sat up slowly, her hands cradling her head as though it might fall off. "Ow, my head," she whined. Ujarak had left her battered, and every movement was a fresh reminder of her injuries.
"How did you manage to go from being knocked out cold to actually sleeping?" Canning asked, his tone caught somewhere between curiosity and amusement.
Annabeth blinked at him, then grinned sheepishly. "I couldn't sleep last night because someone kept me up with their endless stories. I woke up at some point, saw Menzine taking care of the bandits, and thought, 'Eh, he's got it under control.' So I decided to take a nap. Hehe."
"You little rascal," Canning muttered, leaning down to tap her lightly on the part of her head that had taken the brunt of her fall.
"Ow! That hurts!" Annabeth yelped, clutching her head again and rolling dramatically on the floor.
Canning pinched the bridge of his nose. "Stop being dramatic, Annabeth. We both know it doesn't hurt that much."
"Drama is life!" she declared, throwing her arms out theatrically, her grin wide and playful.
Canning shook his head with a chuckle. "I swear, you've inherited this ridiculous streak from me. I can't decide if I prefer the serious young Annabeth who acted like an adult or this grown-up Annabeth who acts like a child half the time."
Annabeth beamed, seemingly pleased with herself.
"Now, get up and help me free the slaves," Canning said, turning to leave.
Her smile faded, replaced by a rare seriousness. "Be careful around the slaves," she warned.
Canning glanced back at her, his brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Annabeth hesitated. Her mind flickered back to her first lifetime, to the moment she had been saved only to kill her savior in cold blood. That was the old her, the Mistress of Despair, spreading anguish wherever she went.
"Nothing," she said finally, shaking her head. "I was just thinking about something else."
Canning studied her for a moment before nodding and walking off, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
As he disappeared into the distance, Annabeth let out a quiet sigh. The darkness within her, the one that had once defined her existence, had stirred during the battle. All the bloodshed and violence had brought back flashes of her past life—memories of destruction, despair, and her insatiable desire to cause misery. But this time, something had changed.
The act of annihilating the bandits had brought her an unexpected calm, a serene sense of closure. It wasn't the hunger for destruction that had driven her—it was revenge, pure and simple, for the torment she had endured in her first lifetime.
And yet, she hadn't used her darkness magic. Not even in the direst moments of the fight. That part of her had stayed buried, suppressed beneath her resolve. Perhaps she really was changing.
A small, bittersweet smile tugged at her lips as she leaned back against the side of the wagon, the exhaustion from the battle finally catching up to her. As her eyes fluttered shut, she felt a strange peace washing over her. For the first time in as long as she could remember, the Mistress of Despair felt… free.
Without realizing it, Annabeth had begun to care for her uncle. His stories, his unwavering support, and even his light scolding had chipped away at the walls she had built around her heart. She closed her eyes for a bit again with the thought that, maybe, she was no longer the person she had been in her past life. Maybe she could be something more.
***
Menzine stepped into the dimly lit room, the air thick with fear and despair. Four young girls sat huddled together, their hands and feet bound. One of them flinched at the sight of him, her wide, tear-filled eyes locking onto his figure like a deer caught in a hunter's gaze.
"Hey," Menzine called softly, his voice as calm as he could muster. The girl jolted awake, her expression twisted with terror.
"Don't hurt me, please! I beg of you!" she cried, her voice cracking as tears streamed down her face.
"I won't—" Menzine began, but she interrupted, her panic spiraling.
"Please don't hurt me!"
Menzine sighed, realizing words wouldn't reach her in this state. He crouched down, gently covering her mouth with his hand to halt her cries. His dark, stern face softened as he met her gaze.
"Hush, hush. It's okay now. Calm down, please," he said, trying to make his tone gentle, though comfort was far from his strong suit. His voice was still gruff, but the sincerity in his eyes seemed to reach her.
The girl stopped struggling, her breathing slowing. "I'm not here to hurt you," he continued. "I'm here to rescue you. Do you understand?"
She nodded hesitantly.
"Good. I'm going to untie you now. But don't attack me, alright?" He offered her a rare, awkward smile, trying to ease the tension. She gave a shaky nod.
As Menzine freed her hands, he asked, "Where are you from?"
"L-Liberdade City," she stammered, her voice trembling.
"Do you have anyone to go to when you're free?"
The girl shook her head, her lips quivering as fresh tears fell. "No," she whispered, her voice breaking.
Menzine's jaw tightened. The grief in her voice cut through him.
He glanced at the other three girls. "What about the rest of you? Do you have somewhere to go?"
They all shook their heads silently, their eyes cast downward. Unlike the first girl, they didn't cry openly but wore the haunted expressions of those who had endured too much.
Menzine stood and gestured for the first girl to help the others. "Free your friends," he instructed before heading for the door. He paused, looking back at them. "No matter what you hear outside, stay here until I return. Do you understand?"
They nodded in unison, clinging to each other for comfort.
Menzine stepped out into the sunlight, his mood grim as he approached Lord Canning, who stood in the center of the camp, staring into the distance. The closer Menzine got, the more he noticed the weight in his master's stance, the tension etched into his face.
When he was near enough, Lord Canning spoke without turning. "What do you think we should do about the children?"
Menzine hesitated, the memory of the crying girl fresh in his mind. "That's… a hard question, sir," he admitted.
Canning sighed deeply, his gaze distant. "This reminds me of the war," he murmured.
Menzine stayed silent, knowing better than to interrupt.
Canning continued, his voice heavy with regret. "We arrived too late at a civilian compound. The enemy had gone mad with power, slaughtering everyone in sight. By the time we got there, the adults were dead or dying. Some children had suffocated or been burned alive. The ones who survived… we freed them, but there were too many. Too many to protect. Too many to save."
He closed his eyes, the memories clearly tormenting him. "We sent them to refugee camps or kingdom outposts, but most didn't make it. Starved, captured, or abandoned by the same kingdom that started the war. And when they were desperate enough to beg, Sazar took them. Turned them into slaves."
Menzine felt the air grow heavy. He could see the anger building in his master, raw and unrestrained. The air around Canning seemed to shimmer with power as his emotions surged.
"Master," Menzine said cautiously, his voice breaking through the haze of Canning's memories.
Canning blinked, as if waking from a trance. The energy around him dissipated instantly. He turned to Menzine with an apologetic smile. "Forgive me. Old ghosts."
Menzine nodded, forcing a small smile. "It's alright, sir."
Canning's eyes suddenly shifted toward the camp gates, his expression sharpening. "They're coming," he said, a grin tugging at his lips. His somber demeanor melted into something far more dangerous.
"Have you warmed up enough?" he asked, his tone almost playful.